#once upon a winter's veil

[late-to-the-fandom]

The fluffiest of Winter Veil gift exchanges. Rated T for very veiled sexual references. Read here on Ao3 for triggers and tags

"Am I expected to attribute this to mere coincidence?"

The words were dry enough to crackle in the cold, wintery air, but the slight smile that crept past Renathal’s fangs betrayed his true feeling.

"What else would you attribute it to?" asked the Maw Walker, her face all inscrutable innocence. She fiddled with one of the elegant knots on the silk-wrapped package she held, the words “Prince Renathal” inscribed on its small tag in a cramped and curly script. “Everyone in Sinfall is part of the gift exchange, so someone had to draw your name. It just ... happened to be me."

"And the fact that you were the one who enchanted the little bits of paper with everyone's names, and distributed them?"

The Maw Walker shrugged, and swept her long braid firmly over her shoulder.

"A statistical improbability," she said, the unrepentant smile that lit her face rivalling the candle-filled tree behind her for brightness. "I tend to attract them."

She offered Renathal the parcel, then nearly dropped it as “Picky” Stefan jostled her elbow in his haste to reach the tree. He wasn't the only one. Other eager denizens of Sinfall now flocked to the courtyard's festive centerpiece - and the offerings waiting beneath - prompting the Maw Walker to tuck her arm through Renathal's and drag him to a more sheltered corner, safely out of the fray.

For a moment, Renathal was entirely distracted by the sight of his friends and followers enjoying the unique holiday festivities. Apart from the tree and the gift exchange, there was caroling and what looked like an impromptu snowball fight courtesy of the Maw Walker's conjured snow. The Prince couldn't help feeling a proprietary pride at the merriment of his people, even though the Winter Veil themed Ember Court had been all Duke Theotar's idea. 

"Well?" The Maw Walker interrupted his fond reverie. "Would you like your gift or not?" she asked, proffering the parcel once more, and Renathal’s eyes flicked from her face to her hands in ill-concealed longing.

The Dark Prince of Revendreth adored gifts.

There was little he looked forward to more than occasions on which he could anticipate receiving a present. He craved them with a passion unbefitting a leader of his station, not to mention a Venthyr his age. What the gift was hardly mattered; the object itself was always secondary. It was the exquisite pleasure of being considered - knowing he was thought of in his absence - that elevated Renathal's soul to lofty, unassailable heights. That his secret lover should orchestrate events to ensure she could give him something particular was a thrill as substantial as an anima feast, the echoes of which he could subsist on for weeks.

"You need not have gone to any trouble," he demurred, accepting the silk-wrapped package as casually as his electric excitement would allow. He tugged at the elaborate knots, the cloth collapsing neatly in his hands; then falling to the stone at his feet, forgotten, as he stared at the garment within.

"Where did you get this?" he asked in astonishment, tracing the familiar green and silver pattern worked into the comfortably bulky material.

“Get it?” the Maw Walker scoffed. “You think the Night Market just happened to have a jumper with your armor's exact colours and motif? I made it, of course.”

"You made this?" Renathal repeated, amber eyes widening in surprise. That the Maw Walker could knit was its own interesting detail, but it paled before the more confusing question of, “How ever did you find the time?”

The glow animating the Maw Walker’s smile dimmed by several shades.

“Well … I suppose I can't really claim much credit after all,” she said slowly, with the air of having made some significant realisation. “I'll have to take you to thank the needles later.”

Renathal's eyebrows rose.

“The needles?” he asked, nonplussed.

“The knitting needles I enchanted," she explained. "They did all the real knitting, I guess. I mean, I left them the pattern and obviously I gave them the knowledge to read it, but … credit for the actual labour really should go to them.”

His eyes could go no wider, his eyebrows no higher, leaving Renathal to run his fingers distractedly through his hair as he struggled to wrap his mind around this onslaught of strange information.

"You ... enchanted a pair of knitting needles and left them to an extended task? Unattended?" There was a light but unmistakable bite to his sarcasm. "Surely that goes against your personal code of ethics concerning enchanted objects?”

The Maw Walker had the decency to look at least moderately abashed. She turned under the pretense of watching the snowball fight taking place on the distant terrace.

“Well, they weren't exactly unattended," she said, playing absently with the end of her braid. "I had Vorpalia watch them for me while I was gone ... you know, make sure they stayed on task, didn't get up to any mischief.” She shrugged the light dusting of snow from her shoulders and tugged her heavy gloves tighter. “I think she’s grown rather fond of them to be honest. She gets a bit lonely, you know. I might leave the enchantment up for a while. Just ..." She let her eyes wander to Renathal's. "Don't tell -"

She blinked, her little self-deprecating smile slipping at the sight of his face. Renathal had no idea what it looked like to her, but he doubted it expressed even a fraction of what he felt.

The Maw Walker’s disapproval of permanently enchanted objects had been a bone of contention between them since their very first meeting. Only months ago, even the mention of his sword was enough to make her tense and churlish. Now, she was willingly working with Vorpalia to plan him elaborate surprises, and breaking her own - admittedly ridiculous - rules to provide his sword companions?

The upswell of tender emotion in him was such Renathal thought he might burst trying to contain it. The urge to sweep her into his arms was physically painful to deny, and he found himself suddenly wishing they had done this in private. On wild, besotted inspiration, he let the jumper hang over his arm, taking the Maw Walker’s gloved hand in both of his and bringing it to his lips. He pressed words he could not say against the silk of her glove, lingering long past the point of propriety. He could only hope the courtyard around them was too preoccupied to notice.

There was a hardly an inch of her body Renathal's lips had not touched, yet something infused in the innocent gesture made the staid Maw Walker blush. 

"Perhaps,” suggested Renathal quietly, when he at last released her hand. “We might escape the rest of the Winter Veil festivities early?"

The Maw Walker bent down, ostensibly to retrieve the abandoned wrapping, but Renathal knew she was hiding her face until the heat in her cheeks had subsided.

"I suppose we could sneak away," she said casually, making a show of folding the silk into exactly even squares. "I doubt anyone would miss us what with everything going on. I just need to find the person who had my name, so they don't come looking for me later."

"Ah!" Renathal exclaimed. "Of course! I had nearly forgotten." And he drew his own exquisitely wrapped and tied parcel from a capacious inner pocket of his coat.

The Maw Walker blinked at the present once, then furrowed her brow at its supremely smug owner.

'You did not have my name, you had Draven’s!” she said, her indignance only half affected. “You can't switch names, that’s cheating!”

"Can it truly be considered cheating if the game itself is rigged?” asked Renathal, giving the archest look he could produce while fighting down amusement. “How did you know what name I was originally given?"

The outrage froze on the Maw Walker's face, and Renathal allowed himself a victorious smirk. 

“Perhaps, in the spirit of Winter Veil, we might agree to ... let it go?"

The Prince offered his present like an acknowledgement of a truce, and the Maw Walker, shaking her head, accepted.

If there was one thing Renathal enjoyed even more than receiving a gift, it was giving one. From the item itself, always carefully selected, to its presentation, never anything short of exquisite - he poured himself into every offering no matter how inconsequential. And the time - not to speak of the gold - he had spent on the Maw Walker's gift had been excessive, even for him. But as she delicately undid the precise purple ribbon and unfolded the sharply creased paper, Renathal felt a prickle of apprehension. Her gift had included such sweet, personal touches. Perhaps that was the sort of thing she preferred ... what if she considered his gift too gauche...?

But her face as she withdrew the shimmering material promptly dismissed all his worry.

“Is this ... a dress?" the Maw Walker asked, but the gown could speak for itself.

It cascaded to the floor as the she unfolded it, the icy blue of the bodice and sleeves deepening to cerulean where it brushed the stone. The Maw Walker ran her gloved hands cautiously across the sparkling fabric, as if fearing even so light a touch might cause it to dissipate, like one of its train's beaded snowflakes.

"It's so light ... and it folds so small. I've never seen material like this. What is it made of?”

It was a long time since Renathal had seen the Maw Walker gush over anything, and he drank in her excitement like the finest anima wine. 

“I am not entirely sure,” he admitted. “I cannot claim any hand in its creation. I asked for a gown light weight enough for easy travel without sacrificing aesthetic, and Te’Xera was able to provide." He wrinkled his nose at the gown's one fatal flaw. "I know it is not in your preferred colours, but -"

"It's gorgeous," crowed the Maw Walker, and Renathal's amber eyes glowed.

He watched in a pride that could have condemned a soul to the crypts as she pressed the dress against herself, holding its glittering train out to the side. It caught the light, and the eyes of several nearby Venthyr socialites, who wandered over to stare and admire and offer appreciation. The Maw Walker accepted the praise with a distracted smile, but her eyes remained on Renathal.

“Can I try it on?" she asked.

So much for slipping away. But the uncharacteristic enthusiasm brimming in the Maw Walker's face soothed any slight disappointment. And Renathal was confident her appreciation would show itself fully at a later time. Besides, he too had longed to see what her lavender skin looked like encased in the shimmery blue. Not to mention, the high slit in the leg had haunted his thoughts since he'd first laid eyes on the gown. Except -

“I fear it might not be best suited for your preferred Winter Veil weather,” he admitted. "The sleeves are long, but I do not think they were meant to provide any real warmth."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said the Maw Walker, tossing her braid back over her shoulder. "The cold never bothered me, anyway."

For my daughter - who never forgave me for not letting the Maw Walker be Elsa for Hallow's End.

Read Part 20: Mortal Reminders: An illusion! | Visit the Masterpost

#renathal x maw walker #prince renathal #renathal fanfiction #renathal x oc #revendreth #venthyr #shadowlands #wow fanfiction #world of warcraft #fanfiction #no smut #christmas story #winter veil #light & shadows #once upon a winter's veil

[tremendum]

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Me and the Devil; i

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader prelude next

word count: 5.3k

summary:  Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

warnings: blood/violence, family deaath, v brief allusions to smut/dubcon, reader is traumatized. pls lmk if i missed anything. not edited.

notes: thanks for all the love so far!!! here's the first chapter of the story - if you want to stay updated, i post on AO3 first :) just a quick first chapter to lay the scene before we jump into the engaging parts of the story. feedback is very motivating and highly valued, thank u all <33

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Penitent Crimes of Retaliation

In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed upon them. This action shall such be labelled as "Penitent Crimes of Retaliation". Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences, ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041. 

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There was once a time when green was your favorite color. 

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it; Peridot, Jades, the velvet green of winter dresses, the tall, mighty green the sacred Pine. The woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon the grey armor your parents wore to train you. 

When the men of one other Houses Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same pine-colored satin, an elegant dress, as she waved good-bye to you for the last time. When the ice would melt off the lower glaciers for those three months every year, the lakes would thaw to a deep emerald green, and your brother, sisters and you would play in it; servants and soldiers alike yelling and pulling you out, shivering to your bones. 

Even at your sister's funeral. The green of the casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet by a man who'd never truly loved her. The women of your House, wearing a veil of mourning in that sacred pine satin as you said good-bye to her. Killed by the birth of her first; a son. Your parents had been proud - You became the oldest of your siblings that day.

You can barely stand to look at green anymore. No, instead, you mostly see black.

Black, white, and red. 

They'd sent you away to make for your house a Fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter - but this place... it crawls with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles; most in the form of your betrothed.

Your na-Baron. 

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year; he, freshly eighteen. He had been as cordial as you'd ever seen him, escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious but mouth less than offensive. He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. And, in fact, you can consider yourself lucky; perhaps for your bloodline, or for you yourself, Feyd-Rautha took special care of you. Maybe he did care for you -in the ways that he could. 

After that, he taught you all you needed to know about the rest of the world. In these final days together, he has admitted furiously that he waited too long to claim you as his wife - four years was much too long for you to wait, even if your purity was claimed by him long before then. 

The accusations had come from his uncle, the Baron; House Bourbon was stealing their precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along their exportation route. Perhaps, he thought, you were the one to plot it against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knew better - knew that you'd never dare betray him. He was the one to demand a public execution of your family - but also the one to redirect your sentencing to a mere prisoner. As if you weren't one already. 

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet? 

After all the sparring, each time you drew that precious blood from him, and you still haven't been able to kill him. If you'd had a blade, you would have, right there in the stands. 

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies had hit the sand fast; You'd never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning. The black sun couldn't hide the blood that had seeped from him, nor from your mother's throat. You'd swallowed thickly, wishing you could look away, gasp - cry; but you had to hide your pain. Your na-Baron would've loved it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard; forcing your chin to stare up at him. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger. 

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another - in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power.

He'd snarled, slapping your cheek hard enough for you to groan. His breath hit your face, you're mine to keep - there's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

He'd held your eyes open as they'd slit your father's throat; then both of your sisters, and your brother's. Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state - the Harkonnens are rutheless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly behind you, your head in his hands, caressing your shaking cheek - but the neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms. 

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat. Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp as he sucked a mark just behind your ear, watching as you clenched your palms so hard, your own ruby blood beaded out, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing - centuries of your House, melted away.

Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat. 

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall - not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change. 

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. Pulling the sheets closer to your body, your hand finds the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be, still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room. "I must not fear. fear is the mind-killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me."

Your voice shakes. Few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This is one is a relic.

There is a loud noise just outside; blades. 

For a moment, you imagine there is a hand on your arm. It is strong, ghost-white, and possessive. His voice rumbles in your head. Don't look so sad, my pet. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again. 

You almost wish he will. 

When you look down to the weight on your arm, you do not find the hand of your once-betrothed, but the remainder of his ownership, a handprint of a bruise that will not fade even as the soldiers in Atreides armor deliver you to the next planet.

You rise from your bed, preparing your sore body for a fight that will surely end before it even starts. You don't stop your old prayer, in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. Even as the doors give in. 

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing - only I will remain-" There are soldiers that burst through.

The way one of them fights strikes a faint memory from a lost childhood, and it fills you with rage. 

Why did you wait so long to rescue me?

You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become in your captivity. You will fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left. 

Your blade falls within minutes.

You're taken by the man from your past not a minute after. 

You're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear, in an hour. 

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"My Lady."

You don't realize the worker addresses you until you snap out of it, flushing behind your veil as you step out of the aircraft.

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty. 

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds an umbrella above you, shielding your elaborate dress from the water as you walk up towards where the members of the House await you. You stare down at the dress - green velvet. A texture you have not felt in years; your skin looks different not wrapped completely in black.

Your eyes strain to take in the grand entrance to the castle from the hangar which Duncan Idaho had escorted you, ignoring him as he turns to glance back at you momentarily. You can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you, now.  

He looks the same - maybe less tall, but that has more to do with it having been six years since you last saw the man. You, however, are not the same girl you were when he knew you on Sabberon. Fear, panic, and wrath rage within you while your gaze smolders daggers at the back of his head. 

He walks just slightly in front of you and despite yourself, you slide just a bit closer - the only semblance of comfort you can allow yourself to feel as you take in the largess of the castle. The air is thicker here than you've ever felt; salty, windy, like you can taste the sea in the rain... it clings to your skin, but it feels clean. You'd been changing into your robes when you entered atmo - you've heard many things about the ocean, about Caladan. 

Something within you yearns to witness it yourself. Subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse; nothing in the near distance but the walls of the castle and high cliffs. 

You nearly trip as Duncan Idaho stops just a few paces from where the members stand at attention to greet you and your retinue.

Duke Leto Atreides, regal and composed, stands at the center of the room, his presence commanding your attention. Beside him, a woman wearing a deep cerulean gown - Lady Jessica. Easily, from behind your own veil, her gaze penetrates you; A cool sensation down your spine as you seem to feel her words in the back of your head as she watches the Reverend Mother who'd travelled with you per High Court orders.

 Hello, sister.

You purse your lips, looking on - there, next to his mother; Standing tall with an aura of quiet intensity, his eyes on you, is Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, you can see that he's handsome - lithe, hair curled and combed back to show his eyes. They are wide, penetrating like his mother's, but Maker, they are so green. 

There is no hunger in his eyes, nor hatred, nor anything but a mild curiosity; it strikes a chord of fear in your gut, wishing briefly to return to the na-Baron's sight. It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; They always made their intentions clear, and the na-Baron never wanted many to see you besides himself. You always knew what he wanted, and you could give it to him enough to control him. 

But Paul. His stare betrays no emotion but duty. If not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you could have mistaken him for his father. A Duke. 

Your name, boomed from the voice of Leto Atreides, pulls you back to the surface of Caladan. "Welcome." Duke Leto's voice resonates through the hall with authority as he addresses you, his tone measured yet warm. Your stomach twists and turns as the man nods courteously to you. Coaxing your body to move, you bow to him.

"We are honored by your presence." His voice is surprisingly humane, exceedingly polite towards you; someone who was just come from the protection (a laughable phrase) of their sworn enemy. 

Your throat tightens at this. There is no honor to your presence, not anymore. 

Though you feel the prickling behind your eyes, you force your head to tilt in acknowledgment, schooling your expression to respectful - perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat. 

"Thank you, Duke Leto, my lord." Your voice carries steel beneath its polite, quiet veneer, though you try to calm your heart. You turn to Lady Jessica to greet her.

"My Lady, it is a pleasure." You say, equally even. Lady Jessica offers a tight smile, something akin to understanding swimming among her irises. It's been quite some time since you were permitted to talk to a woman; Your servants on Giedi Prime were, of course, tongue-less, as na-Baron wished. "Thank you for welcoming me to your home." 

"We understand that these are trying times for you." She says softly, her words a gesture of solidarity as your legs stagger. You feel dizzy and tired, but you force yourself to nod, bowing again. Your chained headdress overlaying your veil chimes slightly with the movement, swaying with the rain.

For such an acclaimed House, you're surprised by the gentleness of their welcome. Perhaps, they'd thought that the groaning and echoing hallways of Giedi Prime might break you, that they'd be taking in some injured little dove, wings clipped by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her nameday. 

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side serves not as a reminder, but as fuel. It did not quell your spark. It ignited it, with a bloodthirsty rage for revenge.

Months of being thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that assassinated your family, no - this pit was smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself, and drugged concubines and servants with blades to service his na-Baroness. A place to watch his pets play. 

Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. 

Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

Lady Jessica is correct, these are trying times for you. You swallow as you straighten your back. Despite everything, there's a minor comfort in the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your traditional customary mourning traditions. Your family may be gone, but you can still have this part of them; as a way of saying good-bye. It's what they would have wanted. 

You turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

The Harkonnens had tried to show you the dangers of house Atreides; The poison of appearance, of trust. You are not foolish enough to have believed the Baron Vladimir and his webs of deception, but you are sharp enough to know that in times like these, nobody can be trusted. 

Your betrothed watches you, as if trying to see through your mourning veil. The green of his eyes sends a warmth through your stomach as you avert your eyes. "My Lord," you bow to him, your heart thumping in your chest, remembering how you might be rewarded for looking your formerly betrothed in the eyes during ceremony. Trying not to flinch, you wait to see what Paul's hands may do. But they do not strike you, nor grasp your jaw sharply. He barely moves. 

"My Lady." His voice is softer than you expected, and it strikes your heart with a cool unease. Distrust slithers around you like a daunting snake. He bows back to you. 

It's silent for a thick moment before Duncan Idaho - the man from a distant past - speaks from beside you. "We have much to discuss." 

Cutting to the chase, as always. Your eyes fall to the Duke, who nods. "Do you need to see treatment?" He asks the Swordsman, eyes assessing the soldier. 

Duncan laughs at this, gesturing to his arm, where beads of blood still slowly peeks through his the tunic he'd slipped on after changing out of his armor.

"Harkonnen blades are sharp. So are Lady Bourbon's nails."

The prickling of four pairs of eyes strike you as he continues, turning this time to address you full-on. "Your fighting is much different than I remember, Little Bourbon." 

What he doesn't say is clear to you: Much more savage than he remembers. Something between shame and pride licks at your cheeks and you avert your eyes; It had been a force of habit - rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

You clench your hand, your nails digging into your palms; you learned early on that sharper claws could keep Feyd tame for longer. 

The force of Duncan's old nickname for you, when you'd been young - it nearly knocks the air out of your chest. It's been over half a decade since you'd seen the man; too much has happened since then. Nonetheless, you smile toothless behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you'd just left behind. Of what cold life lies ahead. 

When you respond, your voice is frigid. 

"Sometimes adaptation is survival, Duncan Idaho. Threats demand evolution." 

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The rain is gone by the next day.

In the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. There must be a clock somewhere near, as the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. A cleared throat, a swallow of water. 

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

Your arrival last night held no such time for small talk - you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; Your old clothing and that of your sisters and mother - the few things the Atreides soldiers had salvaged from the ransacked Castle at Sabberon - had been washed thrice of rubble and smoke and were hanging, waiting for you, in the wardrobes. 

Barely awake, late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. There, sat across from Lord Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and the Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed - more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. Your eyes could not ignore the Lady Jessica, who stood behind the Duke, her fingers twitching to the others when you responded to a question asked of you. They had some kind of language, you'd realized, as they responded in their own subtle hand gestures. 

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night. 

Truthfully, you're breaking fast with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had found the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers.

You'd sat watching, cradling your chest with wide eyes, as the ghost slid onto his knees. How he'd crawled, smirking at the foot of your mattress, whispering to you with sharp teeth and beckoning fingers. The sweet promise in his eyes laid with blood and pain, coaxing you forward despite yourself - until something in the corner of your vision moved, and you'd screamed. 

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water, and you'd asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; she must barely be twenty. You insisted on sharing a pot of tea with her, sitting in the silence but sipping shortly on your teacups. You didn't talk much, but instead breathed and felt the safety and of a woman's company, even if she is a few years younger than you. 

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your courting customs before your arrival - she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. 

And now you sit similarly - in the morning dining room, your hands perched in your lap, unsure what to do with yourself.

Your future husband, no older than yourself, sits across the table from you now, pushing his omelet around on his fork. The table shakes just slightly, jilting your glass full of water - he must have a restless knee. He chews at his lip, avoiding your stare, sharing slight conversation with his Lady mother. Her attempts to bring you into the conversation are met with polite answers and more silence, your voice shaky and cold. 

After a while, a woman enters, whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Though your stomach coils, you nod, "-if you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it."

His eyes find yours from behind the veil and you clear your throat. He's quiet but chivalrous; A nod, a glance sent back to his mother as she leaves. A short gust of air through the room and suddenly you can smell him. His hair, clean and glossy - healthy - glints as he faces a window, exposing the early morning sun to his bright eyes.

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched and his half-eaten. 

"Are you one of them?" 

Them?

You stare at him from behind the thin pine veil that covers you. It occurs to you that Paul may assume you are just as bald and sick as each Harkonnen; years of adapting, surviving off of instinct and placation, are over. With a jolt, you realize you are not a Harkonnen. And you will not be wed to one.

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today, ignoring the melancholy feeling in your gut. 

"I have hair." You state simply, looking down at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight - your skin, glowing with real melanin like the House of Bourbon.

You'd never spoken this freely on Giedi Prime besides in the sole company of Feyd-Rautha - stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either - but there is no home anymore. And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, its that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators. 

Paul is likely the same. 

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that, just as you couldn't help with Feyd-Rautha. They can dress you, insist in your traditional customs - but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder. You are more than the bones which hold you up; Meaner than the demons that kept you in their ghostly-grip for four years. 

His cheeks flush a peculiar pink, bottom lip captured between pearly teeth. "No," he starts again, eyes searching - trying to find you, beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. "Not Harkonnen-" he quiets after he says the name, as if worried to offend you. "I meant-" his eyes swim, "Bene Gesserit." 

Your stomach chills as you meet his eyes. 

After some hesitation, you shake your head. "No, my Lord."

When he blinks at your words, you feel compelled to continue. "I suppose I was..." you move your hand to pull on the sleeve of your robes.

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"or, I was supposed to be." your unemotional tone rings through the room. Paul doesn't say anything to that, biting back the suspicion that climbs up his throat.

He stands when you rise from your seat; Your mourning dress, unlike anything he'd ever seen before, flows like the leaves of a weeping willow as you push your chair in behind you. When he offers a stiff arm to escort you out of the room, you hesitate before looping yourself loosely to him. 

She is telling the truth. 

His mother had indicated, with flicks of her hand, during the meeting the evening before; you, sat before the Atreides' council, unaware that his mother was reading your honesty. 

But that could be a trick; you've admitted to being partially trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit, perhaps you found a way to deceive his mother. As much as he trusts Duncan and his father, he can't shake the suspicion that you're a mere pawn in the Harkonnens' game.

But his father's words burn sharply into his mind. 

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future spouse. Love may come in other ways - but you will marry her, and together you will sire an heir when the time comes.

By decree, it was ordered you be wed to Paul, but he can't find it within himself to lose the feeling of distrust. He has spent hours learning about the Harkonnens - how they think, their strategy; and yet, from Duncan's account, the Baron and his nephew just let you go. It makes no sense to him. 

"I was supposed to be a lot of things." 

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, much more resolute than he'd expected. But you are extremely cold, and evidently unwilling. Polite, yes - it seems you've been trained just as he and every other young noble of the Great Houses have - but you are calculating, aggressive.

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl.

You walk with your chest out, back straight like a soldier; your words are cordial yet laced with steel and indifference - it only serves to deepen his unease. He guides you through the castle, murmuring quietly as he shows you along, introducing you to various members of staff who stop and bow in recognition. 

You don't say much until he escorts you to a path that winds down out of your sights; Below the castle, between jagged rocks, Paul finds himself concerned to no longer be surrounded by castle walls. Beside him, you take a deep breath, your footsteps faltering as you slow to stare at moss that sprawls across the cobblestone. 

Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy fields and rocks. Soon, as though an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. "Apologies, my Lord." You start to turn away. "I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person." 

Paul is suddenly struck by the realization that you may not have seen much of any flora nor fauna on Caladan. He knows what Giedi Prime is like; and your homeworld, from what he'd read last night before bed, was mostly full of Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. Perhaps you are interested in such things; the idea surprises him. 

So instead of moving along, he finds himself bending to pull off a bit of the moss from a fallen trunk. The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, the green bright against his skin. You watch him silently.

"It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water." He says it quietly, repeating what he'd learned in an ecological lesson, pushing on the spongy material with his thumb. "Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools outside the castle." 

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your short height - he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated. "Am I allowed to see?" You ask stiffly, your arms by your sides.

An initial wave of protectiveness over his home washes over him; remembering his father's words, he forces his shoulders to relax. He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. 

"You are to be Lady Atreides, one day." He tries to school his voice evenly, avoiding any hint of resistance to this fact. "You do not have to ask permission to see your own land." 

The wind from the sea whips around you; his stray curls fly in his vision. There are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat. 

"I do not feel well, my Lord." You say moments later, voice cordial but thick with the desire to be alone, "I believe I am sick from travel. Please, if you would excuse me." 

He is unsure if he had made you uncomfortable or if you are truly feeling sick; nonetheless, Paul escorts you to your chambers silently, calling one of the handmaids - Hestia, her name is - to check on you. He insists she bring you some bread and cheese, to draw you a bath if you please. 

His jaw clenches; he's to train with his mother soon, but he needs release. His muscles clench in repressed frustration and so Paul lets his feet carry him swiftly to the training quarters.

His fingers itch for a blade; his mind itches to forget about the last day, about the cold life that lies ahead of him. 

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follow @tremendumnotifs for updates.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:

#paul atreides x reader #paul atreides smut #paul atreides x you #paul atreides i need you so bad #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x reader #feyd x reader #me and the devil; series #feyd x you #feyd smut #dune fanfiction #dune smut

[harmonysanreads]

hello <3

wishing you freedom and happiness from academic hell before diving in. you opened requests so 👉👈

forgive me if this counts as idea stealing since you posted about it but yan! neuvillette with a darling who wants to file for divorce would be such a messy situation. court proceedings go to him now that the oratrice is no longer functioning. how do you expect to win against the law of the land?

filing divorce in a different land also isn't an option, because it is written in your marriage contract that you cannot leave fontaine without your husband and he sure as hell isn't going to come with you for something like this

oh well.

Jeux de Vagues

Yandere!Neuvillette x Reader

cw(s): yandere, implications of forced marriage, slight dehumanization, manipulation, fontaine archon quest act one spoilers, old married couple bickering (literally)

wc : 3k

hiii zuri!! i have been brainrotting this fic since version 4.0 so thank you so much for just giving me the opportunity to unleash it lol. for plot reasons this takes place between act 1 and 2. i dedicate this fic to all the anons who brain-rotted with me and kept me motivated to think about neuvillette with their creative asks <3 btw you get a 🍪 if you can recognize where the title comes from :>

“Husband, I wish for a divorce.”

In Spring, the snow of the bygone winter thaws and raises the tides. They twirl to the edges of the shores ; push and pull, back and forth, mesmerizing the nation of Hydro with their temptatious dance. You wonder what it'd take to entice the waves to your direction, to have the power to make them rage and placate. When one desires to control something great, they see its reflection upon mundane things — just as you envision yourself dictating the tides upon cups of dainty porcelain, noon to evening and midnight to dawn — your spoon conducts its rhythm.

In Summer, the waters boil and vaporize upon the touch of sunlight to reach the heavens and complete the cycle. Just as wisps of steaming tea tantalize their way upwards from cups and tea pots. Beyond that translucent veil stares back a pair of watchful eyes, undecipherable are their emotions and primordial their age.

“The tides of time heed no one's orders or pleas. Very well, mon trésor, let us begin this trial.”

You're quick to catch the hint and slow to react, deliberate and relaxed as you bring the rim of the cup to your lips. The tea scathes your lips and paints your tongue bitter, bitter, bitter — a smile stretches across your tingling lips, deeming the liquid's taste adequate to your present temperament. You are bitter, not because of the contents of this ‘trial’ but, due to the delay of it. You've been crossing days after days from heaps of calendars, preparing all your accusations and aligning evidence to back up your claims for this chance only comes once every fin de siècle.

“I heard your justice machine broke?” a ‘clang’ accompanies the tea cup meeting the saucer. You focus on the chirping of birds and the noises of crystal flies buzzing past instead of the possible damage done by your words. You hear it, the swell of rising waves before they pacify with a purposeful cough. You don't let the event’s lamentable duration plunder your motivation, more precisely, you take it as a good start.

“Calling it broken is quite the stretch. You and I both know that the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale—”

You swat a hand and the waves placate completely, sans any questions or any other brewing feelings. “I'm quite aware of what it's called, husband.” ‘I just could not care less’ goes unsaid.

You point your finger towards the Iudex of Fontaine, “You,” then return it back to yourself, “and I, both know the purpose of me bringing that incident up in our private trial.”

No amount of sensory loss would render someone ignorant of the mockery of your words. You bite the inside of your cheek in a lazy attempt to suppress a smirk, times like this really make you regret not having the privilege to face off against Neuvillette in the Court of this land ; you're quite sure your most recent stunt would earn you many bewildered gasps. If only the gates of your husband's manor crashed down, perhaps incapacitating him in the process for good measure.

“...Yes, we do. Your intention is to insinuate the impending prophecy and learn how we plan to prevent or battle it.”

Neuvillette's words resemble velvet in the manner they roll off his tongue, you catch his gaze drifting towards the chalice to his left, from where his reflection returns his stare. There are many tales passed among melusins of the equanimity practiced by your husband in even the most dire situations. But you have seen the depths of the ocean, where its secrets are forever concealed by an ever stretching darkness.

“Correct,” you affirm.

“Unfortunately, mon trésor, our investigations have not yet reached a decisive conclusion. While I can guarantee you that we'll do our utmost in the face of the prophecy, I cannot yet give you the specific details. Besides, this information is quite... arbitrary to our ‘trial’.”

The ocean returns your scrutiny, threatening to yank your breath away to that unknown darkness. You watch the ripples along its surface, wondering and devising plots to uproot the ocean's schemes from your safe space. You want to tear through that ataraxia and illuminate those depths for all to see its hideous secrets — so that your claims will no longer be deemed senseless.

“Well, you could try acting the part of the Iudex first.” you exhibit great interest in your nails.

“Apologies, mon trésor. The trial is now in session.”

The most preposterous trial there ever was, in fact ; spectated by cups of tea and plates of desserts, overlooked by the jury of birds and bees under the naked skies and one stubborn ‘judge’ to lay down the final verdict — who was also the accused in question. It'd be more fitting to call this some courtroom version of playing house and you wonder if Neuvillette sees it as exactly this ; since the notion of normal matrimonial life flies past his head.

You swallow your profound irritation at his nonchalance and that prickling soft gaze, the calm of the ocean surface is just a facade, you remind yourself.

“O honorable Chief Justice of Fontaine, riddle me of what I must do with my husband. He sees fit to cage me down while preaching justice simultaneously and allows me not to indulge in ‘rudimentary interactions’ with any other life forms. Do you not think that such hypocrisy is utterly ridiculous?”

Your hand cradles your heart, fully embracing the spirit of a mistreated spouse. Neuvillette regards it with an almost comical graveness, nodding as though he understands. Had it not been for the situation, you would've marveled at how willingly he's playing along with this fiasco.

A gloved hand stretches out to you in suggestion, “Perhaps it's because your husband just worries too much for your well-being?”

Your right eye twitches, “I’ve made it acutely obvious to him that I'm far from a toddler in need of constant supervision.”

The Iudex smiles succinctly, “I’m sure that he's not ignorant of that fact. But if, as you say, your husband guards you with such determination that you're not allowed to interact with any other forms of living organisms besides himself, it means that you hold great value to him.”

You cross your arms petulantly, it's not that you're forbidden from talking with everyone, many of Neuvillette's most trusted melusines do come to add flickers of color to your otherwise bleak existence sporadically. You're grateful for their kindness and brief companionship but, this small leeway does not outweigh the rest of your husband's misdeeds. Your eyes flicker to the patient eyes of the man separated by one small oak table, barely suppressing a scowl at his serene composure.

You despise it when he acts like the raw image of propriety, of an ideal husband ; so withdrawn from the covetous creature that he actually is — because it poses you as a lunatic, a lunatic who demands separation from what the rest of society perceives as perfection and debilitates all of your claims. The more you think about it, the more frustrated you get — you don't want to let frustration consume you, you don't want to lose this one opportunity for freedom. Your nails dig into the sleeves of your apparel as your mind scrambles to search for more accusations.

Why did you want a divorce again?

You control your erratic breaths forcefully, “Well, I don't feel safe in Fontaine anymore. A deadly prophecy is at our door and with no solution in sight. I'd much prefer to relocate to someplace with less volatile weather, like Liyue or Mondstadt.”

Neuvillette tilts his head, “Ah, you want to go on a vacation, am I correct? To be honest, I've been entertaining the thought of traveling to the other nations with you by my side for quite a while. Though, things being the way as they're now, that is not possible. I can promise you that after everything has been settled, we will go on a journey together, mon trésor.”

This time you don't bother to conceal your disbelief, of course he focuses on the part that most serves him and twists the narrative to further enrich his fantasies! You bite your tongue from yelling that you don't want a vacation, you want freedom from these suffocating high walls of marble. You don't just want freedom from Neuvillette, you want freedom from this cursed nation and it's solely Neuvillette's fault you were unable to do so with your kin five hundred years ago.

“Fontaine will face diplomatic and political consequences soon. Because you threw that Harbinger of Sumeru—”

“Sneznaya, mon trésor.”

“—I know that. My point is that we might face backlash from the Fatui in our vulnerable state and who knows? Fontaine might just collapse as a nation! I don't want to stay in a city like this.”

You freeze at the sigh that escapes Neuvillette's lips, you've been probing and digging for a normal human reaction from this man for a while, but at the instance that he actually gives it, you cannot help but find it jarring.

“Fontaine will not collapse from something as trivial as diplomatic pressure from the Fatui. Even though the prophecy looms above our heads, there are many factions that are actively working towards prevention. And even if Fontaine were to be drowned tomorrow, I have faith that not all of the citizens will be dissolved and you would always be my first priority. As for that Sneznayan Harbinger… we've merely followed the Court's protocols. If we did indeed convict him of crimes he did not commit, we'll most certainly compensate him to the fullest extent allowed by the law.”

For a transient eternity, all that echoed throughout the garden of the Chief Justice were the chirping of birds. Your mind carefully assesses the words from moments ago, searching for even a modicum of dishonesty. You watch the Iudex's unfettered gaze, at last giving a glimpse of the tumults raging beneath the pretentious still surface. You can hear the swelling of waves again, albeit not for the purpose to engulf but, with the determination to protect.

You'd recognize that look on Neuvillette's face even in your (unlikely) deathbed, the causation of your bafflement though is that, this is the first time you've seen it appear in correlation to something other than yourself. Your right hand idly smoothes your garbs and your left grips the wooden handle of your seat, you find both of your palms drenched in sweat upon contact.

“You’ve gone soft, ______”

You blankly admit in your semi-dazed state and it's Neuvillette's turn to take a deep breath. It's been a while since you've spoken that name aloud, the one that is only permitted to be uttered by you in private ambiances such as this and which serves as the origin for this clandestine marriage. For some reason you cannot quite comprehend — especially since your husband does not seem to suffer from it — your memory enjoys having a love-hate relationship with you. From what you recall at this instance, the last time you called the Iudex by his true name was when he gifted you this garden. Its utterance is so rare that even the bearer is rendered speechless each time.

Neuvillette copies your previous antics and pastes it onto the current situation with a prolonged look-over of your person, “Your apparel today suits you most exquisitely, mon trésor.”

You answer with a gracious eye-roll, “Don’t change the subject.”

The Chief Justice of Fontaine straightens his posture with a somewhat bashful chuckle, the afternoon sun's soft hues make the ivory strands of his hair sparkle. “Apologies, I've been meaning to compliment your appearance, not that it is ever short of radiant — I just could not find a suitable opening.”

You submit to the urge to slouch ever so slightly with a sigh, “You don't have to apologize for every little thing, you know?”

“Apologi—” Neuvillette corrects himself with a cough concealed by his fist, you watch with intrigue as soft coral dusts his pale cheeks, “As for your ‘question’, I will admit that throughout my coexistence with humans as Fontaine's Iudex, I've come to appreciate their ideals, characteristics and interpersonal relationships. In a way, I've understood myself to a great extent through observing them. Just as you wished I would.”

You furrow your brows in genuine confusion, “What do you mean?”

Your husband seems to steel himself for something, hands intertwined atop the oak table and eyes drained from his earlier playful light all too quickly. “You’ve always wished to become human. To view this world through the eyes of a mortal, to be able to have a taste of their myriad and complex relationships and... to die alongside someone you truly love.”

Somewhere in the crevices of your archaic mind, there's a vacuum hidden beneath the symphony of sea waves. Unchanging, uncharted and unperturbed by your attempts to identify what used to occupy that space. Neuvillette's cryptic admission creates a crack on what you assumed to be an empty spot occupied by white noise, the cleft dents your memories and spreads, a raucous scream threatens to rupture your eardrums.

“Are you, perhaps,” your fingers clasp onto the silk of your garb, “insinuating that you've granted me my ‘wish’?”

If you had gathered the strength to look up, you would've been blessed with the sight of the Iudex thrown off-guard. But the lapse in composure is short lived, “Of course.”

Something about his easy confirmation annihilates your decorum and replaces it with a rage of unknown origin, “So you think imprisoning me has made me happy? That it's made me feel human? That your kindness and preachings of justice have bewitched me so much that I've considered you as a lover for even a second? No, no and no! I have never and will never stop hating you, ______!”

But why do you hate him? Your thoughts echo back to you ; he's ensured you never have to ask for a meal, he's clothed you, he's provided a solid roof above your head and he's given you his heart — or at least that's what he says. For not once does a memory that he's mistreated you arise in your head but, what does bubble in your heart is an inexplicable hatred. A hatred so grave that it motivates you to not surrender to this unfair trial, contemptuous waves swell, rise to heights unseen, crash down—

“Do not forget that abandoned property belongs to whoever finds it first.”

And drag everything to the ocean's dark depths.

A jolt shakes your whole body, your eyes rise to meet the tempest in disbelief and suddenly, the dam shatters. Now you can see the serpent leering behind the charming flower, an unrestricted view of what the fair and ideal Iudex is inside those glimmering garbs of honor — a dragon with manicured claws and perfumed scales, seated to a chair of judgement yet, forever guilty of a sin he refuses to purge.

Only you remember that Neuvillette wasn't always like this ; in days not noted down in history he'd been an enigma, unsure of the significance of his existence, burning with contempt for the so-called Usurpers and sometimes cruel. But at least, he wasn't a hypocrite. He'd dug his talons deep into your heart and skin and engraved his name within your soul, he'd defiled the waters that construct your being with hatred and malice but at least, he hadn't refused to acknowledge that it was him who shackled you to this godforsaken nation, separated from the rest of your kin.

Neuvillette takes a deep breath upon noticing your erratic trembling, the tsunami recedes. “It always ends like this,”

It does. This excuse of a trial with your freedom as the wager, born of your husband's ironic belief of justice, that you should still be given a chance to speak up against iniquity. He'll take great note of any other issues that might cause you distress, but the actual concern will never be addressed — that's how it's been for five centuries. It is the kind of judge that Neuvillette has become in matters that concern you, finding loopholes to keep you attached to his name yet hidden from prying eyes ; all because of his principle that having a public personal relationship will bring the impartiality of the judiciary system to question.

“However, it must be done to ensure your safety.” you tense as he rises from his seat, gloved fingers trace the silk table cloth.

The grass crunches beneath his heel, “For who knows what the public's reaction would be if it was to be leaked, that the Iudex Neuvillette's spouse was the progenitor of the prophecy?”

You feel the familiar texture of Neuvillette's glove supporting your face, wiping the cascading tears that escaped without your notice. “Do you not remember, mon trésor, that you need me?”

Your vision blurs and all you see is blue, his blue or yours, your mind refuses to confirm. But what it does corroborate are Neuvillette's words, that you would not survive without his care, that you are the first who had wished to become human and that you are the first sinner.

You feel his touch more firmly this time, it's not warm like all the other times ; but soothing and sedating. As though, a cavity within your soul was given meaning and a portion of your memories hidden away. Your eyes are defeated against the temptation of slumber, but before the darkness engulfs you, you vividly hear the rumbling of an ensuing storm, the first of many tears of the sky hitting your skin.

“I suppose this must be my punishment. But, I would rather prefer being the recipient of your scorn and contempt than to not have you at all.”

But why go through such lengths? Neuvillette's conscience asks as he takes your limp body in his arms, the sound of heavy rain follows his footsteps back towards your shared ‘home’.

To this, he consoles himself : the words unspoken are the flower.

Trivia for Jeux de Vagues

#requests: batch two #answered #yandere #yandere neuvillette #yandere neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin #teabutmakeitazure #neuvillette

[fear-is-truth]

𝓐𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓭

── kai anderson x fem! reader

⟢ WARNINGS: slight angst. toxic relationship. not proofread

⟢ SYNOPSIS: you’ve had enough of his bs

⟢ A/N: inspired by the song “afraid” by lana del rey. let’s pretend this is in character because… i kinda hated this ngl

𝒾’𝓂 𝒜𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒾𝒸𝒶’𝓈 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉, 𝓉𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝔂, ‘𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾’𝓂 𝓈𝑜 𝓪𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓭…

𝜗℘ requested by: @kaislittlelamb

“You're wasting your time,” there was thinly veiled annoyance in his voice as he watched you packing your clothes into a travel bag.

“You'll just put it all back anyway.”

“No, I won’t. Because I'm leaving,” you replied, stuffing a pair of sweatpants into your bag. “And I’m not coming back.”

“You’re going to tell me why you’re leaving?”

“Because you’ve changed. And I’m tired of being an afterthought in your grand plan.”

“There’s a great responsibility upon my shoulders, and I’ve changed for the better. You know that.”

Had he? Did he really believe that?

He watched you in silence for a moment.

“The second you step out of this house, you’ll never be welcomed back,”

There was no emotion in his ultimatum. You picked up a lacy pink bra from the pile of clothes, the one from Victoria’s Secret that he had always liked on you. Distant memories of better days flooded your mind, a time when intimacy with Kai was filled with passion and genuine connection.

But lately, sex with Kai had become nothing more than a means for him to blow off steam. The mechanical exchange a few nights ago had left a bitter taste in your mouth. After using you for his own pleasure, Kai had turned away yet again, leaving you feeling empty and used.

For all you knew, he might as well have been fucking a fleshlight with a pulse.

You set it back down on the bed.

“Fine. Tell Winter I’ll miss her very badly,”

This clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been wanting to hear, because his expression hardened, a flash of anger crossing his features like summer lightning.

“Do you expect me to stop everything I’ve been working for?” He demanded hotly. You sighed. Looked up to meet his gaze.

“I don’t expect you to give up anything, Kai. And I wish you nothing but success.”

Taking another deep breath, you continued,

“But I just can’t be a part of it anymore,”

A flicker of… something. Annoyance? Hurt? Fear? flickered in his dark eyes. Whatever it was, the unidentified emotion was quickly replaced by a veneer of cold indifference.

“Say, you’re not on your period or anything, are you?” Kai drawled, leaving the wall he had been leaning against and slowly advancing towards you. You felt a surge of anger rise up, hurt bubbling to the surface.

“No, and it has nothing to do with—”

“Such a needy little thing,” He was standing directly behind you, hands gripping on your shoulders in a slightly possessive way.

“Was that all the theatrics were for? If this was just a ploy to have my cock inside of you, you could’ve just asked,”

“What happened to you? I don’t even know you anymore!” you cried out, breaking away from his grip. Kai remained impassive, bottomless black eyes like tar pits staring back at you, devoid of the warmth and kindness that had once drawn you to him.

He was no longer the sweet, awkward guy you had fallen in love with in college. The person standing before you was a stranger, a shadow of the man you had once loved (still loved), and it broke your heart to see how far he had fallen.

Fighting back the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes, you snatched up your bag and bolted for the bedroom door. You knew if you didn’t leave now, you’d never get another chance to leave again.

“Fuck!”

Before you could make it out the doorway, his hand shot out, seizing your arm and slamming you against the wall with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

His grip tightened around your wrists, trapping you against the wall as he loomed over you, his face contorted with anger and frustration.

“Please, Kai, just... let me go,”

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you braced yourself for the inevitable blow. He had never hit you before, but in that moment, you were certain this would be a first.

But to your surprise, the strike never came.

Instead, he sank to his knees, his grip loosening on your wrist as he wrapped his arms around your waist. For a moment, you stood completely paralysed, unable to process what had happened.

Kai’s shoulders heaved with sobs, his tears soaking into the fabric of your sweater as he buried his face against your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” his breath coming in ragged gasps,

“I just love you so much…I can’t bear to lose you. Please don’t leave,”

Slowly, tentatively, you reached out, running your fingers through his hair.

Maybe this was just another one of his many schemes, designed to manipulate you into staying.

Maybe he truly loved you.

You didn't know.

But as you gazed into his tear-streaked eyes, searching for any hint of sincerity, you realised that it didn't matter anymore.

The only thing you were certain of in that moment was that you wouldn't be able to leave, not now, not ever.

For better or for worse, you were bound to him.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

#american horror story #ahs #kai anderson #evan peters #ahs cult #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson x y/n #kai anderson imagine #kai anderson x you #tate langdon #james patrick march #kit walker #tate langdon x y/n #kit walker x y/n #kyle spencer #tate langdon x reader #jimmy darling #kit walker x reader #jpm x reader #kai anderson smut #ahs kai #evan peters x reader #evan peters x y/n #evan peters x female reader #kyle spencer x y/n #kit walker x you #ahs season 7 #SoundCloud

[dee-writes-smut]

WINTER (Chapter Two)

FEATURING Azriel x Illyrian!reader

SUMMARY in the aftermath of your kidnapping, you find it harder than normal to cope and continue on with life, causing you to push the people closest to you away. (THIS IS A PART TWO)

CONTENT WARNINGS descriptions of injuries, pain, torture, severe depression, and PTSD. If you thought the last one was dark, buckle up.

AUTHORS NOTE wow, three fics in two days?! What happened to me? I have just been super motivated to write creatively recently, which is exciting! So here, enjoy the second part of the Season's series, Winter.

Winter's embrace was a bleak grip, the world laying shrouded in a suffocating blanket of ice and snow, each flake a cruel reminder of nature's indifference. The landscape stretched out before you like a desolate wasteland, barren trees reaching up like skeletal fingers towards a sky heavy with the promise of more bitter cold to come. There was no warmth to be found here, only the biting chill that gnawed at your bones and numbed your very soul.

Gone were the vibrant colors and lively sounds of spring, replaced instead by a deafening silence broken only by the hollow howl of the wind as it whipped through the skeletal remains of once-thriving forests. The air was thick with a palpable sense of despair, each breath a struggle against the icy grip of despair that threatened to crush you under its weight.

As you trudged through the snow, each step felt like a punishment, a relentless march towards an uncertain fate. The landscape seemed to taunt you with its emptiness, a cruel reminder of the futility of your existence in a world so devoid of life and hope. Shadows danced across the frozen ground, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes that seemed to mock your very presence.

And yet, amidst the desolation, there was a perverse beauty to be found – in the stark contrast of black against white, in the delicate lacework of frost that adorned the barren branches, in the eerie stillness that hung heavy in the air like a shroud. It was a beauty born of darkness, a twisted reflection of the cruel whims of fate that had brought you to this forsaken place.

In the heart of winter's icy grip, you found yourself consumed by a sense of isolation and despair, a prisoner in a world that had long since abandoned any pretense of kindness or compassion. It was a season of suffering, of unrelenting cruelty, of darkness so deep that even the faintest glimmer of hope seemed but a distant memory. And as the cold crept ever closer, you couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be an end to the endless winter that had consumed your very soul.

(Wintertime, Velaris)

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, I sat alone on the edge of my bed, my gaze fixed on the empty space where my wings used to be. The pain, both physical and emotional, gnawed at me like a relentless predator, sinking its claws deep into my chest, a constant reminder of everything I had lost. My once majestic wings, the very essence of my being, were gone, severed from my body by those who sought to break my spirit.

With trembling hands, I traced the scars where my wings had been, feeling the phantom sensation of membrane-like skin against my fingertips. The memory of their hard, bone-like ridges, their graceful span; it lingered like a bittersweet melody, haunting yet achingly beautiful. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the world around me with their shimmering veil, but I refused to let them fall. Crying felt like admitting defeat, acknowledging just how shattered I truly was. So instead, I pushed the pain down, burying it deep within me, where no one could see.

But the emptiness inside me was a vast abyss, yawning wide and hungry, impossible to ignore. I had always prided myself on my resilience, my strength, but now I felt like a mere husk of my former self. The trauma of my kidnapping weighed upon my mind like a heavy shroud, casting shadows that danced and twisted in the corners of my consciousness.

As the days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, I withdrew further into myself, cocooning my heart in layers of solitude and silence. The world outside seemed distant and hazy, a blurred landscape of faces and voices that I could no longer connect with. I couldn't bear the pity in their eyes, the whispered words of sympathy that fell like stones upon my wounded soul. So, I built walls around my heart, brick by brick, until I was encased in a fortress of my own making, impervious to the outside world.

Even Azriel, my steadfast companion, my unwavering ally, found himself barred from the inner sanctum of my heart. He tried to reach me, to break through the barriers I had erected, but I turned away, unable to bear the thought of exposing my vulnerability to anyone, even him. I didn't want their pity or their well-meaning words. All I wanted was to be left alone with my pain, to drown in it until it consumed me completely.

But even in my darkest moments, a flicker of hope danced on the periphery of my consciousness, a tiny flame that refused to be extinguished. It whispered of resilience and redemption, of healing and renewal, but I pushed it away, hiding from its warmth like a frightened child. For now, I would remain adrift in a sea of darkness, lost and alone, clinging to the fragile thread of hope that promised a way out of the abyss.

The memories played out in my mind with vivid intensity, each scene etched into my consciousness like a brand of torment.

I remembered the moment I was jolted from unconsciousness, the harsh voice of my captor slicing through the haze like a blade. "Wake up, whore," he hissed, sending a shiver down my spine and igniting a primal fear within me. Blinking against the darkness that enveloped me, I felt the oppressive weight of a bag over my head, suffocating and disorienting. Panic surged through me as I realized my bound state, my struggles against the restraints futile in the face of impending doom.

The voice, dripping with malice, mocked my defiance. "No need to struggle, sweetheart," he sneered, his words a cruel reminder of my helplessness. As I strained to make sense of my surroundings, fear clawed its way through my throat, leaving behind deep grooves of despair. The familiar scent of damp earth and mildew filled my senses, a chilling reminder of the unknown horrors that awaited me.

A flicker of hope emerged in the form of Azriel, my steadfast protector, but it was quickly extinguished by the looming presence of Lyris, a childhood friend turned tormentor. His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he brandished a dagger, the cold metal glinting ominously in the dim light.

With a cruel smirk, Lyris descended upon me, his voice filled with twisted pleasure. "Time to finally take what's mine," he taunted, the blade poised to inflict unimaginable pain.

The first cut tore through me like a bolt of lightning, a searing agony that ripped through flesh and soul alike. My cries echoed off the walls of the chamber, lost in the darkness that enveloped me.

But the torment did not end there. With each merciless stroke of the blade, Lyris carved away my very essence, leaving behind a shattered shell of my former self. I watched helplessly as my wings, once symbols of freedom and strength, were mutilated and discarded like worthless scraps of flesh.

And as the last remnants of my identity fell away, a hollow emptiness consumed me, leaving behind only the cruel scars of my torment. I was no longer whole, no longer the person I once was. I had been robbed of everything that defined me, my essence stolen by the darkness that lurked within the depths of my captor's soul.

As the soft rap echoed through the hollow corridors, it felt like a distant echo of a life I once knew, one filled with warmth and camaraderie. Reluctantly, I approached the door, each step heavy with the weight of my turmoil, the heavy thud of my heart matching the rhythm of my footfalls.

Feyre stood there, framed by the soft glow of the hallway lanterns, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of the bonds I had once cherished. In her hands, she cradled a delicate tray, a small offering of sustenance amidst the darkness that engulfed me.

"I brought you some food," she offered, her voice a soothing melody in the stillness of the room, a fragile thread of connection in the vast expanse of my solitude. "I thought you might be hungry."

My response was curt, a reflexive defense against the vulnerability her kindness exposed. "I don't need your pity, Feyre," I retorted, the bitterness in my voice a stark contrast to the warmth of her offering. "I can take care of myself."

For a fleeting moment, hurt flickered in her eyes, a silent plea for understanding that cut through the barriers I had erected around my wounded heart. But she quickly masked it with a forced smile, her resilience a testament to the depth of her compassion.

Without another word, she set the tray down on the table beside me, the scent of warm food mingling with the heavy silence that enveloped us. It was a gesture of kindness in a world that had grown cold and indifferent, a fleeting glimpse of the friendship I had once treasured.

As Feyre lingered in the doorway, her gaze lingered on mine with a quiet intensity, a silent invitation to let her in, to share the burden of my pain. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked, her voice a gentle reminder that I was not alone, that there were still those who cared enough to reach out a helping hand.

But I shook my head, my walls still firmly in place, my pride a shield against the vulnerability her presence exposed. "No," I replied curtly, my voice a harsh echo of the emptiness that echoed within me.

With a nod of understanding, Feyre turned to leave, the weight of her disappointment a heavy burden on my already burdened soul. And as the door closed behind her, I was left alone once more, the silence of the empty room a stark reminder of the walls I had built to keep the world at bay.

The evening air was thick with the scent of spices and laughter as I made my way through the bustling streets of Velaris, the soft glow of lanterns casting a warm hue over the cobblestone pathways. Each step felt heavy, burdened by the weight of my own thoughts, as I navigated the vibrant tapestry of the Night Court.

Amidst the lively chatter and cheerful bustle of the city, familiar voices pierced through the haze of my melancholy. Mor's vibrant laughter echoed through the air, drawing my gaze towards her radiant figure standing across the street. Beside her, Cassian, his presence as imposing as ever, offered a welcoming grin that tugged at the corners of my lips despite my inner turmoil.

"Hey, there she is!" Mor's voice carried on the breeze, her smile bright as she beckoned me over. "Come join us!"

Cassian's invitation followed, his boisterous enthusiasm contagious as he gestured towards the tavern. "We're heading for a drink. You should come with us."

My heart clenched at the genuine warmth in their gestures, a stark contrast to the icy grip of my own despair. The desire to lose myself in their company, if only for a fleeting moment, warred with the overwhelming sense of unworthiness that gnawed at my soul.

But as Mor reached out to take my hand, her touch a gentle reminder of the bond we shared, a surge of jealousy and resentment swept through me. My gaze flickered to Cassian, his powerful wings a constant reminder of everything I had lost. Anger boiled within me, bitter and consuming, as I struggled to suppress the envy that threatened to engulf me. "I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll pass," I managed to say, my voice betraying a hint of regret. "I'm not really in the mood for drinking tonight."

Mor's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing her features before she masked it with reassurance. "That's okay," she said softly, her words a soothing balm to the ache in my heart. "But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find us."

With a nod of understanding, I watched as they disappeared into the throng of revelers, their laughter fading into the night. Left alone on the deserted street, the weight of my solitude pressed heavily upon me, a reminder of the chasm that separated me from the warmth of their companionship. As the echoes of their laughter dissolved into the stillness of the night, I couldn't shake the pang of resentment that lingered in my chest. But even amidst the darkness of my despair, I knew that I couldn't risk dragging my friends down with me. So, with a heavy heart, I turned away, retreating into the shadows once more, the silence of the night swallowing me whole.

The faint glow of moonlight, a silver cascade, filtered through the windows, casting ethereal patterns across the dimly lit kitchen of the Night Court's sprawling estate. I stood amidst the chaos, surrounded by a haphazard array of pots, pans, and ingredients scattered across the countertops. My attempt at cooking had quickly spiraled into a messy disaster, each failed endeavor only serving to fuel my frustration further.

As I grappled with the stubborn lid of a jar, a voice sliced through the silence, its presence both unexpected and unwelcome.

"What in the world are you doing?"

Startled, I turned to find Rhysand standing in the doorway, his silhouette a stark contrast against the luminescent backdrop. His wings, a breathtaking display of power and grace, unfurled behind him like the majestic sails of a ship, the membrane-like skin gleaming in the moonlight. They seemed to pulsate with an otherworldly energy, each beat a testament to the freedom and strength they embodied. My heart clenched at the sight, a bitter pang of jealousy twisting in the depths of my soul. Once, I had known that same sense of freedom, had soared through the skies with effortless grace, my wings slicing through the air like a blade through silk. But now, they were gone, cruelly ripped from my back by those who sought to break me.

An ache, dull and persistent, throbbed in the space where my wings had once been, a constant reminder of everything I had lost. I longed to feel the wind beneath me, to taste the exhilarating rush of flight once more, but it was nothing more than a distant dream, forever out of reach.

"None of your business," I snapped, my voice a whipcrack of frustration, my fingers still wrestling with the stubborn jar lid. The last thing I needed was his pity, his condescending attempts to help when I clearly didn't want it.

Rhysand's gaze softened, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he approached with cautious steps, his movements a ballet of grace. "You're making quite a mess," he observed, his voice gentle but firm, like the soothing murmur of a distant stream. "Let me help you."

I recoiled from his touch, the anger bubbling to the surface like molten lava erupting from the depths of the earth. "I don't need your help," I spat, my voice tinged with venom, the bitterness like bile in my throat. "I don't need anyone."

There was a brief pause, a pregnant silence hanging heavy in the air as Rhysand regarded me with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. "You're clearly upset," he said softly, his words a gentle caress against the storm raging within me. "Let me help you. Let us help you."

But I refused to listen, the tempest of my emotions raging unabated, the walls around my heart fortified against any intrusion. With a strangled cry of frustration, I shoved past him and fled from the room, the echoes of his words following me like a haunting refrain, the cadence of his footsteps a melancholy echo in the corridors of my mind.

Alone in the sanctuary of my darkened chamber, I collapsed onto the bed, the weight of my own solitude pressing down upon me like a suffocating avalanche. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, as I buried my face in the pillows, the emptiness consuming me like a ravenous beast, its jaws gnashing at the frayed edges of my soul.

"Mind if I join you?"

Nesta's voice broke through the silence, her presence a welcome intrusion in the stillness of the night. I turned to face her, my expression guarded and wary, unsure of what to expect. She stepped onto the balcony, her graceful movements a stark contrast to the heaviness that weighed upon my own shoulders. There was a quiet understanding in her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that lingered beneath the surface.

"I know what it's like," she said softly, her voice a gentle murmur in the quiet expanse of the night. "To push people away, to build walls around your heart so high that no one can reach you."

I bristled at her words, the anger and resentment bubbling to the surface like a dormant volcano awakening from its slumber. How dare she presume to understand the depths of my despair, the darkness that threatened to consume me from within?

"You have no idea what I'm going through," I snapped, my voice tinged with bitterness. "You have Cassian, you have someone who loves you unconditionally. I have no one."

Nesta's gaze softened, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes as she reached out to take my hand. "I may have Cassian, but that doesn't mean I haven't faced my own demons," she said gently. "I know what it's like to feel like you're drowning in darkness, to feel like there's no way out."

I recoiled from her touch, the walls around my heart growing ever taller with each passing moment. "I don't need your pity," I retorted, my voice laced with venom. "I don't need anyone."

Nesta's expression faltered for a moment, a fleeting glimpse of hurt crossing her features before she quickly masked it with a steely resolve. "Fine," she said, her voice tinged with resignation. "But just know that I'm here if you ever change your mind. No judgments, no expectations. Just someone who understands." And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone once more with the weight of my own sorrow.

The library exuded an atmosphere of solemn tranquility, its shelves adorned with ancient tomes and illuminated by the soft glow of flickering candles. I sat ensconced amidst the towering pillars of knowledge, a solitary figure in the midst of a vast sea of wisdom, my thoughts tumultuous and unruly.

"I’m joining you.”

The voice, sharp and unwavering, pierced the silence like a dagger, its intrusion disrupting the fragile peace that had settled over the room. Startled, I glanced up to find Amren standing before me, her gaze penetrating and incisive, cutting through the veil of my solitude with unnerving precision.

"Fine," I sighed, my voice tinged with resignation as I gestured for her to take a seat. Amren wasted no time in settling herself across from me, her movements fluid and purposeful, her eyes fixed upon me with an intensity that made me squirm.

"You look like hell," she remarked bluntly, her words a harsh echo in the stillness of the library.

I bristled at her candor, the urge to lash out bubbling up from the depths of my despair like a tempest on the horizon. But there was something in Amren's gaze, a glimmer of genuine concern beneath the steely facade, that gave me pause. She wasn't asking out of idle curiosity; she genuinely wanted to understand the turmoil that churned within me.

"It's nothing," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper as I averted my gaze, unwilling to meet her probing stare.

Amren snorted in disbelief, her lips curling into a sardonic smile as she leaned forward, her eyes boring into mine with unrelenting intensity. "Don't give me that bullshit," she retorted, her tone sharp and unyielding. "I may not be the touchy-feely type, but even I can see that something's eating you alive."

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing with each passing moment as I struggled to find the words to express the depth of my despair. But before I could respond, Amren reached out and grasped my hand, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the steel in her eyes. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what you're going through," she said softly, her voice a quiet reassurance in the stillness of the library. "But I do know one thing: you don't have to face it alone. We're your friends, and we're here for you, no matter what."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging, as I looked into Amren's unwavering gaze. In that moment, I realized that she was right. I didn't have to carry the weight of my despair alone. I had friends who cared about me, who were willing to stand by my side through the darkest of times. But even as the realization washed over me like a tidal wave, a part of me rebelled against the idea of letting them in. The walls around my heart, built brick by brick in an attempt to shield myself from further pain, felt impenetrable, insurmountable.

With a trembling breath, I pulled my hand away from Amren's grasp, my movements abrupt and jerky. "I don't need your help," I said, my voice strained with emotion. "I don't need anyone."

Amren's expression hardened, her eyes flashing with barely concealed anger as she stared at me, incredulous. "You're a fool if you think you can face this alone," she spat, her voice cold and cutting. "But fine, if that's how you want it. Just know that when you finally come crawling back, don't expect us to welcome you with open arms."

And with that, she rose from her seat and stormed from the room, leaving me alone once more with the weight of my own despair. Even as the silence settled around me like a suffocating blanket, I couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that gnawed at my soul.

As the twilight descended, casting its ethereal veil over the Night Court's training grounds, I found myself standing alone at the edge of the courtyard, my heart heavy with the burden of my own anguish. The fading light painted the world in hues of amber and indigo, a melancholy backdrop to the tempest raging within.

With measured steps, Azriel approached, his presence a soothing balm amidst the chaos of my emotions. His silhouette merged with the shadows, his eyes alight with concern as he drew near. "Are you alright?" His voice, a tender caress against the backdrop of the evening's symphony, reached out to me, offering solace in the darkness.

I turned to face him, my heart aching with the weight of unspoken words, the tumult of my soul laid bare in the vulnerability of my gaze. "Do I look alright?" I whispered, the bitterness of my sorrow echoing in the stillness of the night. "Do I seem like someone who has it all together?"

Azriel's expression softened, his gaze a mirror to the storm brewing within me. "I'm just trying to help," he murmured, his voice a gentle melody that stirred the depths of my wounded spirit.

Tears welled in my eyes, the ache in my chest threatening to consume me whole. "Maybe I don't want your help," I confessed, the admission a fragile confession of my deepest fears. "Maybe I'm tired of everyone trying to fix me, like I'm some broken thing in need of repair."

The hurt that flickered in Azriel's eyes pierced through me, his anguish a reflection of my own. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice laden with remorse, a silent plea for understanding.

My resolve wavered, the walls around my heart crumbling in the face of his compassion. "I don't need your apologies," I confessed, the weight of my pain heavy upon my shoulders. "I just need… I don't know what I need."

With that, I turned away, the vulnerability of my confession hanging heavy in the air between us. As I retreated into the enveloping darkness, I felt the warmth of Azriel's presence recede, leaving me alone with the ache of my own brokenness. And in the stillness of the night, I grappled with the realization that perhaps, amidst the chaos of my despair, what I truly longed for was the one thing I had pushed away—the comforting embrace of someone who cared.

But even as I yearned for solace, the sight of Azriel, the one who had rescued me from the clutches of darkness, stirred within me a tumult of conflicting emotions. His Illyrian heritage, his wings—symbols of strength and freedom—served as painful reminders of the horrors I had endured. And in his compassionate gaze, I saw reflected the shadows of my past, haunting me with memories I longed to forget. It was hard to see him, to confront the echoes of my trauma that lingered in his presence, yet even amidst the pain, there remained a flicker of hope—something that clung so tight, that wouldn’t let go, and that throbbed in the presence of him.

[PREVIOUS] [NEXT]

#azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #acotar #rhys acotar #acourtofthornsandroses #acowar #acotar fanfiction #angst #fanfic #acomaf #x reader #velaris #night court #a court of thorns and roses #depressing shit #tw depressing thoughts #tw depressing stuff #amren #mor #rhysand #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #amren acotar #cassian #wings #a court of silver flames

[pennyellee]

CHAPTER IV - ustulation

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, kidnapping, mentions of God, blood, incision wound, fictive mafia clan traditions, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, mentions of death, overwhelming, violence, threats, intimate encounter, kissing

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 5,6K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III GAME OF GO CHAPTER V

ustulation (n.) a burning lust

In the hidden embrace of a secluded mountain valley, a village of hanoks stirred to life on a tranquil winter's morning. The air was crisp, a symphony of silence. The Song of the Dead toned down for some time.

The dawn’s gentle light bathed the valley, wisps of mist from the frost-kissed earth, adding an ethereal veil to the scenery she watched carefully from the closed window.

The majestic mountains, ancient pines and stoic rocks stood as sentinels of the valley's serenity. She could see them from this side of the house. Y/N sighed, holding a cup of tea in her two small hands, warming herself up on this chilly morning.

“Is something bothering you, my love?”

Yoongi had tried his hardest the past month to get under her skin. There were times when he thought perhaps, she would welcome him into her heart one day. However, her repeated escape attempts made him think otherwise. He was giving her the space she needed with carefulness in every action he took. The young leader knew well that she wouldn't be able to escape while they resided here, in the core of the village. That did not stop her though.

As if nature herself wished to bestow a gift upon him, the first snowflakes began to descend from the heavens just as they were returning from that unfortunate, eventful day in Seoul. The snowflakes floated gently, even now, like fragile dreams.

“Are you feeling well? You spent a lot of time in the snow yesterday.” He murmured after she didn’t grant him an answer to his previous question. They had to postpone the wedding as the snow and frost reigned, making it unsafe to pass through the tunnels. The passage was being cleared by workers for more than a week now. Time seemed to stand still as they absorbed the grace that enveloped their world.

“I feel fine,” she muttered back, not even looking his way at the table.

“I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?” He asked, demanding to speak to her.

“After all the stunts you pulled, you’re still free to roam around without anyone guarding you. Not speaking of the fact that I’m letting you sleep alone—” he was going on rumble.

The young leader is patient, but he longed for her more than ever. The fact that they’re still not newlyweds, and he cannot show love to every inch of her body, make her swell with his child, was frustrating him beyond repair. She had let her guard down once and allowed him to take the chance and kiss her on the cheek, startling her yet again.

“—you’re so blinded,” she said suddenly, turning back to face him.

“Excuse me?” said he, very surprised.

“You go on about how you’re good to me, how this is God’s doing, and that I should be grateful—” she threw her hands in the air, frustrated by his demanding nature.

While the leader thought he was granting her the time she needed, Y/N felt more and more anxious every day. Her heart is still itching to be free, yet she cannot stop thinking about what her selfishness would cause if she indeed managed to escape.

“Well maybe if you didn’t run every time, I tried to show you affection, I wouldn't have to remind you of all this.” He spat angrily, smashing the chopsticks on the table, standing up.

“I’m patient—” said he, getting closer to her standing form by the large windows. “—but I swear to God, you’ll disobey me again, and that’s where my hospitality ends, Y/N.”

“I just—” she stammered, making him stop in his attempt to close the distance between them. “I’m scared,” she whimpered. Y/N didn’t know why these words came out of her, nor why there were tears. All she felt was exhaustion.

The scarred leader’s expression softened. Is she finally confiding herself to him, opening up?

“My love…” He approached her, taking the cup from her shaking hands, putting it aside and lastly taking her face into his hands, his thumbs wiping her tears away.

“I can make you happy. You just have to let me in.” He whispered, moving his face closer to hers. Y/N knows they will cross the boundary sooner or later. The winter is making it impossible for her to both run away and survive. Should Y/N listen to her mother’s words and let him make her his queen? The older female’s proclamation circled her mind at night while listening to the cracking of wood in the fireplace.

“Please let me in, dove.” He pleaded again, his eyes filled with sincerity and longing.

And once she nodded her head in approval, he didn’t hesitate to press his lips softly against hers. Time stood still, and the world around them faded into a blur of insignificance. Their hearts pounded in sync for a brief moment. She felt a warmth she couldn't admit, even to herself. Y/N wanted to hate him so much. Despite her inner conflict, she could sense the unspoken longings from his side, his desire to deepen the kiss carefully without overwhelming her. He wished to never let her go and feared that she would vanish in his hold. His lips were tender and tentative, like the brush of a butterfly's wings upon a fragile petal. Y/N knows he is holding himself back. The kiss was addictive, momentarily lifting the burden from her chest.

As he went to slide his hands on the swell of her heart-shaped bottom, a sudden cough interrupted the intimate moment. Y/N quickly pulled away, feeling shame and embarrassment wash over her caused by the sudden intrusion. She stole a single glance at the man standing by the door, grinning mischievously. Her cheeks turned crimson as she felt shy and exposed, but the young leader kept holding her in his embrace, not letting her go so soon after their first shared kiss.

Smiling like a teenager, he said: “What’s going on Hoseok-shi.” Y/N could imagine he is smiling widely as she had observed when she apologised to him for hitting his head with the stone. He waved it off quickly stating ‘I would be a fool to not forgive my new sister.’ She pretended not to be affected by his words, but it made the man she was to marry smile even more mischievously.

“I need to speak to you, and Y/N should get ready for Hyung’s wedding,” Hoseok said, his eyes gleaming with some secret knowledge.

Y/N exchanged a puzzled glance with Hoseok before nodding and extracting herself from the young leader's embrace, her cheeks still flushed from the kiss. Uncertainty hung in the air as Yoongi let Y/N go and walk away, admiring her graceful figure.

“What?” Yoongi asked, turning his attention to his trusted friend, who wore a smirk that hinted at hidden amusement.

“Nothing,” Hoseok replied, still smiling under his nose.

“Shall we?” Yoongi said, collecting himself and walking towards his brother.

“You won’t fancy what news I bring, brother.”

Silk banners fluttered in the breeze, announcing the joyous union to all who ventured near. The bride, a vision of grace and elegance, is adorned in a hanbok of flowing silk and intricate embroidery.

The groom, dressed in the timeless attire of a traditional hanbok, stood tall and resolute. His eyes fixed unwaveringly upon his beloved, as though she embodied the very essence of his being — a force that fuelled his heart.

Amidst the enchanting spectacle of celebration, the weight of tradition resonated with each uttered word.

The outside picture portrayed the unbreakable bonds of family and the beauty of two souls finding solace in one another. Y/N, however, couldn’t help but have a feeling that the poor girl the doctor was marrying did not find herself at the altar because of true love but fearful coercion. It reminded her of her circumstances — a pawn in a larger scheme.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow upon the snow-covered land, Y/N sat beside her to-be husband, observing his unusual joy. Accordingly. Today, one of his brothers was finally taking a wife and his bride in a momentary vulnerability that had allowed him to share a tender kiss with her, amplifying his joy to an even greater extent.

Her ears perked up once she heard the celebration of the union before her. She couldn't resist side-eyeing the other brothers she had encountered over the past month, and her gaze locked with Kim Namjoon, Kkangpae’s right-hand man.

Y/N remembers Kim Namjoon. His piercing, cold gaze bore into her soul, especially so during one of her escape attempts, when he forcefully brought her back to the main house, reprimanding her for disobedience.

‘I can either give up my life to save you or I can be your enemy Y/N.’ Namjoon had warned her on a night when she sought solace near the fireplace in Yoongi's office, wrapped in blankets to warm herself even more. She was rarely allowed in this sacred room unless her actions demanded attention.

That night, Yoongi was dealing with business matters. He came back to the main house to her shivering and crying form. It is breaking his heart every time he sees her in such a state but simultaneously, he wishes she would cross the border of submissiveness and obey him.

Y/N ignored his warning just yesterday when she attempted to run away again. Hence, the gaze. If she was afraid of his next steps, she wouldn’t let him decipher that.

She snapped out of her mind as Yoongi rose from his seat, taking her hand to help her up. Y/N looked at him with a mixture of confusion and concern. He gently nudged her behind him, positioning himself as a protective shield. She looked around her, seeing that everyone else was still seated. Their looks show emotions —excitement, joy, and pride.

Her confusion heightened when Yoongi began unbuttoning her fur coat that was hiding her long red qipao, and panic swelled within her.

"What are you doing?!” She whispered in distress.

“Behave.” He whispered back to her, leaving the coat open revealing her breasts and tummy.

Leaving her standing close to him, he held her hand tightly, as if afraid she might flee at any moment. Y/N noticed that Namjoon's attention had shifted to Seokjin's new bride. The bride's trembling form approached them, and Y/N observed the gleaming knife in Seokjin's hand, quickly realizing what was about to happen.

It whispered promises of power, of secrets that could be revealed with a single stroke, but it also carried the weight of consequences and a toll on the bearer's conscience. As the girl's hand was carefully sliced with the knife, Y/N couldn't help but empathize with her pain. Her father had a similar tradition; however, women weren’t involved; she was still left in the dark about her role in all this.

The girl then knelt, extending her bloodied hand toward the leader, reciting her pledge of loyalty to Kkangpae Min. Yoongi covered her hand with his other one, acknowledging her devotion and signaling for her to continue with the moving tradition.

The leader then used his left hand to guide Y/N forward, leaving her yet again puzzled and bewildered. A moment later, she gasped with shock as she felt the girl's bloodied hand touch her lower belly. Yoongi held her firmly in place, preventing any instinctual step back.

"I, with my blood, pledge my loyalty to you, Min Buin. Blessed be the fruit of your future legacy, Kkangpae Min," the girl recited, her words carrying both reverence and a touch of melancholy. The significance of the moment and the responsibility it bestowed upon Y/N left her grappling with a maelstrom of emotions.

“Well you handled that well,” a voice came from behind her, and Y/N turned to find Namjoon standing there, watching her by the fireplace in Yoongi's office. She had been curious when he would approach her, knowing that Yoongi had gone to check if the tunnels were passable.

Y/N couldn't quite discern the tone of Namjoon's remark—whether it held irony or genuine praise. Such was the enigmatic nature of this man.

“I suppose,” she muttered, hugging herself for comfort.

“I personally thought you’d slap her hand off. Such an act would undoubtedly stir up trouble,” said he as he settled down in one of the armchairs.

Her mind replayed the events of the pledge, and she confessed truthfully, “I was too shocked to do so.” The new bride's pledge of loyalty to her and her empty womb had caught her off guard, leaving her uneasy.

“Your father is not demanding newcomers to pledge loyalty?” He asked, curious about their inner circle practices. She smirked, sensing his attempt to pry.

“Yes, but not to my mother,” she revealed.

“You hold an important position within our ranks,” the right-hand man noted. “And that, my dear, is why we are having this little conversation.” Y/N looked up, finding him extending a glass filled with what she presumed to be rice wine or soju.

“I genuinely want to be your friend Y/N—” he said while passing the glass to her. “But you’re very hard to please, princess,” he exclaimed.

“By ‘wanting to be my friend’, you mean the part when you threaten me again,” she retorted with a scoff, alluding to his past warnings.

“That is a necessary evil,” he conceded. “But on a serious note, Y/N,” he drew closer, taking a seat slightly further away to grant her personal space, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” she asked, feeling dumbfounded by his question.

"Is life here truly so terrible that all you can think of is escape?" he sighed, genuinely curious about her state of mind.

“Not all I can think of—” she began, trying to defend herself.

"Oh, so you did not attempt to escape just a day ago, and two days before that, and so on," he interjected, pointing out her recent attempts.

“What do you want to hear from me Namjoon?” she countered, feeling the pressure of his questioning.

“Hoseok hyung overheard your conversation,” he finally gave away the one piece of information he sought to address “What are you afraid of?”

Y/N gazed into the dancing flames, his words echoing in her mind. Memories of the recent kiss with Yoongi and the ensuing events flooded her thoughts. She felt her spirit on the brink of collapse, her attempts to escape repeatedly thwarted, causing harm to others in the process. Y/N was exhausted.

“I suppose I expected my life to take a different trajectory than this,” she admitted, reflecting on her circumstances.

“I can assure you that this will be the best that ever happened to you—” Namjoon insisted, trying to be reassuring.

“And that, Namjoon, is where my disbelief lies,” she interrupted him, peering straight into his eyes. He sighed, running a hand across his face, expressing a sense of frustration mixed with genuine concern.

“You didn’t give it a chance!” He raised his voice, unable to hide his emotions. He wanted this clan to function as it did for countless years and what’s more, he wanted his hyung to be happy.

“I’m going to ask you once again, and I want the truth,” he implored, trying to get to the heart of the matter. “What are you so scared of?”

Y/N decided to remain silent, knowing that her response would likely incite further frustration from him. "Is it sex?" he suddenly asked, shocking her with his explicitness. "Are you scared to be punished for your sins?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she returned his rage, denying his accusation.

“Am I?” he continued probing.

“Yes, Namjoon! You are! You think I’m this shallow?!” she lashed out.

“No, but all you let us see is the shallow version of you. Apart from this morning,” he declared, referring to a rare moment of vulnerability she had shown.

“And it wasn’t meant for anybody to hear nor see that,” she snapped back at him.

“I understand your reasoning, Y/N. But we’re your family now, you don’t have to shield yourself against us,” he pleaded, hoping to break down her walls.

“He loves you, Y/N,” Namjoon continued, trying to make her see the sincerity in Yoongi's feelings.

“That’s very hard to believe too.” She remarked, still sceptical, looking right through his eyes. He took a deep breath, lifting his hand to touch his face.

“Alright, let’s make a deal,” he proposed, catching her by surprise and piquing her interest.

“About?” She asked, curiously.

“Give it a year,” said the right-hand man. By making a deal with her, he is going behind the back of his leader and, even more importantly — his dearest friend. Nevertheless, he felt obligated to do this for him.

"If you're still 'scared' of whatever you say you are, and this is not the life you'll be comfortable living, I'll personally see to it that you'll be transported to America," he promised, leaving her momentarily speechless.

“What is the catch?” Y/N wasn't naive. She knew there must be some ulterior motive.

"You'll stop being a flight risk. If you attempt to run again, the deal is off, and I will personally eliminate each person foolish enough to aid you since your arrival—one by one, ending with your cousin," he stated, laying out the condition.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she absorbed his chilling words. Her mind raced as she contemplated her choices. "That's the only condition?" she asked, ensuring she understood the terms before giving her answer.

"Well, naturally, I expect you to genuinely give it a chance, meaning that you will accept Hyung as your husband, leader, and lover," he emphasized the last noun, urging her to take his words seriously. Y/N stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts together.

“This is a one time offer Y/N. I won’t be this generous again,” he added. She struggled to read him, but she couldn’t. Namjoon was well known for being unpredictable — a quality that made him a perfect fit as the right-hand man. No one could ever say with certainty what his next move would be.

“Fine,” she finally relented, her voice barely a whisper. Namjoon extended his hand, sealing the deal with a firm shake. He leaned in closer to Y/N.

“I trust that you’ll be on your best behaviour from now on.” He whispered to her. There were so many emotions in her eyes right now that she was working hard to process. She barely nodded and averted her gaze down. Y/N couldn’t bear to look into his intimidating eyes no more.

“Very well,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on her. “The tunnels have been cleared, and the wedding will take place this week." He told her.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the impending wedding. She was praying that perhaps she has more time to think of what to do with her situation. According to Seokjin, who came to visit and spent some time on occasion with her when his leader could not, the tunnels wouldn’t be cleared out until the end of December, giving her another month in total.

“Brother!” exclaimed Namjoon suddenly, breaking her train of thought. Y/N followed his gaze to the sliding door, where Yoongi stood, undoing the cufflinks of his shirt, the suit jacket already gone. "I was just telling Y/N the good news," Namjoon smiled at him.

Throughout this month, Y/N observed the strong brotherhood among Yoongi's most trusted and closest men. The deepest connection Yoongi shared was undoubtedly with Namjoon, which explained why he was the right-hand man.

Yoongi displayed a particularly protective nature towards his younger brothers. She had yet to meet Jungkook, the youngest, who had been recently assigned as captain of the front unit, as she overheard. On the other hand, Jimin was more involved in the open, managing the front business and whatever lay beneath it. The Chosen Hotel was highly popular among Koreans but was eagerly open to international guests too. Y/N suspected that the true core of the business was settled elsewhere, and she was eager to uncover it.

Seokjin, recently married, primarily served as the inner family's doctor. However, the Min clan also faced a shortage of actual medical staff like, so he had to run between the sanctuary, as she had learnt this place was called, and a front hospital.

Taehyung remained a mystery to her, despite seeing him in family pictures and hearing Yoongi mention him occasionally. He was supposed to represent the law in Yoongi's business dealings, ensuring the safety and legitimacy of their operations, including the handling of illegal earnings. Therefore, Taehyung is the safety pin of this organization. Whomever fucks up, he is there to defend them.

And lastly, Hoseok, a surprising contrast of joy and darkness. Y/N was taken aback that such a buoyant personality could be involved in such sinister activities. He was the arsonist who also took care of assassinations. Additionally, the clan engaged in money laundering, and Hoseok was responsible for collecting debts, often involuntarily.

Her eyes swelled with tears she was refusing to let out. Yoongi’s eyes met Y/N's, and she could see a mixture of concern and worry flicker across his face. A silent understanding passed between them, and they knew that they would need to have a private conversation later.

“Well, it seems you two need more privacy,” said Namjoon while he was collecting himself from the cushion he was sitting on.

“Did Tae call?” Yoongi asked before Namjoon could leave. “He did before Hyung’s wedding, to send his good wishes and—” he gazed over to Y/N who was carefully listening to their conversation, hanging on every word.

“—and?” Yoongi asked as he unbuttoned his shirt, a sight she had seen far too often for her liking. He was not shy with her; he could easily undress before her without a second thought. His attempts to walk in on her while she was changing didn't go unnoticed either, though she made sure to show her displeasure by throwing vases at him to keep him out.

Only now did Y/N remember the glass of alcoholic beverage that Namjoon had offered her, remaining untouched in her hands. She decided to take a sip, trying to ease her nerves before the conversation she was dreading.

“—and everything went well, as expected,” said Namjoon observing her as she downed the burning soju.

“Send telegraph to Wang and other families. We’re leaving for Chosen in two hours.” Y/N straightened herself, eyes wide open in disbelief.

“W-what do you mean in two hours?” She stammered. It was just past eight when she gazed at the clock on the wall. That would mean they'd depart at ten and arrive in Seoul around midnight.

"—I thought they just cleared the way. Why are we—" Yoongi cut her off abruptly. "I am waiting no more," he said firmly, locking his gaze with hers, leaving her in shock once again.

"On your way, please inform the maids to pack, and I want the cabin ready," Yoongi instructed Namjoon, who memorised every task with a sense of responsibility, seemingly disregarding Y/N's shattered spirit in the wake of this sudden rush.

“Can we at least talk about it?!” she raised her voice, causing the two men to stop in their tracks. They exchanged knowing looks, making it clear that this was non-negotiable. Yoongi clicked his tongue, biting his cheeks from inside, then turned to face his fiancée with a deceptive sweetness in his tone.

"Of course, my love," he said.

He nodded to Namjoon, who immediately took off, glancing at Y/N with a silent reminder to behave.

“What’s wrong?” Yoongi asked nonchalantly as if this were a perfectly normal scenario.

“I don’t know, do you think this is right?” Y/N kept her tone tense, signalling her discontent.

“Nothing is more right than this,” he answered, pouring himself a drink while taking her empty glass and refilling it with soju.

"Yoongi—" she began to protest, but he didn't let her speak further, having heard her excuses countless times.

“No Y/N. I’m not negotiating this time. We’re getting married tomorrow afternoon and that’s final,” he stated sternly.

"You could at least wait a day! Do you think everyone will just jump because you said it's happening right now? And more importantly, let me mentally prepare for it?!” Her frustration grew, and she gestured wildly, almost knocking over the refilled glass that Yoongi handed her.

“They are already in town. The telegraph is just a confirmation that it will happen tomorrow.” Her distress and panic were understandable; she had believed she had more time than a few hours.

“And you didn’t think of telling me first?!” she raised her voice even higher. That she was in distress and panic was very understandable. Y/N thought she had more time than a few hours.

“No, because you were finally letting me in—” said he, downing the contents of his glass in one go.

“You knew this would happen for a month, and you would have had more time to prepare yourself if running away fifteen hundred times a day wouldn’t be on your mind,” he fired back, raising his voice at her, and immediately asserting dominance.

"I'm getting very tired of this. One step forward and ten million miles back, damn it!" he cursed, slamming the glass down on his desk in frustration. The tension in the room was palpable, and Y/N felt her heart sinking as she realized that her hopes of a slower pace for their relationship had been shattered.

“I have a very easy solution to that—” she said, raising herself to stand up to him.

“—Let me go,” she emphasized every single word, her frustration boiling over, and momentarily forgetting about her deal with Namjoon.

Her emotions were running high, and she went to pull the ring off to prove her point, but he forcefully grabbed her right hand, stopping her in her tracks. Anger filled his eyes as he crossed his other hand, grabbed her by the back of her neck, and crashed his lips onto hers, pressing their bodies against the nearest wall. He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath as he passionately bruised her lips.

He let go of her hand once he was sure she wouldn't resist. With his now free hand, he lifted her leg, wrapping it around his waist, squeezing her ass cheek, making her yelp and by that creating an opening to slip his tongue into her mouth. Y/N had no idea how long their intimate encounter lasted, but she could feel her head spinning from the lack of oxygen. Just as she managed to stop his other hand from slipping under her dress, aiming for her pulsing heat, he parted from her, both of them breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry. I got carried away,” he apologised, his eyes fixed on her now swollen lips. Y/N was taken aback, her head still spinning, and she couldn't think straight. He had such a powerful effect on her, and this aspect of life was entirely new to her, having been kept away from such experiences.

"I wish, —" he started, nibbling at her lower lip while he continued to speak, "—you would acknowledge my love for you." Yoongi kissed her again, not giving her a chance to recover or speak up, moaning softly into her lips.

"We are too close. I will never give you up.” he declared, wiping her tears away gently.

“I can’t have you running though—” he leaned into lavish attention on her neck, placing butterfly kisses up to her jaw and stopping at her lips again—

"I'll overlook this lapse of senses if you keep up this good behaviour, my love, but the next time you disobey me, I won't only discipline you; someone will lose their head.”

She trembled against him, feeling lost, scared, and vulnerable. Her breath hitched as she tried to speak up. Yoongi was beyond himself for getting her into this state where she didn’t dare to oppose his words and stopped fighting him. If she won’t let him in willingly, he will force her to open up to him.

“I told you to not take that ring off your finger ever again.” She remembers the words he uttered to her in the garden where he proposed to her. That she agreed still feels surreal to her. Running got her nowhere, but she still had a selfish feeling inside her that he was bluffing and wouldn’t dare to seriously hurt anybody.

“Now be a good girl and apologise for disobeying me.” He tightened his grip at her waist, finally staring right into her teary eyes. Y/N felt lost, scared and vulnerable. Her lips were trembling, and her breath hitched again once she opened her mouth to speak.

“Shhh, it’s okay baby, just say it.” He cooed, lifting his hand to caress her cheek gently.

“I-I am sorry,” she finally sobbed. If there was one thing the scarred boy excelled at, it was getting his way. He smiled at her, pleased with her response.

He smiled at her. “That’s more like it, baby.”

Y/N longed to curl up in her small apartment, where she resided while studying at college. She desperately wished she could turn back time.

“I have something for you,” he said suddenly, looking for any sign of curiosity from her. Yoongi stepped away to his desk, leaving her pressed against the wall, hesitant to move an inch. He opened one of his drawers and pulled out an envelope. Y/N couldn't make out the handwriting, but her eyes widened as she recognised it.

“Your aunt entrusted me with this letter when we came to the conclusion that you should be mine one day,” he said, holding the envelope in his hands. Y/N desperately wished that the answer and a solution to her fears would be contained in that envelope. She was mulling over the platform of this match-making her aunt orchestrated.

Wang Xiaoqing very much upheld the meaning of her name in the time she lived. Blessed with intelligence. And she was a fearless mafia wife who brought pride to her late husband. There are other intriguing things about Y/N’s beloved auntie. Xiaoqing is by far the only member in her large family tree that married for love. Y/N admired her aunt and, perhaps, seeing that it was possible to marry for love, made her blindly believe she could also have the freedom to choose her partner.

She dreamt of a little house in the woods, not far from a lake or a small town. Growing some goods in the garden, by night sitting near the fireplace, the love of her life holding her. She would work in a nearby hospital, or study overseas to become a doctor were all part of her fever dream. She knew it was unlikely to come true, given her family's ties to the syndicate.

But she could least dream about it. For a moment, when she was on the ferry to Jeju Island, she thought she would make it. Y/N knew the risk she was taking once she entrusted her well-being to Chan-yeol. She knew his role was insignificant and not a threat to any syndicate and it wouldn’t certainly attract Yakuza, but she was also aware that he could have been the only one to send her to the far land. She believed that God chose this path for her instead of being an arm jewel to some Yakuza brute.

Reality snapped her back from her swirling thoughts as he put the envelope back in the drawer.

“W-what are you doing?” she asked, taking a step forward.

“I will give it to you—” he promised “and tell you everything you want to know—” locking the drawer with a key.

“—After you’ll walk the aisle to me, without any of your misfits,” he finished his sentence.

"To strengthen your cooperation for tomorrow, I'm having your cousin and her husband at gunpoint during the ceremony," he added, making her scream in protest.

"I won't do anything stupid," she pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Just let them be, please. They have little son, Yoongi.”

“I know, that’s why they are the perfect bargain to make you obedient. If this doesn't work, you still have other family members—," Y/N couldn't bear it any longer; she closed the distance between them, standing just inches away from him.

“If you would love me—” she started but before she could finish, he grabbed her waist and pulled her even closer, pressing his body against hers. She could feel his torso and lower body. He bowed down next to her ear.

“I’ll stop this necessary coercion when you’ll learn your place, my love.”

Yoongi loved making her squirm and overwhelm her. He was basking in the effect he had on her. The fact that she will be his wife in less than twelve hours was a source of satisfaction for him.

“You were my woman for a long time now, and you will be my woman till death do us apart.”

I N T E R L O G U E

“—And you’re certain that the man is on his way to Seoul.” The leader inquired of his trusted friend and partner, seated in the quiet confines of his home office.

“Yes,” Hoseok affirmed with a nod.

"Is there any additional information that I need to be aware of?” Yoongi's voice carried a hint of tension, his teeth gritted in anger.

"As of now, there's nothing more to report," the younger male replied, keeping the conversation concise.

“Do you want me to eliminate him?” Hoseok offered, waiting for his leader's command.

“Not just yet, I was hoping to have the pleasure myself.”

to be continued

author’s note: so here we are at chapter IV!! ♥ Thank you all so much for for sticking around chummers ♥ They kissed and much moreee!!! We'll see what we'll happen next. I hereby promise to post the chapter sooner than the end of Semptember, or I hope so xD Tho I have some wips to write and if I'll finish some then I'll post something new too ♥

Massive shout-out to Bex, the queen @chaoticpuff17, for beta another chapter!

Love you!!!!

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

let's be friends chummers ♥

lots of love,

𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

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#bts #bts fic #yandere yoongi #yandere bts #yandere namjoon #soft yandere #mafia au #yandere seokjin #seokjin x reader #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #hard yandere #yandere #yandere kpop #yandere taehyung #mafia bts #lacrimosa #myg angst #dark!yoongi #min yoongi x y/n #bts x you #yoongi smut #haegeum #suga x you #suga x y/n #suga x reader #historical au #bts historical au #bts yandere au #fic:lacrimosa

[darlingmbappe]

When We’re Ready [2] | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

[Part One] [Part Two]

Summary: After months of not getting pregnant, your mental health takes a big hit.

Warnings: SMUT! Minors, leave. Mentions of depression, slight angst, penetrative sex, oral (male receiving), brief self pleasure, cussing, google translated French, badly spell checked. Let me know if I missed anything! — English is not my first language —

Masterlist

The days were colder and the last snow of winter was sure to come any day now. Every morning, Kylian would leave bundled up and ready to train, and you’d stay home – left to your own devices with the same bitter thoughts you've collected over the past seven months. 

Getting laid off in early November seemed like a blessing in disguise, but sitting here in the chill of late February with nothing to do but wonder what the hell was wrong with your body made you realize it was more of a curse than a godsend. Maybe the universe was preparing your schedule for motherhood, you thought – needing time to ready the home for a newborn – time that you couldn't find with a job. But, still you remain jobless and without a child. Alone for most of the day, and sometimes days when Kylian went away.

Seven months seems like it’s too soon to feel this type of dreadful disappointment, especially since you’ve read it takes couples upwards of a year to get pregnant… but when you’ve prayed night after night, thoughts consumed with nothing but babies, listened to your husband raving about when the day finally comes, getting your hopes up just be let down once more… for seven months… it takes its toll. 

You were surprised when you heard a key jam into the front door, a mug full of lukewarm tea clung onto your chest as you watched trash TV in the living room, pajamas buried under the comforter you dragged directly from the downstairs guest room. You watched as Ky walked toward you with furrowed brows. 

“Hey.” His voice was gentle.

 “Hi.” You smile forcefully. “You’re home early.”

He hums and sits next to you on the couch. “Not really… It’s past six.”

When he said this to you, even with his tender tone, he hated how your face dropped with confusion, wondering how you spent your day cooped up in here. Of course he’d noticed your deteriorating emotional strength. He wasn’t so sure how to deal with all of this, also strained from having to pretend to be strong for the both of you. 

He kissed your cheek upon seeing your tears well up, pulling you into his body while you tried to hide your emotion. You laughed a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

He rubbed your back in an attempt to sooth you. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay, mon coeur.”

You pulled yourself together surprisingly quickly, the veil of embarrassment not unnoticed by your perceptive husband, but doing his best to not bring it up and make you more aware of his knowledge. 

He ordered take out while you took a steaming shower, satisfied at the dinner table with a mouth full of chicken fried rice. Conversations flowed innocently, but your heart faltered a bit when you got that notification on your phone from your period tracking app – you were ovulating!

Great.

The distinct chime made your food so dry in your mouth, having difficulty swallowing it. You put your phone face down on the table, pretending you didn't both see and hear it. 

He stares at you for a bit. You’re looking down at your plate, saying nothing, not meeting his gaze – though you felt it. He puts his hand on yours. “Bebe…”

“Stop.” You grumble, avoiding his eye contact. “I’m not in the mood.”

He sighs, clanging his fork a little louder than he intended to in the twinge of frustration. He understood, but he just wished you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself. 

In December, you both had visited a fertility clinic to make sure all the gears were working correctly – and they were. It was amazing news that gave you both a fresh drive after months of let downs, but two months and four negative tests harshly dampened that high. You had been pretty hard on yourself, even if Doctor Laclairc said you had a pristine uterus and it just takes longer for some people. 

The noise clattering on his plate caused you to look up, annoyed. Kylian rubbed his temples with his head in his hands, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“What?” You barked. He pursed his lips and shook his head. He was holding back, you could tell. “Just say it, Kylian.”

“What do you want me to say?” He hissed from across that table.

“Whatever you’re not saying right now!”

He takes in a deep breath of air, trying his best to keep his head level. You pointedly stare at him, waiting for something to leave his mouth. He wiped his face with a napkin, tossing it back on the table. “You’re not the only one hurting.” He placed it softly, but you can hear the deep exasperation, emotionally exhausted. It shook you a little, having seen Kylian as a steady rock through all of this. His optimism had carried you through, letting yourself cry in his arms to find comfort. Sure, you knew he felt sad, but he hasn't let you see his devastation in full swing. “Do you think I’m in the mood? I’m not. It’s exhausting.” His eyes were slightly glossy as he expressed himself, voice loud but so unsure. You stare at him, silent. “But, we have to keep trying. I want this. You want this – I know how bad you want this. So, please. Give us a chance.”

His voice was so gentle at the end, emotions soaking every word that left his chest. You dipped your head down, knowing how you'd let your thinned patience steer your words and actions. Kylian never deserved the misguided anger that you let seep through. He’d been nothing but an anchor through these tolling seasons, putting your stability in front of his own.

He gets up out of his chair and slowly walks to yours, kneeling at your side where you sat and stared up at your teary eyes. 

With your hand now taken in his, he places a gentle thumb on your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “It’ll all be worth it.” He confirms, kissing the back of your hand. 

You sniffled, nodding as you turned your body toward him. Your arms wrapped so tightly around his neck and his around your middle. You both breathed in at first contact, some tears falling into the fabric of each other's shirts. The way he grasped you was allconsuming. It was a true embrace that you returned. He just felt like home.

You kiss his cheek, smooching the area until you place one on his lips. Now, holding his face and gazing into him, the strong wall he had built was knocked down. You saw the pain and urgency swirl in his irises. He pecks your lips, letting his hands roam slowly on your back.

You sigh as your lips quivered. All he did was run a thumb over your bottom lip, holding back his own exploding emotions. 

He stood and your eyes followed him now hovering over you, both his hands cradling your face – then the pair of you found yourselves under the covers in your shared bed once more. 

It’s funny. When you first started dating, the infatuation was supernatural. You wondered at the time how you could possibly ever be upset while he had his cock buried inside of you, stare bearing down into your soul with eyes that were made of magma, fingers so curious and ready to please as they got to know the terrain of your body. 

You hadn’t felt the same way about sex in months. It felt like a chore. An obligation demanded by a stupid, inconsequential chime from the app that cost you €2.99 a month. Kylian would have to work himself up half the time and you were just a hole until he filled you up. Aftercare rituals now only consisted of laying still on your back with your feet in the air. An orgasm felt selfish for reasons you couldn’t explain. It’s like you didn’t dare give yourself that primal pleasure because you had convinced your body didn’t deserve it, having failed you over and over again. 

This time, Kylian wanted to wash away the notion that your recent string of bad luck wasn’t caused by one individual or the other. Through his achingly slow actions, he showed you that you weren't just two separate people trying to accomplish a goal; not like when he jerks himself in the bathroom and puts his dick inside of you right before he came. You were together on this. A unified front. Bound to each other for life. 

He praised your weary body, working you up like he used to. Moving at a snail pace, taking his time, dragging his fingers everywhere on your skin. The ‘I love you’’s and the expressions of devotion he mumbled against you flooded your senses. The drag of his member that squeezed against your walls, the inexpressible and constant eye contact, the lost kisses and marks left behind… It was purely and literally making love. He made love to you. You made love to him.

A fortnight passed once more and it was time for your bi-weekly personal hell. Kylian grabbed one of the many pregnancy test boxes from the cabinet in your shared bathroom, opening it for you and setting it next to the toilet – the usual routine. 

He kissed your forehead. “I have a good feeling about this one.” Kylian mentioned with a grin on his face.

“I hate when you say stuff like that.” You mumble walking toward the small toilet room to leave Kylian alone by the his-and-hers sinks. 

He stops you with a hand on your arm. The look on his face was exasperated. “Come on.” He pleads. “Amour, you have to have a little bit of hope. This isn’t how we thought it was going to be like, and I know that. I feel that. But, can you please just… fake it? For me?”

You sigh with a hand on your forehead, then churning out a grin for your husband. “I have a good feeling about this one!” It was a little too enthusiastic. 

He chuckled slightly at how forced your words sounded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “That was a really good try.” Kiss. “And I appreciate the effort.”

You shake your head with a breathy laugh, but the knot in your stomach stays put, even with the tiny little grin that found its way onto your face without permission.

You’d found the easiest and cleanest way to pee on that stick after doing it so many times. It was generally quick and you didn’t find it gross at all anymore. You set the capped test on the back of the toilet seat and grab some toilet paper. When you stood up, you looked into the bowl before flushing, and the knot in your stomach intensified. 

Kylian leaned against the marble with his arms crossed, looking up at you when you opened the door. “I’ll set the timer.”

You pressed your foot on the trash can pedal and threw the plastic stick inside. “Don’t bother.” You mutter, walking back into the bedroom and throwing yourself on the mattress, body turned opposite of Kylian.

He runs a hand over his scalp, feeling the anger simmering at the surface, letting his feet guide him out of the tiled room. He sees you laying on your side, staring at the wall.

“I don’t know what else to say to you!” He cries out, staring at your back as you curl further into the pillow. “We’re both doing our part. Everyone said it would take time. We knew this would take time! Not everything is going to go our way, but we cannot stop trying. I really need you to start believing we can do this. We can!”

“I can’t, Kylian!” You sob, letting yourself breakdown. This anguish was brutal and completely unforgiving. “I can’t do it.” Your words barely make a sound; calling it a squeak would even be generous. 

His heart breaks and it softens him up a little. He didn’t mean to shout, but everything has just been building and building up inside of him. “Hey…” He coos, crawling on the bed over to your side, holding you apprehensively while you cry into your pillow. He pressed you close to his body when he felt the shaking of your weeps, spooning your figure that jolted in tandem with your cries. “Shh, shh… I know it hurts, amour. I know.”

“Something’s wrong with my body, Kylian. I don’t care what Doctor Laclairc said. She got it wrong. I know she did. I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no, bebe. Nothing is wrong with you.” He squeezes you tighter. “Nothing is wrong with your body. Even if we find out that this isn’t part of our journey, I will never stop loving you. Okay?” His assurance only made you turn into him, burying your face in his shirt, leaving a wet stain in your wake. 

You took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself, only succeeding in halting your wails of sadness, but the tears still fell freely. “I just got my period.” You confess, feeling a wave of shame and guilt once more about your failure to conceive. The bloody toilet paper was a haunting image in your mind. Kylian shuts his eyes and just squeezes you, trying his hardest to make you see that it was okay. “I can’t take this anymore, Kylian, I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head, absolutely wrecked by the sight of your broken down persona. He’d catch you staring off into space, a depressing dullness surrounding what used to be an incredibly compelling aura. You were a shell of yourself for months now; going through the motions of daily life with a dark vail behind your eyes, losing interest in the things that used to make you happy. 

He silently cried, but you felt the drops on top of your head. “It’s okay.” He murmurs in a shaky voice. “We can start trying again in the future. Maybe it wasn’t time for us yet.”

You sob again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re okay. We’re okay, amour.”

You continue to cry, Kylian finally allowing his tough-guy front drop in this moment of vulnerability. For better, for worse, in sickness, in health, ‘till death parts you from one anothers soothing embrace, you are together through it all.

The months leading up to that next summer were mundane. You’d found another job after coming to the realization that you weren't cut out to be the cute stay-at-home wife, but instead craved some sort of responsibility of your own. Kylian felt like you shouldn’t even have one because he could easily take care of you. Being married, his money was your money, but it was never about the money for you. You needed to dig yourself out of your depression hole sooner rather than later, and a consistent schedule was sure to be a nice addition to the rebuild of your mental health. Thank god for time off, though. Your bosses were huge Mbappé fans (like huge), and you weren’t past milking that for whenever you needed a couple days. You never took advantage of their generosity, but it was nice to know you could. 

Summer in Paris this year had been nice, but Greece had won your heart. Kylian’s cousin’s destination wedding had been planned on a secluded portion of Corfu. The resort was huge and the pair of you were able to sneak away from your usual work duties for two days to attend. The private jet made for an easy travel plan and really any excuse to use it was sufficient enough. 

The last time you’d seen most of Kylian’s family was a year ago – that night you couldn’t keep it in your pants. You had spiraled when you got to thinking about seeing them again a couple weeks ago, pleading with the gods that none of them asked about you and Ky having children. It’s been a little over five months since you decided to put the thought of babies on the back burner. Closing in on half a year and it is still painful. Mentally, you both were prepared to welcome a bundle of joy. The pregnancy books Kylian had picked up were buried deep in drawers you never thought about opening. You’d finally gotten your sex drive back in these months, having to re-learn to separate the pleasurable act with the tedious work of baby making. 

Sometimes you guys used condoms, sometimes you didn’t. Still, your period came and went like clockwork. You still hadn’t erased that little habit of resenting your shedding uterus every month, but you definitely felt like you were making progress. 

“This is nice.” You compliment the outdoor beachfront venue, walking hand in hand with your husband into the reception. 

He looks around. “Yeah, makes me rethink our wedding.”

You scoff. “Shut up! Our wedding was awesome.”

He laughs. “Relax! Jokes, jokes…” He goofily defends, walking you both over to the open bar and ordering you a drink. “Martini?” He double checks. 

“Please.”

He nods, ordering himself a whiskey coke, leaving the young bartender a tip that made his eyes almost pop out of his head.

For most of the night, you had to keep biting your tongue at the waves of people that came up to Kylian and asked for pictures. Sure, they were nice about it, but he was just trying to enjoy himself – and Kylian didn’t like telling people no. Especially not his cousin's friends. Him being whisked away left you clinging onto Ethans side most of the night, finding that Wilfried and Fayza were preoccupied with spending time with the family they didn’t get to see very often.

But, oh, the wandering eyes of a sixteen year old boy threatened to leave you on your own when he spotted a young girl about his age scrolling on her phone with the most bored look on her face. 

“Ethan, no!” You whined as he brushed his suit of any pieces of lint, ready to get up and greet her. “Don’t leave me, please.”

He laughs. “Dude, you can’t keep a lion in its cage.”

You made a stank face at his bad metaphor. “That doesn't even make sense.”

“Ya-huh.” He enunciated back, typical sibling tone. “Me – Ethan – is the lion. Mystery hot girl,” he points, “a gazelle. You – sister in law– cage.”

You roll your eyes, noting to have a conversation with Kylian about his little brother's ego. “This is a family wedding, Ethan.”

“So?”

“So, what if she’s like a distant cousin.”

He makes a grossed out face. “Why would you say that? She is not my cousin.”

“You don’t know that, little man.”

“Don’t call me little man.”

“Aw, is little man embarrassed?” You coo, teasing grin plastered on your face.

“No, shut up!”

“But, you’re an adorable wittle man.” You baby-talk, reaching over and pinching his cheek. He swats your hand away as you laugh at him.

“Stop!” He stands up and smooths out wrinkles. “I’m taller than your husband.” He reminds you. “Little man, my ass.” He scoffs, giving you the middle finger teasingly and secretively in case his family saw the obscene gesture. You discreetly give one back as he walks toward the girl, a flirty pep in his step while approaching her. 

You sigh to yourself, looking around and noticing that you didn’t actually know where Ky was. Last time you checked, the groomsmen had bombarded him with selfies by the DJ booth while he tried to have a conversion with his great auntie. You grab your martini and get up from the fountain ledge you sat on, a little tipsier than you thought you were. You stopped and looked around for him.

“Cute, right?”

You look to your left to wherever that feminine voice came from. A blonde middle aged woman in a red dress stands next to you holding a glass of champagne. 

“Sorry?” You ask, unsure if she was talking to you or not.

The lady points to a table a few yards away – and there he was. Kylian sat talking to some people, a toddler resting on his lap. He had a huge smile on his face, poking at the little girl's cheek to get her to giggle. You grinned at the sight, loving seeing him so happy.

You turn back to the woman to respond when you look down at her dress. She was pregnant. Very pregnant. She tips back her champagne. “Don’t worry. It’s ginger ale.” You nod at her, chuckling a bit. “Kylian’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

You turn your attention back to him just as the little girl stuck her whole fist in his whiskey, taking a piece of ice and trying to put it in her mouth. You laugh out loud when he frantically tries to pry her little hand open. Successful, he meets your eye and his smile was radiant and full of life, shaking his head. 

“He’s my husband, actually.”

She looks down at the empty martini glass in your hand. “No kids yet.” Her British accent was thick and assertive. 

You shake your head at the stranger and set the empty glass down on the empty table next to you. You felt a little awkward having this conversation with someone you don’t even know the name of. She must be some extended family or the wife of a distant cousin. She seems kind, but you weren’t big on sharing your personal life with anyone you didn't trust, much less know. Especially since you’ve been with Kylian, what you say affects him. He’s in the under bright spotlight and scrutiny of the public, and if you’ve learned anything while being with a global star, it is that some people will stop at nothing to get a story.

The woman tips back the rest of her ginger ale and sets her glass down next to yours. “Are you guys trying?”

She has an audacious look now that she stands in front of you and it makes you feel unsettled. “I’m sorry?”

The lady laughs a little. “I just wondered if you and Kylian planned on starting a family any time soon.”

You couldn’t stop the bewildered look that now took over your features. “Uh…” was all you could really say. You don’t know this woman, she doesn’t know you. It’s a loaded question and frankly quite bold of her to come up to you and ask. “What?”

“Kids.” She repeated, apparently not caring about the uncomfortable shift in mood. 

You opened your mouth, but had no idea what to say. You stuttered and tried to calm down with a forced chuckle. “What did you say your name was?”

She discreetly huffed.“Scheana Kingsley.” 

Definitely familiar, but you just couldn’t place your finger on it. “Right.” 

She waits. “So… any comment?”

“Hello.” Thank god. Fayza. She put a warm hand on your shoulder, perceptive to how tense you looked with this woman. “Scheana.” Fayza sighed. “Laurence is over by the cheese platters.” You loved how politely she just dismissed her.

The Scheana lady forced a smile at her. “Oh. Thank you.” She waved a hand goodbye with a disappointed breath. “Good talking to you.”

Your mother in law turned to you with a much clearer show of annoyance. You laugh lightly in disbelief. “Scheana Kingsley… should I know her?”

“You probably know about her. She writes for some news-gossip-pop-culture magazine.” She informs you. “Well, calling it news is charitable.”

“Unbelievable.” You scoff, crossing your arms at the revelation. “Who let her in here?”

“She’s married to Laurence over there. We try to keep our distance from them.”

From across the patio, Kylian turns his stare at you and his mother talking. You looked annoyed and frustrated, which made him so nervous. He excused himself from the small talk and speed walked over, thinking he might have to diffuse the situation – or maybe even get a scolding from his mother and his wife. God, he really hopes you two weren’t talking about him.

“My beautiful ladies.” He greets, kissing his mothers cheek then yours. “Everything okay?”

You smile at him. “You been having fun?”

“Yeah. Lot’s of fun.” He looks between the two of you. “You two are good, though?”

“Oh, no, we're fine.” You laugh it off.

“I saved your wife here from a conversation with Scheana Kingsley.” Fayza mentioned.

He shakes his head, scoffing a bit. “That woman… She has ambition, that’s for sure.” Now you remember why she sounded so familiar. Kylian had complained about his thrice removed family member’s new girlfriend a few years back and how she was a pushy reporter for The Paris Culture Magazine. “I’m surprised Laurence has kept her around for this long. What’d she say to you?”

They both turned their attention to you, waiting for you to say something. You shrug, but Kylian noticed the trepidation in your stare. “Nothing, really. Just some weird questions… I don't know.”

Thankfully, Fayza didn’t push it further, but you knew Kylian’s assuring hand on your waist meant that he knew something was up. You hadn’t asked Kylian if he’d shared with his parents that you were trying to get pregnant, but you doubted it. You would have noticed her demeanor change around you, given you saw her quite frequently. Besides, he would have checked with you before sharing that information with anybody.

There seemed to be a pattern occurring with you and Kylian leaving family events early, but the two of you were not only exhausted, but just not having a good time. The drunker the bridal party got, the more confident they felt hounding Kylian for selfies and videos. As for your mood, it was in a steady downward spiral ever since your interaction with Scheana. Just locking eyes, you both understood that it was time to surrender back into your suite. 

He held your hand out of the elevator, swinging your arm back and forth. The pair of you had an overly tipsy pep in your step from the drinks you’d forgotten to count through the night.

“You look gorgeous tonight.” He kissed your cheek, a smirk overtaking his face.

You giggle shyly as he unlocks the door to your room, letting you walk in first. You went directly to the bathroom, your bladder begging for some relief. Kylian wandered in to brush his teeth as you turned the shower on, taking your jewelry off as you let the water warm up. 

Kylian looked at your reflection in the mirror, shirt buttons completely undone. You were dazed. Quiet. He hated that look. He’d seen it take over you for months and finally, you were getting better. 

He spit the toothpaste in the sink. “What’s wrong, bébé?”

“Huh? Oh. Nothing. I’m fine.” You turn your back to him. “Will you unzip me?”

He turns, slowly pulling the tiny zipper all the way down. He kissed the skin where your neck met your shoulder. “Did Scheana say something to make you upset?”

You shrug, taking the dress off and neatly hanging it on the towel rack. “She couldn’t have known. I don’t think she meant any harm.” You hop in the shower, shutting the foggy glass door and let the hot water run over you.

Kylians blurry figure leaned against the other side to continue talking to you. “What’d she say?”

“Just asking questions.”

“About?”

A big sigh leaves you. “Us, I guess.” Kylian listens, knowing you have more to say but are just keeping it bottled up. There was always a clear guide of communication between you two, especially because you were really good at letting things eat you up from the inside. You fiddle with your wet hair and Kylians frame behind the foggy glass stayed put. “She just… It was just weird. She wanted to know if we had plans to have kids anytime soon.” You chuckled, hiding your dejection with the sound. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s not okay.” He indicates. “I’m sorry she badgered you tonight, cherie. She crossed a line.” He sounded a little angry.

“Don’t worry about it, baby. It’s fine.” He opens the shower door, causing you to jolt a little. He steps in, raking his eyes over your naked wet body quickly, and you his. “Yeah, sure, you can join me.” You joke as he reaches for the soap bar.

“It’s not fine.” He discards your dismissiveness, rubbing your shoulders with the foam. “I’m gonna talk to Laurence about that.”

You melt into his touch. “No, really, you don’t have to–”

“I’m going to.” He whispers, kissing your cheek. “No one makes my wife upset and gets away with it.” His hands roamed down your arms. “My hot wife.” His breath tickled your ear. “My sexy wife.” He presses his body to yours, nudging your cheek with his nose until you turn your face, kissing you feverishly. 

You hum involuntarily into his mouth when his tongue decides to poke its way in, hand now feeling you up, tits squished between his fingers.

“Someone’s eager.” You laugh as he forces you to turn around, the hot water beating your back. 

He bites the side of your neck dramatically and you laugh harder, pushing him away playfully – but he pulls you back into his chest, smiling dotingly with you safe between his arms.

“You wanna?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

You made a pensive face, pretending to really think about it. “I could be convinced.”

“Yeah?” 

“Maybe.” You smirk as he bites his grinning lips, hands lowering and squeezing your ass harshly. 

“Do you know how hot you looked in your dress tonight?” He continued feeling you up, dick pressed against your thigh, slowly getting harder by the second. “I swear, I was so close to sneaking off to some empty part of the beach and bending you over. Driving me crazy.”

Your hands ran down the rigid muscles on his chest, feeling electric under his burning stare, hot at the thought of him fucking you out of impulse. “Do I make you feel all hot and bothered?” You ask, his stare is so dark. So needy. You lean in only a little, teasing a kiss on his lips, but never truly meeting their plush touch. “Do you start thinking about what you would do to me? Thinking about touching me? Fucking me?” He growls at your words, tilting his face forward to try and steal a kiss. “Show me.”

He grips the flesh of your ass and pulls you even closer to him, frantically showing you his desire for you with a hungry kiss. Your arms wrap around his neck and he moves his hands upward and begins pawing at your exposed breasts. The steaming water dripping down your entwined bodies made everything slick, slippery, conditions that caused you both to grip to each other's bodies for security.

You reach a hand down and grab his growing cock, pumping it loosely, trying to get him fully erect. A moan vibrates out of his throat as your movements focus on his sensitive tip, thumbing the slit, feeling him grow and stiffen in the palm of your hand.

You kiss down his neck, then move to whisper to him, sultry as ever. “Am I doing something like this when you fantasize?”

He nods under your spell, eyes drooping in pure lust. “Uh-huh. Just like that.”

Gaining control over him, you waddle your bodies back until his back hits the wall. He shivers at the cold tile in the steamy shower, but forgets all memories of the chill when you kiss down his neck, lowering your body on your knees, hands trailing down so slowly, mouth inches from his swinging member. His hips jut forward and it hits your cheek. You follow it with your mouth, letting it graze your lips in passing. The blinking stare and batting lashes almost drew blood on his lower lip from how hard he bit it. 

“Open up, ange.” Angel, he called you, but you were so sinful. On his knees in front of him. Droplets reflecting off your skin from the harsh light. His eyes felt undeserving of seeing you so ready to praise him. It made him feel so mortal, so lucky. He thanked the higher power that brought you to him, feeling an intense desire to take care of you – tend to your every wish.

You took hold of him with a sure fist, darting your tongue out and licking one long strip from his base to his mushroom head, letting your lips wrap around him and sucking to hear his moan. His face scrunched. His skull lulled into the wall.

You took him in your mouth a little over halfway, moving your mouth in tandem with your hand, enjoying the way his cock nudged against the back of your throat continuously to your rhythm.

“Oui, dieu.” God, yes. He fisted the back of your sopping wet hair, pulling you off of him and forcing you to look up at him. “Touch yourself for me, baby.”

You shut your mouth and swallowed harshly. He ran his thumb against your lips, hooking it on your bottom row of teeth, opening you up once more. Your tongue licked the pad of his finger, dipping your hand between your legs and quickly finding your clit. Your brows furrowed and your eyes widened. As the moan slipped from your throat, he placed your face directly back to his throbbing cock. Now, he had control of your movements, using your hair as a handle for his intentions, guiding your mouth up and down his shaft in quick movements. You gagged when he began thrusting concurrently to the tempo he stuffed you into his pelvis, heavy heaves and grunts erupting from his chest.

You gargled and gagged on your own spit and moans of pleasure from your own fingers, tasting the salty precum that dripped from your chin as you harshly sucked off your loving husband. You kept your vision from squinting together as you met his eyes through teary eyelashes. He fucked your face like you hadn’t had sex in years, rough with his actions and getting off on the way you were taking it. 

His dick disappeared inside your mouth swiftly and urgently until he couldn't resist. He stopped thrusting, looking deep into your eyes – mouth still stuffed with him. He pushed his hand, demanding you take every inch of him down your open throat. You choked on him, the muffle of your gagging making him see stars.

You hit his thigh after a few seconds and he pulled his hand away. You gasped for air, noticing for the first time how sore your knees were against the hard tile. He let out a long hiss at the loss of your mouth, watching through heavy blinks as you sat against the opposite wall in the small area – knees red and patterned with the lines from the floor. Your chest moved with your big breaths, smiling and commending yourself for the avidity in Kylian’s eyes. 

With your knees pulled to your chest, you slowly opened your legs, fingers playing with yourself as you made a show of how good you were making yourself feel. His pupils dilated at the way you ran your free hand across your thigh then up your chest, pitching a pulling your nipple with your lip tucked between your teeth. 

He whined – a desperate noise that came up naturally. He reached down to touch himself to the sight of you, pumping a slow fist against himself. His long strokes teased his tip until he shuddered, eye contact non-negotiable. You couldn’t look away if you tried. Your swirling moans echoed in the small chamber – his eyes glued to the way your own fingers stretched and spread your pussy. Your own were attentive to the tug at the nape of his base. Though, you both looked up at the same time, hypnotized by your partners mutual ogling. He steps forward, hand still on himself. You reach for his hand and he helps you up, immediately pulling you by the small of your back into his lips, tongue lapping yours, absolutely famished. 

He had clocked the little ledge in the corner from the second he walked into the intimate shower. He put his hand out behind you so the edge wouldn't hurt you, then used his strength to hoist your slippery skin up onto it. He placed himself between your legs, your back pressed to the wall, the shelf only fitting half of your rear — but it was the perfect height for him to fuck you like he wanted to. 

He lined himself up quickly and desperately spreading your pussy wide open for him, pushing in and dragging out. One long moan came straight from your throat, clinging onto his neck to keep yourself in that same position. 

“Fuck.” He grumbled. “You feel so good.” His pace was deadly, tip poking and poking that spot. It made your eyes cross, resting your damp head on the wall. “Been wanting to do this all night. Merde. Les choses que tu me fais, tu me rends fou.” Shit. The things you do to me. You make me fucking crazy.

You moaned in response, too focused on the way his neatly trimmed pelvis rubbed against your clit every time he pushed inside of you. It felt euphoric. Magical. Goddamn perfect. The only words you could muster out made him giggle through his heaves. “Please don’t slip.”

Your arm knocked over a few shampoo bottles when he buried himself deeply inside of you and stopped – making you borderline scream from how deep he actually was, and this position made everything feel… more.

He groaned so loudly, his mouth in the shape of an ‘O’, and you understood why when you felt him cumming inside of you, hot spurts surely dripping out. You didn't notice him biting your forearm until he let go of it, keeping his mouth against you before turning to look into your eyes. A slightly apologetic look turned cocky when one hand reached for your sensitive nub, rubbing just the way you like it, still inside of you.

“Oh, shit…” You breathed, eyes connected to the way he pleased you. “I’m fucking close.”

“Vulgar tonight, are we?” He teased your language, a tired smirk on his face.

“You just…” you begin, but he shuts you up with a small unprecedented thrust. “Fuck!”

He hisses, not really being able to take the overstimulation, but continuing to push into you sporadically – purly for your pleasure. Thankfully, it didn’t take you long to reach your climax. 

He didn’t need the warning upon feeling your legs give out slightly, pressing against you to keep you on the shelf. They started shaking as your eyes closed, a fierce moan exploding from your wet parted lips. He moved his hips with a contorted face until he felt you calm down, now whining and whispering to the touch of his fingers as they slowed down, pressing down harder on you before disappearing altogether. 

You pat his back lazily and he pulled out of you carefully, setting your wobbly legs on the slippery floor. You’d completely forgotten the shower was on as you watched it drain down. Kylian held your waist steadily, both breathing heavy. He lands two gentle taps on your bum. “Let's not waste anymore water, yeah?” 

The vacation, though brief, was absolutely refreshing. It gave time that you and Kylian needed to feel closer. The offseason couldn’t come soon enough. You didn’t have to revolve around his schedule during those weeks because he was just home already. To you, there was nothing better than coming downstairs at 2pm on a Tuesday and seeing Ky there, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle, or being able to binge a series with him much quicker because he had time for more than just two episodes. By all means, being married to him shouldn’t be easy, and it’s not necessarily that simple… but it should be way harder. Maybe you were just more patient, but you’re almost certain it has everything to do with him. He made time. He made an effort. He tries his damn hardest. How could you possibly hold that against him?

You didn’t notice the way you were staring at him, chin in the palm of your hand, daydreaming about your entire history with Kylian Mbappé – a man with no time to spare, but he damn well made sure you fit in his schedule. 

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He grins, setting down his coffee across the table from you in your shared Parisian home. 

You blink, smiling in embarrassment. “No reason.”

You push some eggs around on your plate. He leans forward. “What were you thinking about?”

You shrug at him, still smiling. “Greece.”

His laugh gave away his fondest memory of that trip. “We gotta do that trip again soon, amour.”

“Yeah, like they’d give you that kind of time off twice within two months.”

His head shakes, snickering at that complete impossibility. “I think they’d send me a fee for even asking.” He looks at the time on his phone. “I should probably get going, though.” He gets up and collects his things.

“Drink lots of water today, okay? It’s supposed to get really hot around noon.”

“Yes, dear.” He drones jokingly, smirking as he makes his way over to you, pecking you quickly. “Love you.”

You squeeze his hand quickly. “Love you, too.”

Now, your separate days begin – his a little earlier than yours, but you still just wanted to envelope yourself back inside the covers. You were thinking about calling out sick, which wouldn't be a complete lie. The scrambled eggs were not sitting right this morning, or maybe it was the Thai restaurant you ate at last night. Either way, you couldn’t remember where you put the Pepto-bismol. The empty space in the medicine cabinet left you wondering if Kylian had drunk up the last bit and hadn’t bought a new one yet.

You maintain your breathing steady to keep yourself from throwing up as you shuffle through the drawers. Praying it was in the last one, you pull it open desperately, but only facing three boxes of pregnancy tests. The rush of everything fell still, the air much quieter as you got flashbacks from last year.

You didn’t let yourself think about it much, but you never really got over not getting pregnant. Mentally and emotionally, you were still there. The pain and devastation got easier to mask, but they stayed with you.

It was time you got over it, or at least lost the fear of not being able to have children... the fear of not being able to provide Kylian with a child. If you kept on being bitter about this whole ordeal, you don't know if you'd ever be in the right headspace to try for a baby ever again.

You stare at the tests and shake your head. “Fuck it.” 

You snatch one from the drawer and beeline to the bathroom, peeing on the stick and thinking about how dumb it was that you had let this trivial little test ruin your for months. This time, you wouldn’t feel the dread collect inside your stomach. It would be okay. It wouldn’t hold power over you anymore.

Immediately walking out, you press down on the pedal of the trashcan and you watch it fall into the bin, feeling proud of yourself for not caring about that little plastic stick or what it had to say about your body. You weren't pregnant right now… and that's okay. 

You sigh, a proud feeling swirling with sadness was still progress. 

“Oh, no.” You mumble, feeling your stomach churn and running back toward the toilet, puking horrifically. It was a bad one. Maybe calling out sick was for the best. Who knows, it could be a stomach bug and contagious… but, unfortunately, you felt a lot better afterwards. 

It was probably best if you went to work. There’s a promotion you’ve been chasing and you had just taken those days off for the wedding last month. Trudingly, you got ready to leave the house, rushing a bit since you hadn't realized how late in the morning it was. 

Thank god you went. It was a hectic day; some project deadline wasn’t met and, for some reason, people turned to you for the solution. You were still relatively new at the company, but today, you really felt like you were doing something right. You left the office with a pat on the back from your big boss. That felt amazing. Kickin’ ass and taking names.

You were late coming home, texting Ky to let him know that you wouldn't be there when he got back. He texted back a simple:

Ky: :(

To which you responded with:

You: Bad day?

Ky: Just miss you. You were on my mind a lot today

You frown while walking to your car, wanting to get home quickly and hug him tightly.

You: Baby :( I’m on my way home now. 

You: I have a big kiss just for you <3

The second you walked through the door about half an hour later, Kylian embraced you tightly, taking you by surprise but you easily fell into his arms. You could feel his stress radiating from his body as he followed at your foot around the house. He was quiet in asking if you wanted to take a shower, but his eyes were loud in telling you he just needed to be close to you tonight. 

It was an innocent shower, his silent begging for a back rub and skin-to-skin contact was obvious as he kept his hand warmly on you at all times.

“You okay, hun?” You ask gently, tracing the frown line between his eyebrows after turning the water off.

He nods, eyes sleepy even though it was only eight o'clock at night. “Have you eaten?” He changes the topic, opening the shower door and wrapping you in a towel.

You shrug. “I haven't really been hungry today.” Ever since you threw up this morning, the thought of eating made you grimace. “Did you feel weird after last night's Thai?”

“I felt fine. Why? Is your stomach bothering you?”

You shake your head no as you shuffle through your drawers. “Just a little queasy this morning.”

You both get dressed quickly and lazily, surprised at how early you were deciding to turn in. Kylian was quite a bit needy tonight, pawing and tugging you close to him while he put on Pretty Little Liars… He would deny it to anyone, but he was obsessed with that show. 

“What the hell is she wearing?” He tusks at the screen, apparently not approving of Spencer's outfit for the Prom. 

You giggle into his chest, shaking your head slightly. “I’m gonna go pee.” You pat his bare chest and leave his side, hopping over to the ensuite. 

You wanted to be quick about it, your feet cold from the chilly tile and lack of socks. Kylian had opened a new toothpaste packet and left the empty box on the counter. You roll your eyes. He’s notorious for leaving things that should be trash anywhere but the trash can – an unfortunate side effect of having someone pick up after you as a professional athlete. You bitterly grab the cardboard box and press your foot down on the petal of the trashcan, but freeze when you spot the pregnancy test you took that morning. You wanted to look at it.

Is it worth looking at it? You hadn't even thought about it all day, which is a huge step for you. Only a few months ago, you would have been debilitated at work – and you sure as hell wouldn't have been able to step up like you did. You would have been crying quietly in your cubicle, taking far too many bathroom breaks. 

But… it was winking at you. Calling your name. Taunting you face down in the plastic liner. 

With a gulp and a deep breath in, you shook your head disapprovingly at yourself. It’s gonna be negative, you think, preparing yourself for disappointment as you fish it out of the bin. You gave a deep sigh before letting your eyes trail down to your hand where the thing burned a hole on your skin. 

The gasp that came from your mouth was severe, loud, alarming. 

Two lines. Pregnant. 

“Oh my god.” You mumble, much too quietly for Kylain to hear you behind the closed door. You begin laughing as it settles in what you’re seeing. “Oh my god! Kylian!” You desperately call. “Kylian!”

“What happened?” Kylian shoots out from under the covers and your current brain functions were a little crossed as you gaped at the test. The positive test. “Babe?” He comes into the bathroom with a furrowed and concerned look. “Are you okay?”

You respond with a look he was unfamiliar with. Immediately noticing the tears that had collected on your lash line, he reached for you. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him, seeing him for the first time as the father of the child inside your stomach. “Kylain.” He had never heard his name come from your lips with as much affection as it did right now.

He gladly took the hug you attacked him with, but the mood inside the bathroom was a little bewildering. 

“What’s going on, amour?” He coos, but you can only sob joyfully into his shoulder, holding the test behind his back as you embrace him – staring at the double lines like it would suddenly turn in one and you'd realize that this was never real. But it was. The results were right there in the palm of your hand. He mistook your cries for sadness, placing an assuring hand on the back of your head. “Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice was so soft.

“I love you so much.” You smile, pulling back and planting a long, wet kiss on his unexpecting lips. 

He’s so confused. “I love you too…” He raises an eyebrow when your hand meets his, an object placed in his palm. “What is this?” He asks before looking at it.

It takes a second for it to process, and you find yourself wishing you had a photographic memory, wanting to see his first face of realization again and again for the rest of your life. His eyes might as well have fallen out of his head with how wide his eyes went. 

“Wha…” He stutters, completely transfixed on the test. “Is this real?!” He finally looks at you, excitement would be the biggest understatement of the century.

“Of course it is.” You squeak, still clinging onto your husband as you both look at the stick. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m pregnant.” You both take a big breath in, crying simultaneously, absolutely elated. 

Kylian stares at the stick with a squinty and wrinkly smile before he looks at you — eyes tender and grateful. He drops the stick in the sink basin, grabbing your face with his two large hands, forehead pressed to yours to let the moment really register. He kisses you as best he could with the smile that engulfed his features, wrapping you up in his arms, truly holding you. 

“I love you.” He whispers from his chest, an earth shattering smile finding a permanent home on his face. “We’re having a baby.”

A/N: Okay, I don't hate it, but it's not my fav. It's finals in uni and I'm a wee bit preoccupied with those responsibilities. Still though, I think I had some good parts in here! It's mostly just the ending that's bugging me. Also, I know nothing about pregnancies and all that jazz so this is pure Google info so I apologize for any inaccuracies!

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[horeformilfs]

Little Crow

Mother Miranda X Fem! Reader

TW: Near Death, Experimentation, Panic Attack, Nightmare, Manipulation

------------------------------------------

The biting cold of winter gnawed at Y/n's consciousness as she lay on the brink of death. A veil of darkness enveloped her, and the frigid wind whispered it's icy lullaby. In the stillness of the night, Mother Miranda discovered Y/n, a fragile soul on the edge of oblivion. The woman, shrouded in mystery, cradled the unconscious figure and spirited her away to the eerie confines of her hidden laboratory.

When Y/n awoke, the sterile scent of antiseptic assaulted her senses. Confusion etched across her face as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Mother Miranda loomed over her, a haunting silhouette against the backdrop of medical equipment and arcane symbols. The ethereal figure explained how she had saved Y/n from the clutches of death.

With a furrowed brow, Y/n questioned the circumstances surrounding her rescue, seeking answers in the eyes of Mother Miranda. "Where am I? What happened?" she inquired, her voice a fragile echo in the sterile air.

The cryptic woman revealed the truth, stripping away the illusion of benevolence. "You were on the brink of demise. I saved you. You are in my domain now," Miranda declared with a dispassionate certainty that sent shivers down Y/n's spine.

A chill settled in Y/n's heart as she asked when she would be able to leave. The response was cold and unyielding. "Never," Miranda stated, her voice echoing through the sterile room.

Confused and indignant, Y/n protested, "Why? I didn't ask for your help, and I certainly didn't agree to be your prisoner!"

A smirk played upon Miranda's lips as she revealed her true intentions. "You are mine now. A subject for my experiments. Your destiny is entwined with mine," she asserted, her words a haunting melody that reverberated through the room.

Y/n recoiled, defiance in her eyes. "I am not some property for you to claim! You can't just take me and do as you please!"

Miranda's smirk deepened, and her eyes gleamed with an unsettling confidence. "That's where you're wrong, my dear. In this domain, you are nothing but mine to control and use. Welcome to your new reality."

Days melded into a nightmarish blur as Miranda's relentless experiments continued to unfold upon Y/n. The sterile walls of the laboratory bore witness to the suffering etched across Y/n's face. In a desperate attempt to grasp the reasons behind her torment, Y/n mustered the strength to question Miranda.

"Why me?" Y/n's voice trembled, a plea for answers in the midst of agony.

Miranda responded with cryptic prose that offered no solace. "The tapestry of fate is woven with threads of sacrifice. You are but a pawn in a grand design," she murmured, her gaze fixated on the swirling concoctions in her hands.

A cold shiver ran down Y/n's spine as Miranda injected her with a sedative, the world fading into a hazy dreamscape. As Y/n fought the impending pull of unconsciousness, she struggled to voice her questions, each attempt drowned in the intoxicating numbness.

The next awakening brought little respite. Y/n found herself lying on the sterile bed once more, Miranda meticulously recording notes from the latest experiment. Desperation clawed at Y/n's chest as she summoned the strength to speak once more.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Y/n's words wavered, the echo of her plea lingering in the sterile air.

Miranda glanced at her with an indifferent gaze before resuming her work, the answer elusive as ever. Y/n, tired of the ceaseless torment, reached the precipice of despair. In a voice laced with weariness, she begged, "If I can't leave, if there's no escape from this nightmare, just end it. Kill me and free me from this agony."

A chilling silence enveloped the room as Miranda paused, her expression unreadable. The weight of Y/n's plea lingered, the room suffused with an unsettling tension, as if the very air held its breath, awaiting a response from the mistress of this macabre domain.

Y/n's eyes fluttered open once more, the stark reality of her captivity settling like a heavy shroud. In a desperate attempt to break free from this nightmare, she pleaded with Miranda once again, her voice tinged with both desperation and frustration.

"Please, Miranda, let me go. I beg you. I can't take this any longer," Y/n implored, her eyes searching for a hint of mercy in Miranda's gaze.

But Miranda, unmoved by the plea, shook her head. "You are destined for something greater, my dear. I won't let you go," she declared with an air of finality.

Confusion and fear gripped Y/n as she questioned, "Destined for what? Why won't you just tell me the truth?"

Miranda, ever cryptic, revealed her grand design. "You will be the fifth lord of the village, ruling over your own domain. The cadou will be implanted within you, granting you unimaginable power," she explained, a twisted sense of pride in her proclamation.

Y/n recoiled at the revelation, a surge of defiance rising within her. "I won't be part of your twisted plans! I won't let you turn me into some monster!" she protested, her voice laced with determination.

Miranda's gaze remained unyielding. "As long as you don't succumb to the lycan transformation, you shall rule over your domain with power and influence," she stated, as if sealing Y/n's fate with the utterance of those words.

Despite Y/n's fervent resistance, Miranda stood firm, her decision unwavering. "The procedure will take place tomorrow evening. The other lords will bear witness to your ascension," Miranda declared, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

The weight of impending doom settled upon Y/n's shoulders, the realization that escape was futile. The once-vivid hope for freedom now flickered, threatened by the encroaching darkness of Miranda's ambitions. Tomorrow would unveil a twisted destiny, and Y/n could only brace herself for the unknown horrors that awaited

The night of the ominous procedure descended, casting a shadow over Y/n's fragile hope. Miranda led her to a dimly lit chamber, where the other lords awaited—Alcina Dimitrescu, Donna Beneviento, Karl Heisenberg, and Salvatore Moreau. Their presence intensified the air of dread that hung over the room.

Alcina, statuesque and commanding, fixated her gaze on Y/n, a predatory glint in her eyes. Before the procedure began, she approached with an air of casual flirtation, causing Miranda's envious ire to flare.

"Well, well, Miranda, you've found quite the interesting specimen," Alcina purred, her gaze lingering on Y/n. "Quite a pity to subject such beauty to your experiments."

Miranda, barely containing her jealousy, shot Alcina a warning glance before dragging Y/n toward the cold, metallic operating table. The restraints clamped around Y/n's limbs, rendering her immobile as Miranda prepared for the procedure.

In a hushed tone, Miranda informed Y/n, "I won't sedate you. The pain will be excruciating, you may pass out if it becomes too much. Do try to endure it."

Terror etched across Y/n's face as she pleaded, "Please, Miranda, don't do this! I beg you!"

Ignoring her pleas, Miranda proceeded with the surgery. Y/n's back lay exposed as Miranda carefully opened it, revealing the vulnerability of her spine. The cadou, an otherworldly entity, awaited its integration.

As the cadou attached itself to Y/n's spinal cord, an indescribable pain erupted through her body. Each invasive touch sent waves of agony coursing through her, and the room spun in a disorienting blur. Y/n's cries of anguish filled the chamber, the torment escalating with each passing moment.

Alcina observed with detached interest, a smirk playing on her lips. "Fascinating, isn't it?" she remarked, her tone betraying a hint of sadistic pleasure.

Y/n, on the brink of unconsciousness, gasped for breath between tortured sobs. "Please, make it stop!" she begged, her plea lost in the sea of agony.

The room echoed with the unsettling sounds of the unholy procedure, and as Y/n succumbed to the unbearable pain, the darkness claimed her consciousness, leaving her at the mercy of Miranda's experiments.

As the procedure unfolded, Y/n's body underwent a miraculous transformation. The wound on her back healed before their eyes, revealing the regenerative capabilities bestowed upon her by the cadou. Satisfied with the apparent success, Miranda covered Y/n with a blanket and gently laid her on her back, allowing her to rest while she conferred with the other lords.

As Miranda engaged in conversation with the remaining lords, Alcina couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that something was amiss. Her sharp instincts led her back to Y/n's side. The sight of her serene form beneath the blanket belied the turmoil within.

A few minutes passed, and Alcina's suspicion deepened. She leaned in to examine Y/n more closely, her hand gently brushing against Y/n's forehead. Alarmed, she realized that Y/n was burning up with a fever.

"Something's not right," Alcina muttered to herself, her concern deepening as Y/n began to stir.

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused and delirious. In a weak voice, she mumbled, "Am I dying?"

Alcina, kneeling beside her, brushed the hair from Y/n's face with a soft touch. "No, my dear. You're going to be okay," she reassured, trying to offer comfort amidst the uncertainty.

The three other lords had departed, leaving Alcina alone with the ailing Y/n. Concern etched across her elegant features, Alcina made her way to Mother Miranda to share her discovery.

"There's something wrong with your experiment. The girl has a fever, and she seems... weakened," Alcina stated, her gaze unwavering.

Miranda, initially dismissive, turned her attention to Alcina. "It's merely a side effect. The transformation is taxing on the body. She will recover," she asserted, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

Alcina, not entirely convinced, kept a watchful eye on Y/n, determined to uncover the mystery shrouding the girl's newfound existence in the village of shadows.

An hour passed, and Alcina vigilantly watched over the delirious Y/n as Miranda continued her cleanup and note-taking from the procedure. The room, once filled with the unsettling sounds of experimentation, now echoed with an uneasy silence.

Y/n stirred once more, her eyes clouded with confusion and her words a desperate murmur. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." she repeated, the weight of remorse heavy in her delirium.

Alcina, attempting to make sense of the apologies, leaned in to question Y/n. "Sorry for what, my dear? What troubles you?" she inquired, her concern etched across her regal features.

Before Y/n could respond, a sudden and violent seizure gripped her, her eyes rolling back, and her body convulsing. Alcina reacted swiftly, rushing to Mother Miranda to alert her to the dire situation.

Initially skeptical, Miranda tried to dismiss Alcina's concerns, but as the severity became evident, her cold exterior cracked. Panic flashed in Miranda's eyes as she rushed to Y/n's side, abandoning her usual composure. "What is happening?" Miranda demanded, urgency replacing her usual stoicism.

Alcina, maintaining her calm, swiftly procured a sedative and a needle, handing them to Miranda. "She's having a seizure. We need to sedate her," Alcina asserted, her eyes locked on Y/n's convulsing form.

Miranda, finally acknowledging the gravity of the situation, nodded and carefully dosed the sedative before injecting it into Y/n's arm. The seizure subsided, leaving Y/n disoriented, her gaze searching for something to anchor her faltering consciousness.

Miranda, an uncharacteristic gentleness in her touch, carded her hand through Y/n's hair, trying to comfort the distressed soul. "It's alright. You're going to be okay," Miranda murmured, her usual air of authority replaced by genuine concern.

Y/n, still caught in the throes of delirium, continued to murmur apologies, her voice fading as the sedative took effect. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..." she whispered before succumbing to the soothing embrace of unconsciousness, leaving Miranda and Alcina to grapple with the uncertainties of her tortured existence.

Y/n lay in peaceful slumber in a quiet room, the traces of the recent ordeal evident on her exhausted form. Meanwhile, Miranda and Alcina retreated to a dimly lit corner to discuss the unsettling events that had unfolded.

Alcina, her piercing gaze fixed on Miranda, couldn't resist probing the woman about her unexpected display of gentleness. "I never took you for a caretaker, Miranda. What is it about this girl that softened your resolve?" Alcina's tone held a curious edge, her eyes searching for the cracks in Miranda's composed facade.

Miranda, initially dismissive, tried to deflect the question. "It's merely practical. She's a valuable asset, and her well-being is crucial for the success of my experiments."

Alcina, undeterred, continued to press. "Practicality, Miranda? I've seen you deal with subjects before, but I've never seen you show such concern. What's different this time?"

Miranda's gaze drifted towards the sleeping Y/n, a subtle smile gracing her features. Alcina, noticing the uncharacteristic expression, couldn't help but smirk knowingly. "Ah, Miranda, it seems you've developed a soft spot for the girl. How intriguing."

Rolling her eyes, Miranda attempted to maintain her stoic composure. "Don't be absurd, Alcina. I have no sentimental attachments."

But Alcina persisted, her smirk widening. "Oh, spare me. I can see it in your eyes. There's more to this than practicality. Admit it, Miranda, there are feelings involved."

Miranda's stern facade wavered, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her features. She glanced back at Y/n, still peacefully asleep, and finally conceded, "Fine, there might be... something. But it's irrelevant. She's a means to an end."

Alcina, satisfied with her victory, chuckled softly. "Love can be a powerful force, Miranda. Don't underestimate its influence, especially in these peculiar circumstances."

Miranda shot Alcina a warning glare, but a hint of uncertainty lingered in her eyes. As they continued to observe the slumbering Y/n, the room held an air of unspoken complexity, leaving the emotions between them shrouded in the village's lingering shadows.

Days passed, and Y/n's recovery unfolded slowly. The room, once filled with the tense atmosphere of experiments, now echoed with the soft sounds of her mending breaths. Miranda and Alcina, though each harboring their own thoughts, found themselves drawn back to the side of the convalescent.

Y/n, still in the embrace of healing dreams, remained oblivious to the silent conversations that transpired between Miranda and Alcina. The air hung thick in the room, as both women navigated the uncharted waters of emotions they were reluctant to acknowledge.

Miranda, ever the stoic figure, observed Y/n with a mix of clinical interest and an unfamiliar tenderness. Alcina, however, couldn't resist the opportunity to tease the usually unyielding Mother Miranda. "I must say, Miranda, you're becoming quite the caregiver. Who would have thought?"

Miranda shot Alcina a withering glance. "This changes nothing. She's still a tool, a means to an end," she asserted, though the conviction in her voice wavered.

Alcina, undeterred, circled the topic like a predator circling its prey. "And yet, you smile when you look at her. I never thought I'd see the day when Mother Miranda, the cold and calculating, would show such vulnerability."

Miranda's gaze flickered towards Y/n, who stirred in her sleep. The small smile that graced Miranda's lips went unnoticed by her, but not by the persistent Alcina.

"I wonder, Miranda, are you starting to care for her in a way that goes beyond your experiments?" Alcina's voice held a teasing lilt, testing the boundaries of Miranda's carefully guarded emotions.

Miranda sighed, her defenses momentarily crumbling. "Feelings have no place in my work. This is merely an unexpected complication."

Alcina, satisfied with her playful interrogation, leaned against the wall. "Time will tell, Miranda. Sometimes the unexpected can lead to the most intriguing developments."

As the room returned to its hushed stillness, the unresolved tension lingered in the air. Miranda, with a final glance at the resting Y/n, left the room, her thoughts trailing in her wake. The delicate dance of emotions within the village of shadows continued, shrouded in mysteries that even the formidable Mother Miranda couldn't fully unravel.

Y/n awakened in an unfamiliar bedroom, the soft glow of an early dawn filtering through the curtains. The room felt both foreign and oddly comforting. Wrapping a blanket around herself, she ventured further into the unfamiliar space. The mirror above the dresser caught her eye, and as she glanced into it, a shiver ran down her spine. Staring back at her were piercing yellow eyes, a stark contrast to the familiar gaze she once knew. 

A sense of disquiet settled in her chest as Y/n made her way through the house. The walls adorned with paintings told tales of a history she couldn't quite grasp. As she ascended a staircase, she found herself drawn to the dim light seeping through a partially open door. Pushing the door open, Y/n discovered a room bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. Books lined shelves, creating a haven for knowledge. It was a library, a vast collection of forgotten stories and untold secrets. 

As Y/n continued to explore the depths of the library, she stumbled upon an unexpected sight. There, on a cozy couch, sat Mother Miranda, appearing surprisingly domestic. The ambient light revealed the striking features that had been concealed by the formidable facade—piercing blue eyes, defined cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and long, flowing blonde hair. Y/n found herself momentarily captivated by the unexpected beauty of the woman. 

Lost in her observations, Y/n failed to notice Miranda rising from the couch and silently approaching. The sudden presence startled her, and Y/n turned to find Miranda standing before her. With a teasing smirk, Miranda directed Y/n's face up by her chin, forcing her to meet those intense blue eyes. 

"Well, little crow, did you enjoy the view?" Miranda's voice dripped with amusement as her fingers traced lightly along Y/n's jawline and down her neck. Y/n's breath hitched, the unexpected intimacy causing a blush to creep across her cheeks. 

Miranda, reveling in the effect, continued to tease. "You seem quite taken by the beauty that's been right in front of you all along. Did you think I was only capable of cruelty?" 

Y/n stammered, attempting to regain composure. "I... I just didn't expect to see you like this." 

Miranda chuckled, the sultry sound echoing in the library. "Expectations can be deceiving, little crow. There's more to me than meets the eye." 

The teasing continued as Miranda leaned in, her lips grazing Y/n's ear. "You know, little crow, you're quite enchanting when you're flustered. It's a sight to behold." 

Y/n, now thoroughly flustered, turned away, attempting to hide her embarrassment. Miranda's sultry chuckle filled the air, and she whispered something that made Y/n's blush deepen. 

"Such a delicate little thing, aren't you? Easily rattled." Miranda's voice was a sultry purr as she continued to playfully torment Y/n. "But there's a certain allure in vulnerability, don't you think?" 

As the teasing dance between them unfolded, the library became a stage for the interplay of emotions, leaving Y/n caught in the intricate web that Mother Miranda seemed to delight in weaving.

Y/n, still slightly flustered from Miranda's teasing, attempted to regain her composure. Clearing her throat, she decided to address the pressing matter at hand. "Mother Miranda, can you please explain what happened during the experiment? I need to understand."

Miranda, with an air of mystery, simply responded, "All in good time, little crow. Right now, you should focus on resting." Her tone left no room for negotiation, and Y/n, unaware of her own fatigue, reluctantly agreed to heed Miranda's advice.

Guiding Y/n back to the room she had awakened in, Miranda spoke softly, "You'll find everything you need in here. Rest well. I'm just across the hall if you require anything."

As Miranda bid her goodnight, Y/n couldn't shake the sense of vulnerability that lingered between them. A step forward from Miranda closed the distance, and Y/n instinctively took a step back, her back meeting the door. A question caught in her throat, silenced by the unexpected proximity.

With a tenderness that contradicted her usual demeanor, Miranda placed a gentle kiss on the corner of Y/n's mouth. "Goodnight, my dear," she murmured before retreating to her own room, leaving Y/n standing there, stunned and breathless.

The closing of Miranda's door jolted Y/n back to reality, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The woman's unexpected gesture left Y/n grappling with a newfound awareness, a whisper of desire lingering in the air of the village of shadows. As Y/n settled into the room, the mysteries surrounding her and Mother Miranda only deepened, leaving her with more questions than answers as she succumbed to the beckoning embrace of sleep. 

Miranda, having concluded her work in the lab, was making her way back to her room when she heard a faint murmur emanating from Y/n's room. A subtle hesitation gripped her, but an inexplicable concern propelled her forward. Something compelled Miranda to check on the younger woman.

Upon entering Y/n's room, the sight that greeted Miranda was disconcerting. Y/n thrashed in her sleep, as if caught in the clutches of an unseen adversary. Miranda, suppressing her usual stoicism, approached the bedside with a mix of curiosity and worry.

She leaned in, her voice a gentle murmur, "Y/n, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Y/n jolted awake, eyes wide and frantic, scanning the room. When her gaze finally settled on Miranda, relief and fear mingled in her expression. Her body trembled violently, and it was evident that the nightmare had left its mark.

Miranda reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Y/n's shoulder. "It's over now. You're safe," she murmured, attempting to ground the distressed woman.

However, as Miranda spoke, Y/n's eyes seemed to lose focus, the distant look of derealization clouding her gaze. She shook uncontrollably, caught in the aftermath of the vivid dream that still haunted her subconscious.

"Y/n, can you hear me?" Miranda tried to connect with her, concern etched on her features. Y/n's distant gaze met hers, but the glazed-over look persisted, as if she were trapped in the remnants of a fading nightmare.

As Y/n struggled in the grip of derealization, her trembling hand reached out blindly, seeking something tangible to anchor her in reality. Miranda, attuned to the vulnerability of the moment, gently intercepted Y/n's searching hand, clasping it in her own.

With a tenderness that belied her usual demeanor, Miranda held Y/n's hand securely, occasionally squeezing it as if to reassure her. "Come back to me, little crow," she whispered, her voice a soothing melody cutting through the disorienting haze.

Miranda continued to speak softly, coaxing Y/n back to the present moment. "You're safe. Focus on my voice, on the touch of my hand. Breathe, my dear. In and out. In and out."

Y/n, still caught in the aftermath of the nightmare, slowly started to respond to Miranda's gentle guidance. Her vacant gaze began to regain focus, and Miranda maintained a steady presence, offering a lifeline to the shaken woman.

As Y/n gradually returned to the present, the tremors persisted, and Miranda adapted her approach. She guided Y/n to hold a piece of ice, the sudden cold a sensory shock that could help ground her. "Feel the cold, little crow. Focus on the sensation. It's real. You're here."

Miranda continued to talk Y/n through the grounding process, her voice a steady anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions. "You're strong, my dear. You've faced nightmares before, and you'll conquer them again. Breathe with me. In and out. In and out."

Miranda, her concern evident, gently asked Y/n, "What happened, my dear?" Y/n, still recovering from the nightmare-induced haze, responded in a detached manner, "Nightmare. Don't wanna talk."

Miranda nodded understandingly, respecting Y/n's need for silence. "That's okay, my dear. Take your time," she reassured, her voice a soft whisper.

Sensing Y/n's need for grounding, Miranda delicately broached the topic of physical comfort. "Is it okay if I offer a bit more comfort, perhaps some physical contact?" she asked, her gaze steady.

Y/n, still shaken but willing to accept solace, nodded in agreement. "Yes, please," she replied, her voice a fragile whisper.

Miranda, with a tenderness that defied her usual demeanor, wiped the lingering tears from Y/n's cheeks. She then cupped Y/n's face, her touch gentle yet firm, providing a stabilizing anchor for the distressed woman. Y/n, seeking solace, leaned into Miranda's touch, finding a momentary refuge in the connection.

As the warmth of Miranda's hand enveloped her, Y/n felt a fleeting sense of security. Miranda, respecting the delicate balance, continued to caress Y/n's cheek, offering a silent reassurance through the language of touch.

In the quiet aftermath, Miranda broached another option. "Would you like to stay here, or would you feel more comfortable in my room?" she inquired, her concern unwavering.

Y/n, craving the presence of the person who had become an unexpected source of comfort, hesitated before answering, "I want to go to your room."

Miranda nodded, accepting Y/n's choice without judgment. "Very well, my dear. Let's go," she said, guiding Y/n toward her room, the shadows of the village concealing the complexities of their connection, woven through shared nightmares and moments of vulnerability.

Miranda guided Y/n to her room, a space that held the echo of enigmatic secrets. As they entered, Miranda ensured Y/n was comfortably settled in bed. The room, bathed in a soft glow from a small lamp, retained an air of serenity.

Miranda excused herself briefly to get ready for bed. Before leaving, Y/n, with a quiet vulnerability, whispered, "Please don't leave." Miranda, stroking Y/n's hair soothingly, assured her, "I'll be right back. Just getting ready."

True to her word, Miranda returned after a brief moment, finding Y/n still awaiting her presence. She dimmed the bright overhead light, leaving only the gentle illumination of the lamp on her side of the bed. The room now held a subtle warmth, a sanctuary against the shadows that lingered beyond.

Miranda slipped into bed, opening her arms in an unspoken invitation. "I'm here, only if you're comfortable," she whispered, her voice a soft reassurance.

Y/n, grateful for the offered comfort, responded by snuggling close to Miranda, wrapping an arm around her waist. She rested her face in the crook of Miranda's neck, finding solace in the reassuring scent that enveloped her – spicy, warm, and infused with the subtle allure of amber.

In the quiet intimacy of Miranda's room, Y/n found herself grappling with the intricacies of her emotions. She hesitated for a moment before expressing her inner turmoil. "I don't understand this," she admitted quietly.

Miranda, lying beside her, propped herself up on an elbow, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "What do you mean?" she inquired, the dim light of the room casting a gentle glow on their faces.

Y/n sighed, her gaze fixed on an indistinct point in the room. "I should be mad at you for what you did, for everything, but I can't seem to be," she confessed, a hint of confusion in her voice.

Miranda, understanding the weight of Y/n's words, reached over and gently covered them both with the comforter. With a tenderness that belied her usual stoicism, she traced random patterns on Y/n's back while her thumb caressed the younger woman's cheek. "Emotions are complex, my dear. Sometimes, it takes time to unravel them, to understand the why and the how," she offered, her voice a soothing murmur.

Y/n, comforted by Miranda's touch, hummed softly in response. They lingered in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the unspoken understanding between them weaving a delicate tapestry.

Breaking the quietude, Y/n finally spoke, "Thank you, Mother Miranda."

Miranda, her eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and curiosity, gently corrected, "You can call me Miranda, dear." She quirked an eyebrow, prompting Y/n to explain her gratitude.

Y/n hesitated for a moment before answering, "Thank you for saving me."

"You're welcome, my dear," Miranda responded, her gaze softening as she continued to trace patterns on Y/n's back. "You were worth saving, and the reason goes beyond what I had initially thought those weeks ago."

Y/n, looking at Miranda with a mix of curiosity and confusion, questioned, "What do you mean? What's the reason?"

Miranda, her expression momentarily contemplative, sighed softly. "It's a complex matter, emotions. I find myself quite taken with you, more so than I had anticipated. The reasons, the nuances, they extend beyond the boundaries I had set for myself."

Y/n's brows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Taken with me? But why? After everything that happened..."

Miranda, still tracing comforting patterns on Y/n's back, met her gaze.

 "Emotions don't always adhere to logic, my dear. There's something about you that intrigues me, something that defies the usual calculations of my mind."

Y/n, grappling with the unexpected revelation, asked, "What do you mean by 'taken with me'? What are these feelings?"

Miranda, her usual enigmatic facade momentarily replaced by a hint of vulnerability, admitted, "I'm not entirely sure. It's a puzzle even I haven't fully deciphered. But there's a connection, a fascination that goes beyond the confines of my usual pursuits."

Y/n, despite the confusion, felt a sense of warmth in Miranda's admission. "Taken with me?" she repeated, a small smile playing on her lips. "I never thought I'd hear Mother Miranda say something like that."

Miranda chuckled softly. "Nor did I, my dear. But here we are, entangled in the complexities of emotions that neither of us fully understands."

Y/n, feeling a surge of confidence, sat up in bed, facing Miranda. The older woman's gaze fell on Y/n's now yellow eyes, and she couldn't help but comment, "Quite the vibrant change in eye color, my dear."

Y/n, embarrassed, buried her face in her hands. Miranda, true to her nature, seized the opportunity to tease. "Oh, come now. Don't hide those captivating eyes. They suit you, little crow."

After enduring enough of Miranda's teasing, Y/n playfully exclaimed, "Enough, Miranda. Seriously, stop."

Miranda, ever the provocateur, quirked an eyebrow and smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction she was provoking. But before she could respond, Y/n decided to take matters into her own hands—quite literally.

In a surprising move, Y/n shut Miranda up by leaning in and capturing her lips in a kiss. Miranda, initially caught off guard, quickly reciprocated, the tension between them shifting into an unexpected yet charged intimacy.

When they finally pulled apart, Miranda looked at Y/n with a mix of surprise and intrigue. The room was enveloped in a comfortable silence for a few moments, both women seemingly stunned by the sudden turn of events.

Miranda, not one to let a moment pass, pulled Y/n closer until she was straddling her lap. Y/n gasped at the sudden closeness, locking eyes with Miranda. The older woman smirked, reveling in the effect she had on the younger one.

As Y/n began to question Miranda, she was promptly cut off mid-sentence. Miranda, with a devilish glint in her eyes, decided actions spoke louder than words.

Their lips met again in a fervent kiss, the air thick with a newfound tension. Y/n, lacing her fingers through Miranda's hair, surrendered to the unexpected yet irresistible pull of desire, the village of shadows bearing witness to the unfolding of a connection that transcended the boundaries of reason and expectation.

In the months that followed, Y/n had embraced her role as the fifth lord with a fierce determination, earning a reputation for being cold, calculating, and intimidating. The powers granted by the Cadou had transformed her into a formidable force—rapid regeneration, the ability to shapeshift into a crow, mental manipulation, superhuman strength, speed, biological immortality, and unwavering durability. These powers mirrored those of Mother Miranda, forging a dynamic partnership that became the talk of the village.

The relationship between Y/n and Miranda had evolved into a public affair, sparking fear among the villagers. Disobeying any of the lords now meant facing not only the wrath of the individual lord but also the combined might of Mother Miranda and Y/n. The village quivered under the weight of their influence, and the dynamic duo maintained order with an iron grip.

Despite the fear they instilled, Mother Miranda and Y/n worked tirelessly with the other lords to resurrect Miranda's long-lost daughter. The process was intricate and delicate, requiring the combined powers and knowledge of the lords. Y/n, serving as a steadfast support by Miranda's side, became an integral part of the resurrection plan.

The relationship between Mother Miranda and Y/n deepened as they navigated the complexities of their roles, both in the village and in their personal lives. The shared goal of reuniting Miranda with her daughter forged a connection that surpassed the surface-level fears and rumors. Together, they faced the challenges posed by their powers, their duties, and the intricate web of emotions that bound them in the village of shadows. 

#mother miranda x y/n #resident evil mother miranda #mother miranda x reader #mother miranda #alcina dimitrescu #karl heisenberg #salvatore moreau #donna beneviento #resident evil village

[eternal-kosmo-ghoul]

*°:⋆ₓₒ day 12. corruption kink

.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡ “not so angelic”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — ❤︎ the little angel that came down from heaven to spread the joyous spirit… surely omega won’t try anything

pairing: omega ghoul x gn!angel!reader

a/n: this one has been in the back of my mind for a while now. this one is a little more dark than the previous ones. viewer discretion is advised.

cw: nsfw content. corruption kink. dub-con. kinda primal play-idk (?). stalker omega. virginity loss. rough sex. outdoor sex. penetration. marks and hickeys. bites. slight masochism from reader.

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“look at those soft, pearly wings… i bet they’d look even prettier after i fuck you up.” —❤︎

┅✦┅

every winter season, omega finds himself trudging out of the ghoul den, unglamoured and keeping himself hidden in the shadows as he observed the joyous season of christmas.

it was a rather simple holiday to the quintessence ghoul. a time where friends and family come together to enjoy the fleeting wonders this winter holiday had to offer. chestnuts roasted over a crackling fire, accompanied by the fresh aroma of peppermint and mistletoe. omega found solace in christmas. to be able to have so much fun and create a beautiful warmth in the most dangerous season of the year. he found beauty in that.

but, all of those festivities weren’t what caught omega’s eyes about christmas.

just like how demons and ghouls roamed the blackened skies during halloween and the events of november, their counterparts descended from the heavens to help spread christmas spirit, veiled in their disguises to be sure to not give away their holy features.

you were an angel that omega just so happened to stumble upon. he watched you from the branch of a pine tree, being sure to keep himself cloaked in the darkness as he observed you jumping around happily in the snow. he’s been watching you for a while now. you didn’t know him, but you spotted him once during last year’s christmas and gave him a friendly smile— not knowing of his true demonic nature. since then, omega has been hooked. he didn’t have a definite reason on why he was so drawn to you, but the ghoul has found himself trying to find your presence, catching you doing your heavenly duties for the ones above.

omega just found you strikingly beautiful.

while he was observing you from the snowy trees, he noticed how you were frolicking around the snowflakes and singing a sweet christmas tune. how cute, you were having some time to yourself, singing childish carols, but your sweet angelic voice was beautiful enough to serenade the woodland creatures nearby. hell, it was enough to serenade omega himself. your voice was delicate, but it was laced with a certain sweetness that honeyed each word you sung.

it was such a beautiful sound.

omega couldn’t help but wonder how your voice would sound if you moaned his name.

the quintessence ghoul has taken a liking to your… innocence. you were so pure, as white as snow, just like the pearly color of your feathery angel wings, they were like a dove’s. something about that youthful purity drove his mind… crazy. the very thought of numbing your oh so innocent mind, into a broken, sex-crazed bastard was enough to get his dick hard. that just sounded so hot to him. he didn’t care if that made him a creep, he was just yearning to feel your angelic body on his corrupt, demonic one.

omega needed you. he needed to have a piece of that.

he growled lowly and licked his lips as he observed you dancing and singing. omega found himself growing more excited as he slowly got closer to you, creeping down from the branch and slowly approaching you, as you were still oblivious to the piercing slits of omega’s violet eyes staring into your form.

as you neared the end of your song, your eyes slowly opened to look up at the sky. you were about to take a deep breath in to appreciate the chilly air, but an instinctive yelp escaped your throat as you felt yourself get tackled into the snowy grass.

omega hovered over you and snarled as he stared down at you, his face filled with a tainted, greedy desire that only you could satisfy. he let out a low, husky growl and smirked.

“got you.” he teased darkly, and your eyes widened as you stared up at him.

it was a ghoul. you shouldn’t be seen with a ghoul like this— let alone any kind of demon. it was a sin. you struggled and writhed around to try and get free.

“l-let go, demon!” you shrieked, feathers ruffling as you tried to get away. “i can’t be seen with you!”

omega pouted at this. awww, were you trying to escape? too bad, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. “awh baby… don’t be like that. i promise i’m a nice demon.”

he chuckled lustfully and lowly, his pupils turning into hearts as he stared down at you, keeping you pinned to the ground. you just winced as you looked up at him, still not exactly picking up what he wants.

“w-what do you want from me..?” you squeaked out, trying not to cry from how scared you were. omega noticed the glossiness in your beautiful eyes.

fuck. that was so hot.

“you, angel.” he stated bluntly and huskily, leaning down to whisper into your ear. “i want you.”

he giggled sadistically at your shocked, almost intrigued expression as you reached to his words. you? what could he possibly want from you?

his calloused, dark claws moved to grab a chunk of soft feathers that were on your wings. your entire body jolted from the touch. ah, sensitive wings. that’s okay, it only made things more exciting for omega. he practically moaned when he caressed the softness of your wings, appreciating the delicacy that tangled between his fingers.

“look at those soft, pearly wings… i bet they’d look even prettier after i fuck you up.” he said between rugged breaths, just getting so incredibly riled up from the feeling of getting to touch you.

“you have no idea how badly i wanna fuck you right now..” omega whispered seductively into your ear, hot breath tickling your ear as you squealed. “ruin that angel body of yours… making you mine. i bet the heavens wouldn’t wanna see their precious little angel getting all fucked up by a filthy, lowly infernal now, would they?”

you squirmed again and let a few tears trickle down your cheeks as you got completely dominated by this lowly demon. you couldn’t believe it, to think that one of lucifer’s creations would be here, getting it on with you.

but fuck, the way he touched your wings… that was only the first step into numbing your mind from all of that innocence.

“p-please..” you spoke between muffled cries. “i-i just…”

what were you even trying to say? did you want this or not?

omega just narrowed his eyes down at you, before smirking, and trailing his fingers over to your pristine silky white robe.

he smirked darkly, before completely tearing off the robe in one go, creating a loud rip sound that almost felt humiliating. you gasped loudly and tried to cover yourself, the chilly winds hitting your exposed skin. omega just scoffed and grabbed your wrists, pulling them away and pinning them to the snow floor as he got an eyeful of your sexy, naked body.

“shit. you were hiding all of that this whole time?” omega chuckled, marveling at every curve and dip he saw. “this is a body that’s practically screaming to be fucked.”

his words were so dirty, you weren’t used to it. but there was this strange feeling that drew you to it, his presence, despite how much you were fighting it.

omega makes quick work of his own clothes. he uses his tail to restrain your wrists as he stripped himself of his clothes, being quick and haste, desperate to feel himself inside of you already. after a bit of fumbling, omega is now sitting naked on top of you, his hard cock leaking precum onto your stomach. he stroked himself a few times to smear the precum onto the chub and shaft of his dick, lubing himself up. without even giving you a warning, omega completely thrusted his cock into your virgin hole, making you scream from the searing feeling.

“a-aahhh!!” you shrieked, trying to hold onto the ground as omega thrusted into you wildly. “i-it hurts!! p-please it hurts!”

“you can take it.” omega grunted between thrusts, groaning loudly as he fucked you raw. he was having the time of his life right now, watching your fucked out expression as he pounded into you.

there it was, you were no longer chaste. the very heavenly principle that you valued the most. gone. and yet, you found yourself so fucking turned on by the situation. you didn’t know what it was, why the fear, the thrill, the shame of it all got you so horny. you didn’t even know what it was like to be horny until you met this demon. that feeling of pain soon melted into an intense pleasure that pooled in the core of your stomach, and your legs hooked around omega’s waist while he went to town on you.

“g-god yess! more!” you cried out, tongue lolling out of your mouth while omega hovered over you, fucking you into oblivion. he moaned loudly, and dipped his head down to mark your neck with hickeys while he pounded into you.

“there it is… there’s the slutty little angel i’ve been looking for.” omega grinned into your neck, loving the fact that you were begging for more. you’d claws dug into your thighs, creating bloody scratch marks that only made you moan louder.

you knew that you’d be instantly banished from the heavens if they ever found out about this. mingling with a demon and losing your purity, but you didn’t care, not right now at least. you felt too good, and you were breaking every rule written in the heavens book that shaped who you were. shaped you into the obedient, innocent little angel.

but this? this was not so angelic.

“f-fuck! i need to cum! i need to cum!!” you begged over and over to omega, needing a release. he just growled and bit into your skin as his thrusts got faster.

“oh yeah? you need to cum?” he grunted out, his cock hitting all of the right spots inside of you as he fucked you into the snow. it was like the sheer cold didn’t even matter, because he was fucking you so good that it was warning you up.

“cum for me, angel. show the gods what i can do to their precious angels.”

that line just does it for you. you whined loudly and came hard with a whimper, body spasming wildly as your cum creamed omega’s cock. the quintessence ghoul also groaned loudly and came deep within you, his hot cum filling your insides up completely.

omega sighed heavily and stayed inside of you, watching your form pant heavily and trying to register what happened.

you… you just had sex with a demon.

you didn’t even have the time to properly register what happened, because omega started thrusting again, making you cry out loudly. this was just the start.

omega gritted his teeth and spoke to you in a sultry, lusty voice that you will never forget.

“you’re mine, angel. always will be. i’ll show the heavens that you belong to me, and nothing will change that. if i have to keep fucking you to show that, then so be it. i don’t want you to be bound by their petty little rules.”

he thrusted harder, and you moaned loudly.

“so… how about it? you wanna keep fucking this demon? or go back to being a little servant for some feathery pricks.”

you could only whimper and nod in response, completely consumed by this feeling. this feeling of darkness and lust that you loved to taste.

“please.. more.”

the moment you spoke those words, you felt your crystal clear angel wings, wilt into a shadowy, charcoal color.

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#holiday hoes event #ghost bc fic #omega ghoul #omega x reader #omega smut #omega ghost #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost smut #ghost bc smut #nameless ghoul smut #nameless ghoul x reader #smutty drabble #smutty headcanons #angel reader #christmas #christmas prompts

[rippersz]

ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

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(Brienne of Tarth x Named Reader; Angsty; Hurt/Slight Comfort) (TW: Suic*de attempt; Suic*dal ideations/thoughts; Slight Romanticization of mental illness)

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“An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.” ~ Anna Akhmatova

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A Fool’s Death.

That’s what they call it.

A Fool’s Death. You’re a coward if you do it. You’re a lazy bastard if you live with thoughts of it. You’re a selfish prick of a soul either way.

There’s no winning and there’s no losing. There’s no talk of it. Not even a mention. Not even a whisper. And if there is, you are spoken of. Judged. Scrutinized until The Fool’s Death becomes your death. Until the village and its people and everyone in your family are forced to spit upon your narcissistic bones and claim you disowned even though there is nothing left to claim and nothing left to disown. Just a corpse that is cold and dull and useless.

Cold and dull and useless.

You think that’s how you’ll do it.

Winter has already carried her snow and chill and winds into the region, laying it all upon the land like a warm blanket around a small child’s body. Painting everything white and leaving it to glisten to sludge beneath the eventual heat of the spring sun. A perfect time for rebirth. A perfect time for death.

—

Your hands shake as you slowly pull open the door to your quarters, wincing while it creaks and groans, forcing you to stop every time a noise rings out into the empty hall. Your heart, pounding away in your ears, ruins your sense of hearing while you stand like a statue within your own doorway. Anxiety slips through your bones. Fear pulls at you. The last desire you have is to wake everyone in the castle and call attention to yourself. No, having eyes and ears on you while you lay in the snow and wait for the freeze to set in is less than ideal. A Fool’s Death, after all, is never A Fool’s Death if done with company.

So once you decide that the corridors are empty and you can slip out through the back entrance into the kitchens, you do exactly that. A singular torch is lit, burning away within its stone perch, nearly beckoning you closer with its dancing flame. You trail toward it and stop there, watching it for a moment, reveling in the last bit of warmth that your skin will ever feel. You know that some hours later, when the moon is long gone and the clouds block the sun and the stars keep themselves veiled, you will no longer be able to feel fire. You will no longer be able to feel ice. You will no longer be able to feel the breath in your lungs leave you in short pants. It will all bleed into the same numb feeling. And you will freeze until Mother Nature tells you to thaw. And once your body has been revealed to the changing air of the seasons, once the earth’s creatures start to take advantage of your indirect kindness, you also know that your frozen flesh will not be mourned. Because no one will cry for you. And no one will beg the gods, both old and new, to bring you back. And no one will waste another precious breath worrying about who you were.

You, who were just another soldier out of an army of hundreds. A faceless woman. A person easily replaced. Inconsequential in every sense of the word. Your family was dead, your acquaintances were no more than good mornings and good nights, your position would be filled as soon as you broke rank. And no one would notice your absence. The Lord Commander wouldn’t even blink. The royal family wouldn’t even spare a thought. Though then again, it wasn’t like you deserved their thoughts, their sympathies, their prayers anyway. You weren’t a war hero and you weren’t important and you didn’t do anything beyond follow orders and live your life. Well- that last bit would change, of course. As soon as you pull yourself away from the torch and get going.

The chill of night is a harsh contrast from the few minutes of firelight, but you find that your body, already shivering and slow beneath the thin white nightgown, doesn’t take true notice of the cold. You’re only propelled forward by a distant urge. A previously agreed upon understanding with no one but yourself: This was necessary. This is what it was going to come to anyway, whether you died a fool sooner or later. This was the way of the world and you were just another pawn amongst the masses. Going to war, front of the line, hoping to die in glory.

But there was no glory there. There was no glory in your measured footsteps and there was no glory in your sagging shoulders and tired expression. And there was no glory in your desire. How could there be? How could the good gods ever wish to touch you after your blasphemy? How could you hang your soul out to dry and still expect to find your place in Nirvana? They will call you a coward. They will call you a fool. They will call you a rotten whore and they will say that they wish you’d done it sooner. They will walk past your nonexistent grave without a wandering thought as to what your name was. You could’ve saved everyone the trouble, they will say. Could’ve saved them the breaths. Spared them of your quiet awkward presence. Making everyone uncomfortable. Leaving the men to tease and toss aside the idea of censoring themselves just because you were a woman. Not the only woman, but a woman nonetheless. Of course they held their tongues when The Lord Commander walked past, or sat at the table, or existed and breathed in their general vicinity, but that didn’t matter. Brienne of Tarth was not always around to control them nor comfort you - not that she did the latter anyway. You weren’t important enough for that.

And the universe seemed to agree. The path was laid out before you, lit by the silver moon, traced by the glow of the white ground. You’d decided on your resting place only a few days ago. During a morning patrol with some of the newer trainees, you came across a spot of smooth Earth. Two logs, parallel to each other, framed a large empty patch of snow. From where you stood, it looked like a beautiful painting that had yet to be finished. There was no subject- no goal- no lesson to be learned- no deeper meaning and no unintentional intentional wicked talent. But before that could be rectified, before it could be completed, it would have to be ruined. Once you’re long dead, you’ll find the time to apologize to Mother Nature, but as you trek over the last hill, you’re more focused on becoming one with the frozen ground.

The site of your death is far enough away from civilization, near the edge of a tall cliff, so any wandering strangers won’t bother to come too close. Well that’s what you tell yourself, living in hope as per usual; but in reality nothing is stopping another living creature from stumbling across your frozen corpse. The snow is thick, yes, but not thick enough to hide all of you. And the sun is only some hours away from rising. Oh well. It won’t matter anyway. You’ll be passed out by then, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and blue coating the lining of your lips. Your heart will be quiet, weak, in your frozen chest. Your hands will be limp. And the rest of you will be blanketed by the sweet tasty frost of death, creating a home for its festering teeth. Teeth that will bite and gnash and taste and tear - but their attacks will be in vain. You will be numb. So wonderfully, perfectly, fatefully, numb.

And your fingertips, for what it’s worth, are already tingling with the beginnings of it.

The beginnings of it.

‘It’ being your end, of course.

‘It’ being the thing you want. Desperately.

‘It’ being the Fool’s Death you were born to have.

Oh so poetic it was…

Oh so… lovely.

…

…

You blink suddenly, forcing the chilled tears out of your eyes. Damn wind… so cold… so refreshing… Your knees bend to crouch into the snow, slow and exhausted like the sluggish looking of your eyes. ‘Hello’ the snow grins- beams- smiles so cheerfully up at you, ‘come to see me again, have you? It’s only been a few days. But I have missed you so much. We all have missed you so much.’ And you glance up to take in the ‘we’; the looming trees and the deep blue sky and the twinkling stars and the sweet bright moon, and you nod to yourself. Yes. This is how it is. This is the perfect atmosphere.

This is the glory of a Fool’s Death.

This is the peace of a Fool’s Death.

This is salvation.

No loud men and no flickering fires and no furs and no royals and no company and no messy thoughts and no sleepless nights and no terrifying dreams and no days of forced starvation and no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no hope, no love, no happiness, no reason, no reason, no reason no reason no reason to live live live live live live live- live!

The thin white slip on your body shields you from nothing. Your palms sink into the soft fluff of the ground. Instantly, upon laying down, you’re soaked to the bone. Water finds itself languishing along your body, playing games and laughing while it gathers in your scalp and dances on your fingertips. And the snow, whispering near your ear and beckoning you to salvation, stretches its hands and says ‘Come, dear friend. Come rest here. I am soft. I will give you everything you want.’ So you rest. And you give in. And your body relaxes; your muscles unclench and the tension slides from your shoulders as a sigh bubbles past your lips.

Is it one of relief? One of stress? One of defeat? You’re not sure. You don’t know. Your heart is shuddering- pulsing- with excitement, but it’s a mystery as to why. Death is not supposed to feel good. Death is not supposed to feel powerful. Death is not supposed to feel like you’re finally grabbing life by the balls and saying HAH! THIS IS IT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! THIS IS MY DEATH! MY END! AND YOU CAN NEVER TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

… So why does it feel that way?

Why does it feel so good?

…

…The night is quiet. It does not have answers for you. The moon looks on with unblinking eyes. You feel yourself grow heavy.

But the deed is not over yet. There is still one thing left to do. Slowly, the snow falls away as your limbs stir. They move on autopilot, not drawn by the thoughts in your head but again pushed by that faint desire.

Heels digging, nails running blue, curling into the snow, pushing it away - only to drag it back five minutes later; hastily working to complete the masterpiece. Desperate to become one with the Earth and fall into oblivion. A deep, bone-cold, quieting oblivion that will leave you shivering before it leaves you dead. Even beneath the blanket of snow that caresses your skin, that lays over your bare legs, that nuzzles the sensitive parts of your body, you begin to shake. And you begin to think.

The thoughts, interestingly enough, don’t freeze like the rest of you does. Instead, they grow. Swirl like a winter’s storm. Obsessive and rough, they pull you under like they always did.

This is great, isn’t it?

No, you think in response to yourself. It hurts, actually.

Oh stop whining. It will be worth it.

Why? How?

For years, it has been worth it.

That doesn’t answer anything. How has it been worth it? Is that why I’ve been hurting so much? For the sake of worthiness? Or something else?

Well you never felt worthy of anything else.

But I feel worthy of this?

Death? Yes. Everyone is worthy of death. Even The Lord Commander.

…What does she have to do with this?

You know what.

Your hands grasp at the snow, mindless and desperate. Pulling and pulling and pulling - clawing at the crisp white so it can cover you until no part of you is left to the air. Shielding you from the hatred of the universe. From the angry eyes of the gods. From the venom of the men. From the disinterest of the women. From the world… and its lack of care for you. And its lack of positivity. And its rude- disgusting- vile- way of treating you. And its overwhelming desire to kill you before you could kill yourself.

Too late now. We’re at least one foot deep in the ground! This is it. Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging! No stopping here! No energy left. Nothing left, actually. Not a goddamn thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all….

Nothing.

At all.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

—

It’s two hours later when Ser Brienne of Tarth starts to wrap up her last duty of the evening.

A quick patrol of the furthest border is something not necessarily reserved for The Lord Commander, but is more of a safety measure she enforces upon herself before retiring for bed. Exhaustion pulls at her before she sets out, yes, but sometimes the nightmares… the white walkers… they leave her paranoid. Expectant of an attack that will never come. Worried about an enemy that no longer exists. Thus, she does it alone - and with only the royals’ knowledge.

It’s always a quiet affair, drawn along quickly by her and her steed Valour. They work with sharp eyes and a torch through the dark, stopping every few paces to listen for threats. There aren’t any, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from clip-clopping along the terrain with tense shoulders and keen senses, looking through the din of the torch’s fire in her hand. She has to be careful not to set her furs alight, but it’s not a hard task. Keeping it level, shunting it toward the ground and out toward the trees, proves to be more difficult. There’s no use in a flame if it can’t illuminate a damn th-

HUFF.

Valour’s hooves press into the snow, leaving them to stop - suddenly, quickly, with a jerk - as hot breath puffs from her nostrils and curls into the air. She’s tense, Brienne realizes. Tense and alert, with white ears twisting to take in sound. They stand in silence. Blue eyes watch as the animal’s head turns - first to the left and then to the right. But aside from the night and the usual rustle of the world, there is nothing. Nothing to hear, nothing to notice, nothing to fight or defend. Nothing to… find?

With one last sweep of the flame, she catches something quick. It’s nearly unnoticeable. Buried beneath the snow, but not one with the ground. It’s foreign. Out of place. A mere lump with no distinct beginning and end. Brienne chances a glance down at the horse, interest and apprehension dancing through her veins once she sees Valour’s eyes have caught the same thing. The same… intruder. The same issue.

When she slides off of the horse, half expecting to see the thing rise from the ground, one hand shoots to her sword. It waits. Curls around the hilt. Stretches beneath her glove. Twitches with adrenaline.

But there’s nothing. Not even a tremble beneath the dirt.

“Stay,” she whispers to Valour, moving the hand from her blade to gesture, palm facing the ground, for the horse to stand in wait.

And as cautiously, as quietly, as she can, Brienne approaches the mystery. She rounds one of the logs, taking notice of the odd placement, and tries not to wince each time her boots make a small crunch in the silence. Footprints will no doubt be left behind, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much as she catches sight of another pair in the distance. They’re small, the knight notices. With no distinct shape if not for a slight curve. The snow is kicked up, forced from its smooth blanket. Hurried in their demeanor. But slow in the amount of distance between each print.

Human, she thinks.

Human indeed, the snow hums; bearing all to see as it glistens beneath the firelight of her torch and brings Brienne to her unsightly treasure.

Frosted skin. A soaked nightgown. Arms and legs bitten by the chill.

Dead, she thinks.

No. Alive. The snow breathes.

—

Someone is taking off your clothes. They’re cold, sticking to you, and little grunts follow as bits of your nightgown rip with the effort. Your body is shocked, shivering so hard that the stranger can’t keep you still and isn’t quite sure what to do. Eventually, a mind is made up and you’re stripped completely - then covered with woolen hose. At least two pairs- both of which are too big for you and hang by the feet and are quite loose around the waist, but the dresser doesn’t seem to care. Trousers are next. How many pairs? You don’t know. Then shirts. And furs. And even a pair of leather gloves that droop at the fingertips and gape at the wrists - but they’re warm and lined with wool and you can’t feel your body but that’s okay. You didn’t want to anyway. More grunting and growling and small whispered curses follow until you’re very much tucked into a bed far bigger than your own. It’s warm. Good. You’re numb and half-dead, but it’s good. Lovely, really. And the outside world doesn’t call your name as you close your eyes.

Waking up was not on your agenda.

It wasn’t even in the cards.

And you don’t really want to - but the universe never cared for your opinion. And it did what it wanted whenever it wanted anyway. So you have no choice.

Thus, your eyes flutter open and your lungs expand with breath and suddenly the world comes flooding back in one confusing twist of fate. Nausea wastes no time in tearing you down; instantly going to churn in the pit of your stomach and curl in the back of your throat and pound against the skin of your temples. A deep groan slips from between your chapped lips. The lining of your skull feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton.

The snow really took its chance, didn’t it? Brutal. Ruthless. At least the Earth doesn’t lie to you. At least the Earth doesn’t save you.

But someone did. Someone has.

They’re actually shuffling over; measured footsteps sounding like big loud stomps in your head. You close your eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too much.

“Morning.”

Hm. The voice sounds familiar. A bit wonky, like it’s far away, but familiar. You don’t have the energy to respond so you just let out a grunt and allow it to taper off into a weird rumbly hum.

“Hey,” there’s a sudden clicking noise near your ear, making you jolt and snort when your eyes flick open. There are fingers - long pale fingers snapping beside your head, falling silent when you glare up at the offender, only to find-

“Lah Commandah?!” Your tongue and throat are stiff and achy, keeping your speech limited and your voice strangled. You grimace at the sound and instantly try to growl the discomfort away, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t do that- you’ll just make it worse.” It comes out in a huff and silences you with ease.

She doesn’t look or seem very happy, which in turn makes you frown. It was a shot straight through the heart when the Lord Commander was in a bad mood - which surprisingly wasn’t always. In fact, she’d grown a little softer over the years. The tales talk of her unwilling attitude and stubborn pride, but sometimes she’s full of wit and humor. And on the best of days, she’ll give the most successful troops a small smile and a bow of her head. The only sign of ‘You did well’ that anyone would ever get from her. You’d never gotten a reaction like that before.

I wonder why she didn’t leave us out in the snow.

“Can you sit up?” Glacier blue eyes run over your face.

You’re not sure what you look like but you suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s seen worse.

“Dun-no, Lah Commandah,” you breathe, trying to do exactly that.

After the fifth try of shifting your arms and legs and quickly running out of strength, she seems to get the hint and suddenly large strong hands are sliding under your arms and tugging you up, then pushing you back. It’s done in one swift movement, leaving you dizzy while you rest your head against the wooden headboard of-… of a bed that certainly isn’t yours.

No, you’re definitely not in your own room. The layout is completely different. It’s more… it’s not pretty but it’s better looking than your own. Complete with greys and blacks and silvers and even a hint of red here and there. The fire that’s been crackling steadily in the background is clean and well-kept, where your room doesn’t even have space for one at all. And the curtains are drawn over the windows covering the right wall, leaving the place shrouded in a darkness that would have existed there anyway even if the curtains were open - it’s nighttime, pitch black outside, and suddenly you’re very much aware of the fact that you’ve kept your Lord Commander- The Brienne of Tarth- out of her own bed for more than a day.

By the time you blink yourself out of your dizzy distracted haze and try to find her form again, she’s already busy doing something else. Wringing out cloths over a bowl… and then returning to your side. Your lips, chapped and still tinged blue, open in an effort to say something- anything- but then a soft hot cloth is draped over your forehead, covering your temples, and suddenly you don’t have a damned thought left in your mind. The feeling is so nice. So blissful. You could stay like that forever.

If only the universe showed you mercy.

“It’s been two days since I found you,” the Lord Commander says, placing the bowl down gently on the side table beside the bed. Her eyes glance over your coverings, making sure the furs and gloves and shirts are all still in order. They are. She was very thorough before. She would not have made a mistake. There was no room for error.

But there’s room now for judgment. Judgment and disdain, and you’re terrified of those things and you really don’t want to have to hear her tell you that you’re a stupid wench and that the rest of the troops will forever make fun of you for your idiocy, so you swallow and wince and your hands twist together in your lap. The leather of the gloves is soft, well-worn, and the wool is only the tiniest bit matted - and you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as you bring them up to your abdomen. They’re obviously not your gloves, just as everything else is not yours either, but you don’t know what to do first: apologize or thank her.

Honestly, you don’t really want to thank her - because she ruined your plan - but at the same time, she saved your life. Whether you wanted to end it or not doesn’t matter… because she would’ve helped you no matter what. And perhaps you’re selfish for being a little bit angry about it, maybe you’re being self-centered and dumb, but you can’t help the feeling of bitterness creep into your heart. You wanted to die… and she took that from you. She wanted you to live.

It was a duty. She doesn’t want anything. Anyone would have done it.

But that’s not true.

The men would have left you. Or hurt you. Or anything else.

But there she is, having gone through the trouble of saving you… and she’s looking down at you with a frown on her handsome face and a furrow to her light brows that seems like it never leaves and you wish so terribly that you could just tell her-

“I-m sorr-ey.” It’s a pathetic rasp of an apology, but it’s out of your mouth before you can catch it.

She blinks. You don’t know why her expression changes, why it softens into something less stern and concerned, but when it does you feel your breath catch in your throat. How anyone could see her as anything less than glorious is something you’ll never understand.

“Why were you out there.”

It’s a demand.

You look away, baring your eyes to the fire.

“…I sl-leep-wa-lk someti-”

“Bullshit.” She spits, one hand reaching down to curl into the bit of blanket that drapes over the side of the bed. Her expression has twisted back into one of anger. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

But what other choice do you have?

How could you be honest?

Why did she, of all people, have to find you? And why like that? Why couldn’t she have walked into the bathhouse during the few times you’ve wept your eyes out in the steamy silence? Why couldn’t she have caught you staring at your horse, dread in your eyes as you fantasized about running away and never looking back? Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon your vulnerability when you were still willing to live?

Why did it take a Fool’s Death to finally grasp her attention?

You want to tell the truth… but you can’t.

You can’t.

So you lie again.

“Was out- on a s-strollll. Got- um- lost.” You try not to cringe at the sound of your own bad grammar. Turns out not having full feeling back in your mouth does indeed prohibit being able to speak properly.

The Lord Commander doesn’t seem to care much. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focusing on that at all. Instead, her face has grown slack - and she’s looking at you hard. Leaning both of her hands on the side of the bed, broad shoulders going up near her neck, eyes peering through light lashes - like she’s using her stare alone to dig holes into your soul and she doesn’t need to say anything in order for you to understand that she simply doesn’t believe you. And why should she? Your lies are so obviously half-baked; only muddying up the truth; ruining what little of it can be said.

Still. She doesn’t let up. Her gaze starts to burn. Shame tugs at your cotton-lined skull. Guilt claws its way to the surface.

Pink lips, scarred on the top right, part slowly. There’s a soft inhale. You brace yourself, clutching your warm hands into fists.

“You were buried,” the Lord Commander says, barely even blinking as she looks at you. “Covered with snow.” She shakes her head and allows it to fall to her chest, letting out a scoff so quiet you had to strain to hear it. “One of the smartest soldiers I have… and you expect me to believe that you got lost on an evening stroll?” Her head comes up, eyes pinning you in place with such dull ferocity that you can’t look away. “You can’t be serious.”

It’s at that exact moment when you realize that you’re sweating. It is the amount of warm things covering your body? The clothing and the furs and the gloves? Or is it your Lord Commander’s attention? And the fact that it’s never been placed on you like that before? With such… such focus. Such- dare you even think it- care?

You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

‘One of the smartest soldiers I have…’

Well if you were as smart as she thinks you are, you’d be fucking honest, wouldn’t you? Yeah. You’d tell her the truth. You’d admit that you’re a coward.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

She spends all of that time training you, keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re fed and well-rested and looked after in her own roundabout Lord Commander type of way… and you repay her with…with what?

With suicide?

So disgraceful.

So horrible.

So shitty of you.

How terrible can a person be?

How-

“Are you crying?” Your Lord Commander gapes, certainly caught off guard by your sudden emotion.

“N-no?!” You stutter, just as shocked to find yourself reaching up and smearing salty tears along your cheeks.

Oh how embarrassing-!

You stupid girl!

This is why you wanted to do it in the first place!

Because all you do is just fucking embarrass yourself-!

“N-no? No- s-sorr-y La-Lor-d C-Com-”

“Enough with the Lord Commander,” she admonishes, cutting off your bumbling apology with a swift tsk. “In private, it’s Brienne.” Then she hesitates before letting out a sigh and taking a seat next to you on the side of her bed. “…I’m not your superior here.”

All you can do is blink.

I’m not your superior here.

So what are you?

That’s all you want to ask.

What are you to me then? What is this now?

But even if you did find the courage, you’re not sure what she’d say.

“Okay,” you sniff, trying your damnedest to stop the tears.

But they’re a direct result of your aching heart. And aching hearts have veins that scream in agony, wishing for nothing but silence. Utterly tranquility. The very absence of tension-filled life. And you can’t get rid of aching hearts and screaming veins without getting rid of yourself…. And your only chance to do that was destroyed. Trampled upon. Interrupted.

I just wanted to die. It rests on the very tip of your tongue but never spills out into the air.

Brienne is so clearly unsure of what to do; she’s sitting rigid in her spot and staring at a mark on the floor. You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to comfort you. You want to tell her to just let you go back into the woods again… let you find yourself back in the snow. And she can go on with her life and forget it ever happened.

But you can’t.

That’s not how it works.

That’ll never be how it works.

Foolish girl.

“…Why were you out there, Anya?” Brienne’s voice is softer than fresh lilies.

You know why.

You know why.

“…I c-can’t- I-”

Her head turns. Midnight blue eyes trace a line from your neck to your face, taking in the exhausted circles beneath your eyes and the blue-ish tinge to your skin and the utterly defeated look that blooms behind your expression. A war happens in you, taking place in the span of a moment, and you can do nothing but blink through lingering tears and stare at her.

“I can’t.” It’s a whisper. A confession all on its own.

I can’t… because you’ll think I’m a coward. And you’ll hate me. And I already hate myself enough for the both of us.

Brienne’s lips form a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything. She just peers back down at the floor and allows silence to creep into the room and lay between you both like a tired direwolf on its last legs.

The fire burns in the background. The sweat on your body cools. The dizziness in your head subsides.

It’s going to be okay, some part of you speaks. It’s going to be okay.

But you’ve told yourself that before, haven’t you?

And look where that got you.

It has to be at least 30 minutes later when Brienne finally speaks.

“There was a girl I knew once, in my early youth,” you watch her mouth move, enchanted and confused. Where was this going to lead? “She was older than me by two years. A pretty girl- like you.” Your heart trips over itself, but you don’t have time to dwell as she continues. “My father saw that, out of the very rare few, she was good to me - and so we were allowed to play often. For her it was ‘horsies’ and ‘hide and seek’, for me it was ‘swords’ and ‘knights’.” There’s a soft smile on her face, half hidden by the natural shadow of her body facing away from the hearth and half lit by the fire that lived there. Her lips twitch and she begins again. “We did everything together. She was a village girl but that didn’t matter… until it did. Time eventually caught up to us and we were forced to live our lives on our own. No more days of play and no more sharing stories.”

A soul-deep sadness settled into her eyes. She had yet to look at you. Maybe because it would make her too vulnerable… maybe because she didn’t want you to cry again. Either way, you felt yourself frown. Why was she telling you this? What happened?

And as if she could read your thoughts, she continues.

“By the time I was old enough to decide that I wanted to leave, she was already married. Kind husband, even though I only met him once. It was when I stopped in to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I’d write, whenever I found the time and place to do so.” Her hands, you notice, are fidgeting - running over and pulling each other quietly within her lap. The natural lines in her face grow darker as she falls back into her memories. “…I didn’t know she was struggling. I was so busy with my own life. My father’s wishes, my training, my fights with the men who challenged me… our communication grew slim. So I didn’t- I-… well.” Brienne swallows. “Her husband answered the door and when I asked after her, he burst into hysterics.”

Your heart stops.

She- no… She didn’t….

Brienne’s head goes up, her eyes turning to look at the ceiling - keeping her tears in her eyes, resistant in letting them fall. Resistant in being weak. You want to hold her and let her cry, but you know it’s not the time. She sniffs and her chest heaves with a sigh and it takes everything in you not to start sobbing. Tears build, they fall slowly, but your throat aches with held back sounds of distress.

“…She ended her life two days before I arrived.” A pause. Then- “A butter knife…,” she scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, still pointing her face skyward - as if the gods have all the answers to her grief. “… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do with her husband. So I gave him my condolences and I left. Cried in the woods for as long as I could and kept going. And since then, I haven’t stopped.”

Despite her efforts, tears still creep over her eyelids and race down her cheeks. They mirror the ones on your own face - warm and sad and annoying in the stiff little trails left behind.

And you sit like that for a while, silently crying. Her gaze stuck to the heavens, thinking about the friend she lost; and your gaze stuck on her, thinking about the possible metaphor behind her actions. Behind the full circle-ness of it all. She couldn’t save her friend but she saved you. What did that mean in the grand scheme of your lives? What did any of it mean? How would you continue to train everyday after seeing your Lord Commander cry? After witnessing her care?

She saved us. She saved us. She saved us.

“Thank you,” comes your hoarse whisper- the first in-tact thing you’ve said since waking up.

The sound of your voice tugs Brienne out of her stupor and draws her eyes to your sad face. You don’t have the energy to give her a sympathetic smile, so you settle on a soft look. If it says all you need it to say, she doesn’t show it - but she does look away quickly and reaches up to brush the tears away.

“What for?” It’s rough - hard - a sliver of the tough Commander she’s used to being.

No no no - don’t go back to that. Your heart is safe here. I won’t judge you for your tears.

“…Saving me.” It’s more courtesy than anything as you say that, but it’s fine. You’re not magically going to wish for life again after Brienne shares a sad story with you… though it already has your heart struggling against its achy confines.

Brienne shakes her head, the gold of her hair catching the fire’s light so beautifully that you have to take your eyes off of her in order to catch your breath. If we were her friend in her youth, we would have surely fallen in love with her.

“You shouldn’t have gotten to that point,” her voice is watery- muffled with the lingerings of sadness. “No one should.”

You nod. What else is there to say? What else is there to admit? Clearly she knows. Clearly she understands. And yet… you’re still curious…

“…Why do-n’t you hate me f-or it?” Your words come out in a squeaky whisper, but you don’t care. You just need to know. You just need to make sure that you’re not reading things wrong- that there’s a chance she may actually care- and that perhaps there is a reason to stay…

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately. It’s clear that she takes a few moments to bring herself back to the present. To clear her throat and wipe her eyes again and sniffle a few times and then turn back to you. She’s tried so hard in clearing herself up, but the eyes have never lied. And you see the sadness breeding there. Festering. Sadness is wicked. You don’t know if you’re the cause of it.

“You’re strong, Anya." A pause. "Training wouldn’t be the same without you.”

But you know she means to say Nothing would be the same without you.

---

Something I've been working on for a bit. It's not as good as I hoped it would be, but I'm tired and my back hurts so whatever. I hope you're all doing well.

And if you're not and you need some help, here's the National Suicide Hotline: 988 - And the link https://988lifeline.org/

It's gonna be okay, my friend. One second at a time. - Yours, Rip x

---

#rippersz #fanfictionwriter #fanfic #fanfiction #brienne of tarth #brienne of tarth got #brienne x reader #ser brienne #ser brienne of tarth got #ser brienne of tarth #angsty #angsty fic #mental health issues #mental health problems #mental health issues tw #be safe #I love you #brienne of tarth x reader #brienne of tarth fanfic

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Lone Wolf.

Whoever said that all wild wolves are lone has lied. But striking out by himself has always suited him better.

… Hasn’t it?

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Snow and ice don’t bother him. The cold never has, not when he has his fur and muscles keeping him insulated.

But it doesn’t keep his stomach from dropping when he looks ahead, shielding his eyes from the blizzard. The gray sky, overcast with clouds, makes the world blotchy and muted. If the sun were out, it would be much worse--the light upon the snow would blind him.

His lashes are coated in frost and dropping, and he can barely see ahead in the white world. The road ahead stretches on for who knows how long, and the storm is relentless.

There is not a single mercy granted to him, but he sees it now: a faint, glowing ball in the distance, piercing the veil of fog. It calls out to him.

He's like a magnet, inexplicably compelled to it.

Jack does not remember how he ended up in this situation, only that his consciousness starts and ends in the vortex of snowflakes. He's searching for something, but he doesn't know what.

He grunts, nestling deeper into his scarf and coat. His gloved hands burrow into pockets. Unfortunately, his face gets no reprieve from the biting gales and the chill freezing any bit of moisture in the area.

It hurts to breathe. It feels as though he's inhaling tiny shards of ice instead of air.

Still, Jack trudges forward.

Seeking out the thing he does not know.

It's more difficult than it has to be. The snow is up to his knees, almost his thighs. The weight of it, an obstacle to his journey--demanding that he raise his legs high enough to clear the wall or force his way through it.

A waste of time and energy.

Keep going, Jack encourages himself. You'll find what you're looking for at the end of all of this!

"GRAAAAAAAAAAAH!!"

With a war cry, Jack grits his teeth and sprints. He charges with reckless abandon, a man driven mad by his travels. Snow slams his limbs, his chest, particles flying into his chin and cheeks.

His muscles cry out in exertion as they're pushed to their limits. Pain, pain--and, for once, Jack is thankful for the numbing effects of the brutal winter.

A building comes into view.

A cottage, crowned in a halo.

His breaths shallow, his heart still pounding.

Jack throws himself at the front door and barrels inside. He closes out the cold, his body slumping to the ground in victory. The cabin's warmth floods him just as quickly as the exhaustion sets in.

His senses kick back in, and he realizes he has likely intruded in someone's home.

He hauls himself up and tentatively calls out.

"... Hello? Hello, is anyone there?" Jack asks. "Sorry for uh, breaking and entering. I just need a place to stay until the storm is cleared out."

There is no answer, which causes a fresh wave of relief to wash over him.

They must be out. I'll hang out for a little while and be out before they get back. They won't even notice I was here.

Jack dusts the snow off of him. Some of it has already melted, leaving frigid trails of water on his skin and coat. He shivers, the cold finally hitting him at once.

The cabin is tiny, but comfortable. Photographs line the walls and sit atop cabinets, throw rugs thrown over the floors, knickknacks scattered about.

The space is very much lived in. A family of seven, by the looks of it: seven rocking chairs--small to large--against the wall, seven bowls of porridge out on the counter, one giving off a hefty cloud of steam. There are even seven beds lined up in the next room over, one thin and hard and another overflowing with blankets and cushions.

If I sit on the furniture, I'll definitely get it wet.

His eyes wander.

At the far end of the room is a roaring fireplace. The flames leap up and crackle, beckoning Jack to come close, to warm himself beside it.

He shuffles over, the heat gradually growing and drying him. Crossing his legs and sitting, Jack basks in the cozy glow. His muscles melt, and a contented whine slips out.

This bliss, he knows, cannot last.

He will have to return to the blizzard soon.

Out there, in that kingdom of isolation. Barren forests, icy mountains, walking along a path that was his own.

Yet here, with the roof over his head and the fire at his feet, he is more at ease than he ever was in the snowstorm. Food, clothes, shelter—all the essentials he needs to bear that freezing, cruel world.

His heartstrings tremble, as if a hand had ran along them, setting them all into a song.

Something is still missing. Something you need, something even more important than the necessities.

What is it…?

Jack’s lids lower. They’re heavy, both with melted snow and the urge to sleep. To pass out right there, on the rug, damn it all if the family finds a massive wolf beastman snoozing on their living room floor.

It’s a tempting thought.

His eyes close, and they stay that way for a second longer than he’d like. He tries to open them again—stutter, stutter, collapse.

The warmth of the fireplace knits over him, lulling him deeper into the trance. The winds outside seem so far away now, muffled by the sturdy walls of the cabin.

He feels himself lolling forward, but doesn’t feel the hardness of the ground.

Somewhere, a door clicks open.

Voices float in, fuzzy around the edges. He's aware of them, but fails to scrounge up the names.

They're important people, he concludes.

"... Oh dear. It looks as though we have an unexpected visitor."

"Whoa, is that Jack?! Why's he passed out in front of the fireplace?"

"Does the reason matter? He looks as though he has been through quite a bit."

Footsteps. Jack senses a body nearby, but is too tired to rise, to offer an apology. Fingers come upon his neck, then over his mouth, testing for a pulse, for breathing.

"He is fine, he's just tired. Let him rest--he'll need to collect his strength. Although... sleeping in such a position is awful for his posture. We'll have to move him to a proper bed."

A pause, the feet pacing.

"Cucumber, you possess the greatest upper body strength of us. Carry him. Epel, fetch an extra blanket. Potatoes 1 and 2, towels. Ortho, you still have that heat lamp function, yes? Let's put that to some use."

"Yes, Vil-senpai."

"Command confirmed. Engaging heat lamp mode..."

Epel? Ortho...?

A light switch turns on in the attic of his mind. Other names bubble up, resurfacing, and he plucks them out one by one.

"IT SHALL BE DONE!"

Sebek.

"Roger! I'll get those towels right away!"

Deuce.

"Haaah~ Can't believe we gotta look out for Jack just cuz the big guy couldn't look after himself out there. Oh well. Can't be helped."

Ace.

The storm lifts.

That's right, they are...

Vil reaches him.

"Welcome home, Jack. You've found your way back to us at last."

My friends, my family.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Jack Howl #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #I've been dreaming... #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst anni #twisted wonderland anni #twisted wonderland anniversary #twst anniversary #Vil Schoenheit #Deuce Spade #Ace Trappola #Epel Felmier #Ortho Shroud #Sebek Zigvolt

[otipe]

Al-Haitham x Deaf Fem!Reader

University AU

[Part 1] [Part 2]

[Silence could be overcomed by gentle gestures and shy gazes; but only the strong one go beyond for a voice that has been lost to reach the ears of their beloved.]

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

You fall in love with Al-Haitham throughout the winter season.

The great growth of love and timidness when having him around increased the more you two spend time together—and the moment where you realized that what you felt for him went deeper than simple friendship was unknown, but it didn't lessen the impact upon the fact that it was real.

The revelation from such an affair surprises you once you go past the confusion and denial from falling in love with a man who keeps his heart locked away and under a mask of nonchalant. The fleeting thought that you were just confused was viable, since you’ve never felt this way prior, and so you tried to convince yourself to drop the subject and to not think about your friend that way anymore.

But when the little veil of deception that you placed upon yourself vanishes, slapping you across the face that yes, you were in love, it takes no time for the butterflies to swarm in your belly whenever you look his way or his name is mentioned through conversations.

To notice the sudden race of your heart when you are alone, when he helps you when you’re unable to focus, to the way he cares for your well-being in subtle yet obvious acts of kindness; all of it was the beginning of your doom.

Because despite forging a friendship throughout the times at the university, in light of recent news of your newfound love, your actions are led with shyness instead of confidence. Your demeanor changes when he is in the vicinity, and you can’t help the assaults your heart does when he looks at you so intensely or simply focuses on your being.

And that places you here in the library.

Al-Haitham is keeping himself busy with his books and Kaveh…

Kaveh acts like he’s none the wiser when you need him as a backup when interacting with Al-Haitham; ignoring your pleading gazes, fixing his shirt when you tug on the fabric, and even biting back a grimace when you squeeze his arm to catch his attention. 

But everytime the bastard simply looks the other way with a pout, pretending that you both don't exist at the moment, and focuses on his papers instead of lending a helping hand.

A little nudge on your shoulder has your attention drifting towards Al-haitham, who raises a brow in questioning.

“What is it?” you sign, fingers trembling slightly. 

“What do you need from him?” he asks. His hand movements are choppy and a bit aggressive, “I can help you.”

Your cheeks warm with embarrassment, fearful that he's witnessed your childish nagging at Kaveh. Shaking your head, you tap the notebook.

“Tomorrow we have a test. I want to make sure he's ready, that's all.”

“Are you sure?”

You give him a thumbs up, smiling, “I'll be okay! I've been tutored by the best student on campus, so I have nothing to fear!”

Al-Haitham seems satisfied with your reply, the shadow of a smile hovers over his lips before he schools his face back to his usual stoic expression and goes back to his book. His eyes skim through the paragraphs and quickly jolts things down he deems important in his own notebook. 

You eye the stack of books he has next to him, two of them open and tossed to the side and the one he currently holds, keeping all his attention.

Idly, you think literature looks difficult; boring, even. 

Reading books is not of your preference, unless romance and tragedy are the main topic, your interest regarding lectures are non-existent so you are easily amazed by his focus and full concentration on what he reads whatever the topic might be.

A vibration catches your attention, watching a notification pop-up in your phone that lays next to you on the table. Picking it up, Kaveh's name shows on the screen with an incomplete message that has you blushing on the spot.

Gingerly, you open the chat.

× Kaveh: You look like a creep staring at him ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ

× Me: I'm not staring! 

× Kaveh: Yeah, sure- Even the librarian has noticed the hearts around you whenever he signs to you.

× Me: Shut up ;_;

Covering half of your face you glare at Kaveh, pouting at his teasing. He only gets to shrug and mouth an apology that’s not genuine with the smirk plastered across his face. 

× Kaveh: :P 

× Me: You are so mean for no reason :( 

× Kaveh: I'm only stating facts. If you want it a secret, then KEEP it like a secret.

× Me: Stop paying attention to what I do! I know how to keep a secret!

× Kaveh: Yeah? Your eyes don't! ╰⁠(⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠ᗜ⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠)⁠➝

Kaveh is insufferable when he teases, pulling you out of your tasks and bothering you until you give out and have to physically make him shut up.

Since he is in close vicinity, you slap his arm lightly, signing furiously for him to stop annoying you so much and to pay attention to his homework and study.

His eyes roam your hands, trying to piece together what you say but unable to tie the words and hand signs to coherent sentences. Is clear from his confused expression he hasn't gotten half of what you said, and now he wears an apologetic smile that tells you everything.

“She said to stop fooling around, and keep your head in your studies, dunce.” Al-Haitham closes his book, clearly annoyed. “Don't bother her too much, Kaveh. She's got enough on her plate.”

Kaveh gasps, offended, “I'm not bothering her, am I?”

“Lower your voice,” he reprimands, “You are being annoying.”

They go back and forth for a while, and you cannot help but look bewildered between the two of them, confused and intrigued by whatever they're talking about. 

Their mouths move too fast for you to interpret words into sentences, too fired up in their conversation—or argument, this looks like an argument—that they don't notice your curious stare.

Al-Haitham seems to mull over a thought, pondering whether to say what's on his mind or not. It seems to take a toll on him, sighing tiredly and briefly looking in your direction.

“She's clearly trying to study, and as her partner, shouldn't you try and help her out instead of fooling around?” 

Kaveh raises a brow, confused at his choice of words. 

“I’m a very good partner!” Is what he says a little too loudly. The librarian shushes him from across the room, glaring at their table and scowling, a finger on her lips. Kaveh bows his head in apology before continuing in a lower voice, “And I'm very helpful when I want to, thank you very much. You can even ask her, I’m a sweetheart.”

Kaveh notices the shift in attitude from Al-Haitham for a brief second, enough to surprise him when his scowls deepens and avoids eye contact to focus on the books on the table. He’s almost tempted to ask if his actions were what got to his nerves, but with the way he moves, uncomfortable and wary, he decides against it.

It becomes obvious something is going on when he starts packing his things without saying a word, closing the books and stashing them on his backpack slowly but with force behind every action. 

A little taken aback by his sudden urge to leave the library, you stand up from your chair and begin closing your notebooks alongside him in a hurry. 

None of them say anything while watching you pack up, eyes concentrated and precise actions to have your things in order. Kaveh purses his lips in contemplation and eyes Haitham stop dead on his tracks, regret flashing for a brief second on his face, but he doesn’t miss the fondness swimming in his green orbs.

“You don’t have to leave.” His expression softens ever so slightly, and he reaches for your wrist to catch your attention, “Stay.” He mouths slowly.

“Why?”

His eyes divert from you to Kaveh who looks at him with concern filled in his eyes, and he can’t help but sigh, scratching the back of his neck and unable to reason clearly. Taking his hand in yours, you tug slightly, getting his attention back to you.

“Don’t you want us here?” You ask. 

“I have to leave,” he signs, “I forgot I have a study session today.”

Shaking your head, you tap your wrist, “There’s still two hours away from your meeting time.” Al-Haitham doesn’t flinch when your expression sours, “Why are you lying to me?”

“I'm not lying, the session time has moved.”

Liar. And the fact he's doing so right to your face with no shame is worrisome for he's never had a reason to.

Al-Haitham continues packing his things in silence under your scrutinized gaze. When you realize he won't say anything else to you nor Kaveh, you take a seat and watch him leave with a quick goodbye.

You are left staring at the closing doors of the library and with an emptiness at the pit of your stomach. Slowly crawling your insides, anxiety takes over your thoughts in quick succession about his actions and lack of communication with you two. 

Was he upset over something? Did Kaveh say something? Did Al-Haitham say something? Are you at fault here?

You type in your phone before you can think further.

× Me: Did you two argue?

× Kaveh: No! He was scolding me for distracting you when it was the other way around >_> You get way too desperate when he talks to you.

You glare at him from the corner of your eyes, ignoring his last sentence.

× Me: But why did he leave? 

× Kaveh: I don't know, maybe he just got upset over me being too loud? I'll talk to him later when he comes home, don't mind him. He always acts like a drama queen.

× Me: Are you sure? 

Kaveh mulls over your question quietly. 

Al-Haitham is one to never hold a grudge when they argue, but rather take his time to calm down before sitting down and talk like civilized people. And Kaveh would have assumed this was the case if it weren't for the uncommon timing to his reactions, which raises the question: What made him this upset?

× Kaveh: I'll talk to him later, don't worry :) 

× Me: Okay, let me know if you both need anything! I don't like it when you two fight :(

Kaveh clutches the phone close to his heart and squeals loudly, fighting against his instincts to smother you in a big hug for how kind you were to him despite the clear favoritism you had for the one you crushed on.

From afar, you see the librarian standing from her seat, angry lines forming on her expression and marching towards you two with a determination that scares you deeply, freezing you on the spot.

You can't even warn your friend before she reaches him first.

“Kaveh, that's enough! Out of the library until you learn how to keep quiet!”

“What?!” 

“Banned for a week! Out with you!”

— x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x —

Kaveh's expression at having the door of the library close shut on his face shouldn't be this amusing; but here you are, laughing with all your might and holding onto the wall for support because you can't hold back anymore after the last tense couple of minutes.

He's saying something, probably angry words at the ban and you for making fun of him, but you could care less with how much your stomach was hurting from the laughing.

“Stop!” he whines, tugging your sleeves with a pout on his face. “This is not funny!”

Cleaning the tears gathering at the corner of your eyes, you apologize between giggles, fingertips down the bridge of your nose and an open palm running a straight line down your chest.

“You are mean,” he mouths slowly, pulling you alongside him onto the halls of the university to walk away. 

“Sorry,” you sign again, not genuine enough for him to believe you. “I think we both need a break. How about we go for dessert?”

Kaveh blinks down confused, “I understood the break, the last thing I didn’t get.” 

“D. E. S. S. E. R. T,” you spell each letter slowly. He nods in understanding.

“Oh, yes!” He perks up excitedly, “Oh, oh! We can go to that coffee shop you were talking about yesterday. The one a few blocks away, yeah?” 

Happy at the prospect of some sweet dessert and a relaxing afternoon, Kaveh walks with new vigor and a goal in mind with you in tow, forgetting completely about his public humiliation and entertained like a little kid with a treat.

He holds your hand, smiling brightly back at you, and you return the grin with the same feeling of content filling your chest.

But even when you've settled down at the coffee shop; drinking milkshakes and eating cheesecakes between laughs and messaging each other, at the back of your head was the lie of Al-Haitham still present and bothering.

And perhaps it was selfish of you to have him roaming your mind when Kaveh is trying to lift your spirits and cheer you up to the best of his abilities, when it should be the other way round. 

And he notices. When he looks you from the corner of his eyes and his fingers hovers above the keyboard from his phone, you cannot help the embarrassed blush and hesitation whether to bring up the topic or not.

× Kaveh: Okay, I can't do this anymore. Spill.

× Me: …

× Me: What do you mean?

× Kaveh: >_> Don't play dumb. 

× Me: (⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠)

× Kaveh: That's adorable, I'm stealing it.

× Kaveh: Okay, girl, spill now or else.

× Me: Is just… I'm worried. Al-Haitham was acting very strange, and I believe we're missing something crucial that caused his distress.

× Kaveh: I think you're overthinking way too much, dear. Perhaps it might be your love for him talking.

The punch you throw at him doesn't hurt, he knows that, and yet, he feigns dramatically that you've broken all the bones on his arm. 

× Me: You're so annoying!!! Stop!!

× Kaveh: :P 

× Me: I just want to make sure we're okay. I don’t know why he lied :( 

× Kaveh: How about this; I'll talk to him later today and let you know how it goes. If he is upset or anything, I can solve the problem easily.

You nod, extending your arm on top of the table to reach for his hand. Kaveh doesn't take long to grab your hand and smile soothingly.

“Everything will be okay,” he says slowly. “Now that I think about it…”

You don't catch the last thing he says, watching him go back to his phone and type quickly with a determined expression.

× Kaveh: Okay so I've been thinking…

× Me: Rare occasion.

× Kaveh: Shut up! Look, I've been thinking that it would be a good idea for you to ask Al-Haitham on a date. 

× Me: Huh? No? 

× Kaveh: You should try asking him before he goes back to Sumeru on the spring break.

× Kaveh: I've heard he's reuniting with some old friend of his and, you know how it goes, maybe a childhood love might bloom.

× Me: :((((((

× Kaveh: Okay, sorry, maybe not that. But I do think you should try to ask him out, if only to give yourself a chance.

× Me: I don't want to ruin things between us. I like our friendship, and would love to keep it instead of jeopardizing it.

× Kaveh: That's such a big word for you! 

× Me: Kaveeeehhhhhhh :((((((

× Kaveh: Okay! Sorry! But think about it if you can. I'd love for my friends to date each other :( And I believe he won't say no. No one would be able to resist such a cutie like you (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)⁠♥

Oh, this man.

Whilst it is a wistful wish to date the one you fell in love with, his feelings on the matter is what makes you hesitate. This is not the first time you've thought about it, and won't be the last until you gather the courage to confess.

And Al-Haitham won't hate you if you say what you really feel, nor will he stop being your friend; but the lingering feeling of rejection will always be present and mocking you whenever you see him. 

Archons know how long it will take for you to heal from the whole ordeal if he really says no.

× Me: I'll think about it (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

× Kaveh: I'm going to pretend to believe you. BUT just know if he breaks your heart, I'll kick his ass into the stratosphere (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ And that's a threat.

You giggle behind your hand, eyes filled with mirth and joy from his encouragement. Kaveh feels like he has accomplished something good today if your happiness is anything to go by. 

× Kaveh: Let's go home, it's getting a little late. I'll walk you back to the dorms (⁠づ⁠￣⁠ ⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠づ

True to his words, he keeps you company the way back with both your hands clasped together the entire time. He would sometimes twirl you around to get you to laugh, sometimes would lay his arm around your shoulders to squeeze you affectionately when crossing the road; Kaveh keeps his touch present and as a supporting weight when you reach the building and kiss his cheek goodnight.

He waves back at you before you close the door, leaving him alone with his own worries and thoughts swirling in his mind.

The trek back home wasn't far, and it gave him plenty of time to think about his course of action before sitting down with Al-Haitham and talk about whatever happened earlier that day.

And if both are in the mood to keep the conversation going, he will try and prod information from him about his thoughts about you.

Perhaps he can be the cupid between you two?

‘I just want her to be happy,’ is what he thinks, sighing tiredly. 

Anything for you.

— x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x —

Kaveh calls you a few days later. 

The vibration from your phone isn't enough to wake you up, sleeping right past it until midday when you realize you've slept way too long and have wasted precious hours of the day.

It takes a while for you to read your notifications and bark a laugh at Kaveh's multiple apologies for calling you when he knows you cannot hear. 

It doesn't offend you in the slightest, rather you find it hilarious because his enthusiasm knows no bonds to have forgotten something so obvious. 

× Me: Miraculously I can hear again! What is it? Let me hear your voice! 

It doesn't take long to see him online and typing already. You can even imagine the worried frown between his eyebrows and his pout in nervousness before he sends a message.

× Kaveh: In my defense!!!!!!!! Nothing…

× Kaveh: I'm dumb, I'm sorry. 

× Me: It was a silly mistake. If anything, I find it rather amusing.

× Kaveh: This is not for you to be making fun of me!

× Me: Why not? I think it's hilarious.

× Kaveh: ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

× Me: What the fuck is that.

× Kaveh: Oh so now is not funny anymore HUH

× Me: Kaveh that’s the most disgusting kaomoji you’ve ever sent. I’m sending you to prison.

× Kaveh: You're just jealous you'll never be him.

× Me: THANK GOD

× Kaveh: Ksdksngkdf ANYWAY!! Listen, I talked to Al-Haitham and we're good. He was annoyed I was being too loud and rather leave than start an argument with so many people around.

× Kaveh: You know how he is, a calm person and all. He's okay, I'm okay, and no, he's not mad at you. 

× Kaveh: Sooooo, want to come and grab dinner later? We can order take-out and maaaaaybeeeee, just maaaaaybe help me study for my next test (⁠๑⁠´⁠•⁠.̫⁠ ⁠•⁠ ⁠`⁠๑⁠)

Tempting, you think.

It's almost time for lunch, and you’ve spent most of your day sleeping away rather than being productive with the short time you have between classes, studies and exams. If you were to finish your duties before five and take a shower around six, you might be able to get there by seven or around that time to have dinner with them. 

Make lunch, clean the bathroom, wash your clothes and hang them to dry, clean your room a little bit. Humming to yourself, you think you might be able to make it on time and spend the night at their apartment without a hitch. 

× Me: Okay, I see no problems :) I'll be there by 7. Is it okay if I crash to sleep there?

× Kaveh: OH MY GOD YOU ARE AN ANGEL, AND YES OFC!! We can have a slumber party after studying. I literally cannot study alone because I get easily distracted and Al-Haitham doesn't want to help me (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

× Me: Kaveh… you never want to listen to him. 

× Kaveh: That's because he's boring! That man isn't build for teaching ಠ⁠∀⁠ಠ

× Me: Try to keep yourself alive by the time I come, okay? Study as best as you can and I'll help out with the rest. 

× Kaveh: You're a real lifesaver! Let me know when you are on your way and send your location to keep track of you, alright? 

× Me: Okay! Don’t forget to eat lunch :)

And that's how you have your day booked.

To know both Kaveh and Al-Haitham were okay with each other was enough to feel relief wash throughout your entire system, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders and now you can easily breath without guilt nagging you. Despite the question mark as to why he opted to lie back then, you were happy to overlook it and focus on the good outcome.

Your day goes by with you running this way to the other to get things done and ready before you leave. There is the lingering thought of your conversation with Kaveh from a few days ago while you finish your tasks, entertaining the idea and even considering it with how joyful you were feeling.

You only hope that motivation stays until you arrive at their home.

Once on the streets, with your bag full of books and a change of clothes, you let Kaveh know you are on your way but don't receive an immediate reply.

Not even when you reach the apartment complex, greet the receptionist and take the elevator, there is no sign of your friend and you wonder if something bad has happened for him to ignore you completely.

You decide to message Al-Haitham instead, despite the butterflies roaming your entire being and warmness spreading on your cheeks.

× Me: Hey, is Kaveh okay? I sent him a message before coming but he hasn't answered yet :(

It doesn’t take long for him to reply.

× Al-Haitham: Hey, door is open. 

The reply is ominous without the intention to be. 

You open the door bracing for the worst.

The books scattered on his dinner table should have been enough to disperse any doubt of a catastrophe. Mouth slightly agape and surprised to see the desperation on Kaveh's face when he realizes you’ve arrived, and sure enough, the calamity seems to be himself with how exhausted he looks.

“Help,” he signs, and you can't help but laugh after a long pause. From all the words you've taught him, that one stuck to him like a life liner.

Nodding, you clean up the table and stack the books to the side to make room for you. Kaveh helps bring some books to the sofa, giving you enough space to open your notebooks and notes to start revising what he hasn't checked yet.

A buzz from the phone startles you, picking it up to see a message from Kaveh.

× Kaveh: What do you want to eat? I'll order now so we can focus ←⁠(⁠>⁠▽⁠<⁠)⁠ﾉ

× Me: Hmmm, do you want Japanese food? I've been craving katsudon lately. 

× Kaveh: Oh, yeah sure! I'll order ramen then. Let me ask stinky ass man what he wants and we're ready to go.

× Me: Don’t call him that >:(

× Kaveh: :P 

Kaveh leans back and yells down the hallway, “Hey, Haitham! Wanna eat ramen, or sushi? I don't know whatcha want. We’re going to order from Wangmins.” 

Al-Haitham's head pops out of his room, frowning deeply and seemingly annoyed. 

“I can hear you just fine, no need for yelling.” he walks out, shaking his head. “I don't want anything, thank you.”

You perk up when he waves at you, returning the greeting with a little more eagerness than you anticipate. But he seems to not mind, the shadow of a smile gently hovering over his lips and a nod of his head is enough to have you kicking your feet in excitement. 

Nudging Kaveh's arm, you point at your friend's clothes, curiosity filling your eyes when he walks past the dinner table and straight to the mirror. 

‘He looks rather handsome today.’ your eyes follow him from head to toe, blushing for ogling so shamelessly.

Kaveh whistles loudly, noticing Al-Haitham's fit. He seems to have dressed more elegantly than ever, brushing his hair in front of the mirror next to the door and smelling his cologne swift in the air and heavy on the nose.

“You look way too fancy today, what's the occasion?” he asks absently.

“I'm going out with Nilou.”

Kaveh freezes upon his words, blinking slowly and eyes going from where you're sitting to Al-Haitham, unaware of the shift in mood. You nudge him quietly, awaiting for a response to fulfill your curiosity.

“A date.” he spells, and he regrets doing so when he notices your expression break slightly. 

Oh.

“Man, that's um…that's new.” Kaveh scratches the back of his neck, surprised by the news. “Didn't know you were interested in that.”

Al-Haitham shrugs nonchalantly, checking his phone every few seconds and fixing the collar of his turtleneck, “She asked me, and I said yes. What's so weird about that?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing! Just never expected it from you…” He coughs awkwardly, not knowing how to continue the conversation, “What time are you coming home?”

“I don't know, probably late. Don't wait for me.” Grabbing his keys and the wallet from the table, he bids goodbye over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with an echoing thud.

For a couple of minutes, he doesn’t say anything in fear of breaking the dreaded atmosphere Al-Haitham has left behind in the awakening of the news of his date. 

Kaveh is fiddling with his pen nervously, unable to look you in the eyes because he knows the expression he’s wearing is neither pleasant nor helpful to the situation. Because just like you, he lingers in this limbo of uncertainty that he can’t seem to comprehend.

He idly wonders if he should have said anything at all. This outcome is not one he predicted nor thought possible in his wildest imagination; and the fact that you're now hurt because of his words and encouragement is making things worse for him.

The fault doesn’t fall on either of you, and Kaveh is aware you won’t hold this against him because feelings are out of anyone's control

And at the end, even if heartbreak is disheartening and ignites horrible emotions from within your soul, it is better to know it now than later.

Losing a battle that has never begun hurts more than you’ve ever thought.

When the first sobs go past your sealed lips, Kaveh's resolve breaks at once.

There is not a second of hesitation from him when he tosses his things to the side to cradle you between his arms and you latch onto him as your anchor.

The reciprocation serves to let him know this was the right action to take, losing stabilization that makes both of you slide down to the floor clumsily, but still in each other's arms.

Kaveh tries to fix you on his lap to let you rest comfortably, hand running down your back in soothing motions while you cry quietly against his chest.

It goes on for a long time, but he doesn't let go of you for a second. 

He can’t even say anything to make you feel better and it's frustrating. Not because of you, but because Kaveh isn’t good enough to communicate that everything will be alright. You don’t need that idiot who doesn’t realize how wonderful you are and it’s missing it out for a person who isn't worth the time—no offense to Nilou, she's a nice person, but you are more important than any other woman.

Biting his lip, he runs his fingers through your hair softly while you cry. He gets tangled easily between the fringes of hair, and Kaveh panics slightly when he gets stuck and is unable to detangle without causing a mess or pulling your roots. But when he hears you whine, and break a little laugh at his attempt at comforting you and messing up, he smiles softly, kissing the top of your head gently.

You tap the arm that’s holding your waist, catching his attention and making some distance to see your face. Kaveh frowns at your expression, cleaning a stray tear and cupping your cheek, thumb running soothingly under your eye. 

With trembling fingers, you start spelling slowly to him, “I’m sorry.”

Kaveh shakes his head, smiling reassuringly at you. His reply is slow, too, vocalizing every syllable, “Don’t be.”

“My fault.”

It's not your fault, he wants to say, but shortens it with a shake of his head. 

Conflicting emotions swirl inside of you, each one unable to place a name or intensity, that sends you into an overwhelming state of sadness.

Never in your life have you experienced something this strong that could make you ill with a snap of your fingers, rendering you weak and detached from your reality.

It still feels like a fever dream when you think about Al-Haitham trying to court someone, the ugly jealousy hurling inside your chest and your brain creating unnecessary images that do nothing to help your case nor fragile feelings.

Overthinking has always been your strong suit, despite trying to get rid of that bad habit for a long time; and it shows clearly that’s still ever so present when Kaveh shifts from under you, his big palm patting your head with care, and the tears well up in your eyes rather quickly with his show of affection because you selfishly wish this was Al-Haitham.

Falling in love is not as easy as romance books make it seem to be. It doesn't come with step by step instructions to help you get over the one you love, much less how to get the person of your affections when nothing seems to go your way.

The journey through the lands of unrequited love is a heavy one, one where you couldn't bring yourself to fathom severing the ties that bound you to him, even when the chance of Al-Haitham still hurting you unconsciously existed. Your love, though hopelessly one-sided, was a testament to the depth of your emotions—it’s bittersweet to try to find comfort in the idea that you might heal in the future, that you will get over him, but it lingers for a brief second before it vanishes completely.

And you rather be hopeless in love than to lose this cherished feeling you’ve cared for a long time.

Your brain runs down a mile, thought after thought, tears after tears, until you are left bare and dry from crying and fall asleep in Kaveh's arms.

#I started watching sign of affection and thought it fit AlHaitham perfectly so here is my rendition(?) to that anime #I didnt like al-haitham until that anime and now i like him #al haitham x reader #genshin impact fanfic #al haitham x you #genshin fic #otip writes

[wingedblooms]

The river to Hel

This meta builds upon theories in Peering into a pit of hell, The space between, Forbidden secrets, Flower of life, Blooming dreams, Bright as the dawn, and Heart of the night court. It includes spoilers for hofas, so please avoid if necessary.

In Heart of the night court, I wondered if there could be a doorway to Hel under/on Ramiel that is linked to Temple of Chaos (Wyrd). I’m very curious about the Pass of Enalius on Ramiel, the heart of the land, that seemed to breathe—

like the pit at the heart of Chaos’s (Wyrd’s) temple seemed to breathe.

In the stone illustrations leading to the sacred peak on the Prison island, we see a Helscape beneath the land. Is it possible that the land above mirrors the Helscape below? And could the dark water in the Bog of Oorid, which flows underground, into the sacred peak in the Middle, and into other courts—including the Night Court—be the start of the path on the black river in Hel? A River Acheron Archeron, like @offtorivendell theorized long ago?

Nesta and Bryce make similar observations of the dark waters in both places:

-

The black surface of Oorid is even compared to a mirror, just like the Temple of Chaos seems to mirror the Temple of Wyrd in Midgard. Is Oorid a reflection, near-mirror, of what lay beneath, like sister-glass?

As indicated by the mist, it is a thin place, which means the veil between worlds is thin there. The color of the water may even be from black salt. Bryce and Hunt use black salt in Avallen, combined with water, to travel to Hel in a dream.

Before the land was cursed by Fionn’s death, it was once a sacred place (like the three sister peaks). People used to lay their dead to rest in the bog.

Did its waters, like a solemn stag, once guide souls of the dead to Chaos’s (Wyrd’s) womb at Ramiel?

If this place does mirror, or bleed into, the path to Chaos’s (Wyrd’s) temple, then could the violence of Fionn’s death have defiled it?

Theia and Pelias may have violated the peace and beauty of this sacred place by ruthlessly killing the king who also seemed deeply connected to its land. It withered upon his brutal death, falling into a deep winter.

When he was drowned, Fionn was gagged and bound. What if his soul remains trapped in its watery depths, unable to make the journey home? Perhaps Elain, a lovely fawn with vibrant spring behind her, might be able to guide him to the womb of the Mother, her sacred temple, and right an ancient wrong. Could this act of peace purify the darkness of Oorid and thaw the winter gripping its soul?

#hofas spoilers #bog of Oorid #the Middle #a mirror image of the Helscape beneath #temple of Chaos/Wyrd #cauldron mother fate #elain archeron #the lovely fawn #righting ancient wrongs #high king fionn #traveling to Hel #the river to Hel

[herbeloved82]

A God Offered Love

Written with @complicitsacrilege for the event, this is also a gift for @shittyravencarcosa. Happy Birthday dear.

“We are not Gods.” 

A voice raised above those of beings as ancient as time itself, and silence fell among them. 

“We are not Gods,” the same voice repeated now that he had their full attention. “And we better stop behaving like their rules apply to us.” 

There was bitterness in his voice, and he had the eyes of someone who had seen too much. It was like a veil of resentment and regret clouded them and yet they were as clear as the sea or the sky on a beautiful winter morning. 

“You should stop fighting this, Marius.” 

Someone else spoke and addressed him with familiarity and a compassionate smile on his ageless face. As beautiful as the others, his skin showed the same quality as the purest marble. 

“Don’t patronize me.” 

“Then you should learn to listen.” The same man spoke again. “You fight something that you couldn’t accept when you were a mortal, and you are still fighting it. After so long, we are all worried about you.” 

The one called Marius looked around and for the first time he realized all the attention was on him, but not for what he said. No, there was something else, something that they were keeping hidden behind the walls in their minds. Marius didn’t like this. 

The silence where usually were words and colors and emotions was a clear indication that this wasn’t a casual meeting. This had been planned and Marius fell in their trap. He didn’t even know there was one and now it was too late. 

“Your care touches my undead heart, Khayman, but you shouldn’t worry.” He tried to say, but Khayman shook his head. 

“You have been alone too long, Marius. Eternity shouldn’t be spent alone.” 

Marius shook his head, tired. How many times did he listen to the same words? How many times have they been spoken by people who couldn’t even imagine the true meaning of loneliness? 

Once again he let his eyes wander and he saw the reason why they couldn’t understand. 

In a corner, away from the others, lost in each other’s eyes stood Seth and Fareed. So close no one could really say where one ended and the other began. They overcame the silence of their minds by talking to each other, always. The Gods of medicine they were called, and to them people prayed in hope to be healed. 

Then there were Teshkhamen and Mael. So different and yet close, they weren’t together like Seth and Fareed who were married in front of the Queen and King, bound together by choice and love, and yet they were close. Together they were venerated as those who brought harvest after the harshest winters.

Then Maharet and Mekare, the sisters who dared to stand to Enkil and Akasha and who paid the highest price. Their names were called by those who wanted to know magic and see the future, without understanding what their true power really was and that there was a price to pay to know thighs that were beyond human’s comprehension. 

Today even Rhoshamandes and Benedict, the youngest of them all, turned for his beauty and beloved by many, were there. Marius should have known something was going on when he saw them there. 

They lived apart from them all. Gentle Benedict was worshiped as God of music as Rhoshamandes was called upon when peace was needed above everything else. For them to be there, whatever it was that the others planned, it had to be big. 

Marius was the one always alone. A guardian, a mentor, a scholar but not a creator anymore, not since the moment he had lost Pandora and Bianca, who walked away from him when he had failed to give them what they wanted the most. 

He couldn’t open his heart to them, couldn’t allow them to see the darkness that dwelled in his soul. That led them to believe he didn’t trust them. Resentments grew inside them and so they left without looking behind. Truth was, they were right. He hadn’t trusted them with his secrets and they walked away before he could cause even more damage with his actions than what was already there.

“What is this all about?” He finally asked, when his eyes dropped on the ground and he felt the long years of his immortality fall upon his shoulders. He was tired, oh so tired.

“Your name has been called.” The sisters spoke at once. The echo of their power filling the room. 

“The wisdom of war, when peace is not an option, has been summoned.” Rhoshamandes carried on. 

“The hope to save lives of innocents by punishing the guilty had been requested.” Even Seth and Fareed spoke this time, and Marius knew he couldn’t deny the call. 

“Someone had been offered to you, already.” Teshkhamen finished for them. 

His maker, the one lover who helped him to understand his true nature, his friend, the one he couldn’t deny. 

“Will you answer the call?” The sisters asked, like there was any other answer than yes. Of course he would. It was his obligation, after all, even if his rebellious nature, for just a second, had wanted to say no, to walk away and never care again about what humans did to each other. 

“I will answer the call.” Marius said, for they all demanded a vocal answer from him. 

Their words bound them to actions. 

///

The temple was dark and it deeply smelled of incense and beeswax. It was comforting, like something familiar that one forgot for too long, and yet it was always there, in the back of your mind. His light steps didn’t make any sound as his presence didn’t disturb the quiet of the place. 

The young man there, his offering, dressed in the finest garments of his people, lay on the softest furs that smelled of smoke and pine. A night in winter and a feast only for Marius to devour. 

Did he know what his fate was? Marius wondered. Did his people tell him what was supposed to happen tonight? Was he here willingly or was he forced to accept to be a sacrifice to someone who wasn’t a God but a Monster walking among humans? 

Benedict had been willing. Only those among them who were luckiest met their eternal mates when they offered themselves by choices that weren’t forced or extorted with manipulation. What would be his story? Would Marius find someone he could be himself be, or would their tale be a tragedy? 

Those were the questions that swirled in his mind as he approached the one who was given to him, and he still didn’t realize Marius was even there, covered by the shadows and protected by his own powers. 

Marius took his time to watch the offering. So beautiful, like one of those angels painters loved to represent, with his curly and auburn hair surrounding his face like a halo. Divine, Marius thought, and for the first time he allowed hope to enter his heart. 

“I know you are there, my lord.” 

His voice was like a balm on a wound that Marius didn’t know he carried. The moment the young man spoke, Marius felt the spell of his presence call to him. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before, in all the long years of his life. 

“I hope I satisfy you, my numen. I am yours for you to do with as you will.” 

How could this man, this human, know he was there? 

Feeling exposed and not seeing reasons to hide any longer Marius stepped into the ring of light created by the burning candles that surrounded the furs where his offering was. The man smelled like expensive fragrances and oils that made his hair shine like they were kissed by the moonlight. 

“My name is Marius, young one. I’m no God, or numen. All I am is a monster in disguise.” He stopped before he could start with one of his long tirades, controlling himself for the first time since he could remember his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “What is your name, beautiful one?” 

The young man looked shocked for only a moment, before his piercing eyes locked to Marius’ and a small, knowing smile appeared on his face. 

“My name is Andrei, my Lord, and you are the beautiful one.” The flirtatious smile that curved the corners of his plump lips spoke volumes of how used Andrei was to seduce with his mere presence. Marius was smitten by him, so deeply he was already affecting him that Marius struggled to recognize himself. 

Marius chose to ignore that for now at least. It would be so easy to fall for the siren before him, but something told him that to wait would be the key in this strange chess game he found himself forced to play. 

“And tell me, Andrei, what do you know about what will happen tonight?” 

Andrei replied without missing a beat, “You will make me yours in whatever way pleases you.” He shifted in the furs to expose more of his body. Though he was covered head to toe in traditional garments made of the finest embroidered silk, he had been trained well enough to seduce that he may as well be wearing nothing at all.

“You will be mine, yes, for I am too weak to resist you, and yet I wonder if you really know what will happen after. What do you know of us so-called Gods?” 

Marius moved a few more steps, enough to tower over Andrei, close and yet too distant. 

Even his smell was made to lure Marius in. It was like Andrei was created for him and him alone. 

Under the delicate scents of woods and flowers, Marius could recognize something that was unique. A mixture of cinnamon and copper. It was his blood that called to Marius, and that blood he would have. 

It was strange for Marius to admit weakness, however he knew he couldn’t hide himself from Andrei, not if he wanted a chance at what Seth and Fareed shared. Jealousy was never a part of him, and yet those two awoke inside him a beast he wasn’t sure he could tame. 

For a brief second the memory of Bianca and Pandora, walking away from him, their backs turned for the last time, entered his mind. 

He couldn’t make the same mistakes, no matter how high the price to pay, and yes, his pride was the biggest of his sins.     

   “I know that the only others who have been offered and accepted by the gods have ascended beyond what this world has to offer.” His eyes glinted in the firelight, fearless, yet in his mind the knowledge that he would die was clear. He was offering his body so that his soul could be accepted by a god.

Marius never heard such magnificent words used to describe something that was impossible to understand. 

Andrei was a true believer and that worried Marius, for he knew how easy it was to destroy someone who believed in the idea of them but didn’t know about their true nature. 

Marius had known someone, a long time ago, before he was casted away, forced to live as a renegade by his own kind, who had taken advantage of those who really believed.

Santino was someone he tried not to think about, and yet now, in this sacred place, made stronger by the people’s prayers, he could feel his foul influence. Marius hated it like he had hated him when they first met. His maker had even ended himself when he realized what he had created, however Santino lived and he became the first opposition their kind ever had. As Seth and Fareed were Gods of medicine and healing, Santino became God of illness and destruction. 

If Marius had to be honest with himself, he would have loved to destroy Santino once and for all. But their laws stood, the ones created by the sisters, and so Santino was untouchable, until the moment he posed a real threat to them. Only then his fate would be fulfilled.  

However, something in those words pushed him to come even closer and he sat on the edge of the furs without touching that tempting body that was his for the taking. 

Marius would have loved to be stronger, or even just wiser. He knew he should find the words to make Andrei really understand that the ascension he was talking about was in truth death. It wasn’t a reward, but it could turn into a punishment. 

Then Fareed and his dark eyes came to his mind, and the moment he had joined them by Seth’s side. 

He had been the same as Andrei. Sure of what he thought he knew, strong in his belief that this life, the eternity his mate gave him, was what he was born to embrace. Fareed was happy and he made Seth happy. Could it be possible for Marius to find the same in Andrei, and for him to make Andrei feel the same?      

  Andrei leaned in closer, hesitant to close the distance between them completely - to touch a god without permission surely was a sin. He lifted his trembling fingers to reach out to touch the soft fabric of Marius’ tunic.

Slowly, he brushed his fingers down the unfamiliar texture, captivated by it momentarily. The touch was so featherlight, it was barely noticeable.

Marius watched, intrigued, as Armand moved his fingers upon his clothes. So normal it was for him to wear them, that he forgot how foreign they could look in the eyes of someone who came from a different land. 

There was hesitation in his movements, but also bravado. Marius didn’t give him permission to touch and yet the young man did, because he wanted to. 

If there was something he loved in another man was the fire burning in their veins. Untamed and wild. That was why he could never love Pandora and Bianca like they deserved. 

“Can I touch you?” He asked when Andrei stopped, unable to let this moment go. He wanted, no, he needed for this to never end. 

Andrei’s deep brown eyes gazed up at Marius from under his lashes, seeming to draw him in. Without answer, the boy’s hand reached for Marius’. His fingers were hot when they brushed the back of his hand, and he allowed Andrei to lift it to his own cheek.

He only broke their gaze to press his forehead to Marius’ knuckles as though in praise.

Marius once again allowed his eyes to follow every of his movements. Curious and yet somehow distant. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had touched a mortal. Marius knew of his strength, passed to him through the blood of his maker and trained on the battlefield when the war came and almost destroyed them all. Andrei was so fragile, so delicate in many ways and Marius’ heart broke thinking he would have to cause pain to such a divine creature. 

Following Andrei’s example, he took Andrei’s hand in his own, marveling about their difference in size. Andrei was compact and solid, but his frame was so much smaller than his own. Strength and delicacy in the same, tempting body, a jubilation of opposite attributes that made a perfect whole. 

Andrei’s heart raced in his chest, the blood pumping hard, even in his fingertips. His breath seemed to have caught in his chest, as though he’d forgotten how to breathe the moment their skin touched.

Marius was assaulted by the most alluring scent he ever smelled before. 

He could hear Andrei’s heart, echoing in his ears as the sound of drums of war, calling to Marius on his more basic instincts. 

To conquer and take. To make him his. To satisfy the hunger that his mere presence awoke inside the deepest part of his dark soul. 

Copper and cinnamon. Fresh and metallic at the same time. Like an animal Marius scented his prey and decided there was nothing else he could do, but to devour him. 

Marius moved and Andrei’s human eyes had no chance to see what he was doing, until he found himself on his lap, his mouth covered by Marius’ lips. Ice and fire brought together by passion. 

Marius’ mouth was hard as it pressed against Andrei’s lips in a demanding kiss, and the boy yielded under him.

His sharp fangs pierced the plump flesh and Marius tasted his blood for the first time. 

It was like the most expensive ambrosia, clouding his senses, enslaving him to Andrei’s pleasure when the boy gasped in surprise. 

One of his hands traveled along one of his legs and when the delicate silk covering him became an obstacle, Marius used his sharp claws to tear through it. Then, with the garments laid around their bodies, a ruined offering on the altar of lust, Marius once again moved Andrei like his body weighed nothing, until the boy was on his back and Marius’ hands on his now naked thighs. 

With just an ounce of his true strength Marius grazed his claws along Andrei’s thighs, creating patterns of ruby red blood against the paleness of his skin. Andrei cried out at the sharp pain, trying to writhe away from it.

Marius could hear the shock and fear racing through the boy’s mind, yet he held him in place and only stopped when he reached the delicate skin of his inner thighs, close to his manhood, now half hard. 

Merely a moment was allowed to Andrei to recover from the shock before Marius bent over him, like an eagle would do with his chosen prey. 

With his cold tongue he began to lap at every drop of blood he caused to spill. Andrei tasted as delicious as he smelled and Marius wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible that this creature was born to be his. Then any thought was erased from his mind and his senses focused only on Andrei. 

His taste. His scent. Even his fear called to Marius and Marius couldn’t ignore the call. 

For every red line he left behind, his tongue bathed him clean, until pink lines remained behind to indicate what his flesh endured.

“We take pleasure in different ways, you and I, beautiful one.” Marius said, his lips stained by Andrei’s blood. 

There were tears in Andrei’s eyes, yet he didn’t dare to deny Marius what he knew was rightfully his. He didn’t seem to be able to answer, however, as he writhed in Marius’ grip.

“I can give pleasure to your human body, and when all will be done, you’ll learn of the highest pleasure you ever felt.” 

Finally, Andrei’s eyes, pupils blown wide with fear and adrenaline, met Marius’. His mind was in chaos, having had every preconception of what it meant to be an offering broken in mere seconds. Yet, instead of backing down from what he believed to be his sacred duty, Andrei seemed to steel himself to nod.

“Yes, my lord, I am yours. I will take what you are willing to give me.”

Everything, Marius’ thought. Everything Andrei could ever want or need. He only had to say the word and Marius would do everything in his power to make it happen. 

But those words never reached his mouth. They were spoken aloud, for they were for Marius to know and for Andrei to learn, with time, of the power he had over him. 

Instead he licked his right hand and used it to wrap around Andrei’s cock and the boy arched into his hand. He seemed hesitant to take his eyes off of Marius, but when he began to move his hand, stroking his thumb over the tip, Andrei’s head tipped back into the furs under him.

The boy’s skin flushed with arousal as Marius’ hand began to move with a slow rhythm, as though to draw out as much of Andrei’s pleasure as he could with each stroke.

It was a curious thing to see the human’s pleasure building in him. The way his small hands fisted in the furs, knuckles going white as he bit his lip to restrain himself.

A soft sound of pleasure escaped Andrei’s lips as Marius twisted his hand to spread a drop of precum from the tip.

Marius drank in every noise Andrei made, never allowing the boy a moment to control himself. He wanted to see him falling apart, to reach highs he never met before. He wanted everything he had to offer and more. 

The night, so quiet before, echoed with this siren song of his all too human heart. Marius couldn’t resist and the scent of arousal only grew as Andrei’s breath came in short gasps and he bucked his hips under Marius’ hand. 

Marius’ rhythm became more broken as he had to make sure not to hurt Andrei when the first drops of cum fell on his hand. 

To watch his pleasure to find relief, knowing it was him who gave this to Andrei was enough to break what little resolve he still had. 

If things were different and Andrei wasn’t his offering, Marius would love to think he would have given Andrei the choice, or at least time to know what was waiting for him. Now, both of them were powerless in front of what was to come. 

Andrei was a sacrifice, Marius was the God that had to accept it in front of his kin, there was nothing in between. No choice offered or taken, no way for this to end in any other way but with Marius offering him the dark gift and eternity by his side. 

Lost in those dark thoughts of regret and longing, Marius felt more than heard, the moment Andrei reached pleasure. The hoarse cry that echoed in the silence of the temple turned into pain when Marius held Andrei’s body to his chest and sank his fangs in the delicate skin covering the veins of his throat.

Then he drank, and with every mouthful of the precious nectar, he brought Andrei closer and closer to death, only to offer him something else, something more. Vaguely, he was aware of Andrei’s fingers grasping at his back, but he only drank more deeply.

When his heart was weak but still beating, Marius let him go for just a moment, long enough to slash the side of his own neck open with one of his claws. Then, gently, like he was holding the most precious of all treasure in the world, he guided Andrei closer with one hand cupping the back of his head.

His ancient blood, for the first time shared out of a love so great Marius could feel it blossoming in his soul, touched the pale lips, but for a moment nothing happened. 

“Drink, beautiful one, and become one with me.” 

A prayer from a God to a sacrifice, something that was never heard before in the walls of this temple. It was enough to move Andrei’s heart into accepting what Marius was freely offering.

Oh how easily did their roles turn, Marius thought as Andrei latched onto his neck, as though he knew the blood was the one thing that would give him a new life. A new beginning they could share. 

The God and the offer. 

The Sacrifice and the acceptance.

One like never before. 

One for eternity and beyond. 

Away from prying eyes the sacred rite was performed and Andrei’s fear seemed to burn away with every mouthful of the blood that passed his lips. He gripped Marius tighter, pressing himself as close as he could, as though the blood he drank could make them become one being.

It was when their hearts beat as one that Marius felt the swoon hit him. It burned through his veins, as Andrei drank mouthful after mouthful, making Marius’ heart pound in his chest.

The sensation was one Marius rarely ever felt from sharing his own blood with another, and though he was loath to do so, he pulled Andrei back, tugging him away to break the connection with a gasp.

The boy’s eyes were dazed, and his lips coated in blood, which Marius couldn’t resist to kiss away. The taste of himself on Andrei’s lips only drove his hunger as he kissed Andrei deeply.

The moment the kiss was broken, Marius pressed his lips to the unbitten side of Andrei’s throat, leaving a smear of blood on his pale skin. Without hesitation, he bit down once more, and the boy whined as blood was drawn from him once again.

Their pleasure only seemed to grow with each exchange of blood that followed, until finally Andrei’s body had given in to the blood and he began to die in Marius’ arms, unable to drink anymore.

He gasped softly, and Marius could hear his heart slowing as he shifted to carry the weight of Andrei’s body as he died. The boy’s thoughts were confused and frightened, but Marius only stroked his hair.

“Let it go, beautiful Andrei. Give yourself to me, as I gave myself to you. Come to me in your new life.” 

Andrei was unable to speak as finally, his heart failed to beat again, but he gave one final gasp before going limp in Marius’ arms.

It didn’t take long for life to return to him, however, and as his body changed, Andrei woke once more, digging sharpening nails into Marius’ back.

Marius laughed softly, fears evaporating with every breath Andrei took. 

“You are a feisty one.” He said and his voice was light and harmonious, so different from the usually composed and cold tone he had with others. 

Andrei finally lifted his head as Marius spoke, raising curious eyes to take in the sight of his sire, and Marius couldn’t help but kiss his soft lips once more. His lips were pricked by the growing fangs in Andrei’s mouth as the boy kissed him back in return, as though to chase the taste of blood on his tongue.

Only when the sun grew too close to the horizon were they forced to interrupt the intimacies of kisses and whispered words shared between them as Marius took Andrei in his arms once more. 

“Do you trust me,” he asked, and waited for Andrei’s answer, fighting his own instincts that were screaming at him to take his precious Andrei away from harm, where the sun couldn’t reach them.  

Tiredly, as though the weight of the sun were the weight of the world upon his eyelids, Andrei nodded, nestling closer to Marius’ chest.

Only then did Marius use his powers to lift them up into the clouds, towards the villa he owned nearby. 

There he took Andrei, now almost unconscious, to the one secret room he never shared before, where his coffin was hidden, to keep him safe. 

Today it had another task - to keep Andrei safe from the world itself, if necessary. 

Marius never learned how to share and he wasn’t going to start now, not with Andrei. 

And once they were safely inside their coffin, Marius allowed himself to relax into sleep, with his fledgling in his arms.

END 

#Spring event #de romanus coven #marius/armand #the vampire chronicles #de romanus coven events

[ibrithir-was-here]

Old short story I wrote a couple of years ago and then forgot about. Remembered it the other day, gave it a bit of a brush up, and figured I'd share it. My own take on the old "Dark Snow White" retelling

Sunlight and Snowdrops

Father is sending us away tomorrow, sent for schooling at a monastery far off in the south. His new wife--The Usurper, who I will not grace with the title of queen-- tells us of the walled gardens, where pomegranates and figs grow almost year round on trees with leaves as large and tall as a man, a place where the sea still rushes up freely to meet the shore, long stretches of golden sand, forever warm to the touch.

She has talked of little else for months now, as if she and Father hope that such constant chatter will somehow soften us to the idea of our exile, make us forget the kingdom she has stolen from us, just as she has stolen his heart. And perhaps with my sisters she has somewhat succeeded . They always did take after Father, with their butter-yellow hair, and skin flushed like ripe peaches. Perhaps they were always more suited for such places. But I am my mother’s daughter, as any who look upon me can tell, and I will not be made to forget.

For how could such a flat, lurid place ever hope to compare with the beauty of my mother’s kingdom? What is a stretch of damping sea-shore to the beauty of a deep lake, forever crystallized into the finest mirror? What are walled gardens with their mad jumble of gaudy fruits to the dark towering pines, whispering to each other as the wind moves through them? What monastery could ever hope to reach heaven in the way that the mountains of the valley swell up in dark waves, to crack the egg-shell gray of the sky?

It is the blue sky of that far off place I fear most of all. What want have I for a sky of unchanging blue, suffocating in it’s immensity, with its one great burning eye beating down to peel and crack my skin in the day, and it’s thousand eyes to stare down at night? My mother’s pale sky has never once burned me, never once stared into my dreams, not with her veils of snow to protect me. Her sky is forever changing, shifting from stillness to storm on her whim. Blasting and breaking, soothing and softening, blanketing all with her beautiful covering of pure, protective white.

But my father’s new queen has poisoned its beauty for him, turning his head with her talk of salted water and coarse sand. If she wishes to retreat to such places, then I say let us be well rid of her. If my father and sisters are fools enough to follow her, to believe the lies she and her counselors and sages have spread about my mother, the rightful queen, then let them be off as well. I know the truth, I have not forgotten, I of all her daughters, have remained faithful.

There are so few of us now. So many have turned away from their true queen. But though loyalty is fragile, memory remains as firm as the ice upon the Great Lake. Despite their seeming love for the Usurper, The common people still tell my mother’s story. The Usurper thinks that because she was once one of them, a drudge plucked from obscurity by the weakness of my father’s will, that their hearts have turned to her in full.

But they can never forget my mother completely, she does not let them.

When the winds howl thick, like wolves at the door, the tale, long and wondrous and wild, is whispered between huddled crones and wide-eyed children.

A tale that takes hold of the mind and heart, as surely as the cold takes to the bones.

It begins in Winter, for indeed, how could it not?

A winter long and dark, when my grandmother, a woman wise in the old ways of the world, sat sewing at her window, looking out into the forest that spreads like an ink stain all round the castle, the snow falling heavy all around her, silencing the world as she made her request to the magic of the woods.

Three drops of her own blood she spilt to gain her heart's desire, a child for her childless king. And a child she received, a beauty such as never been seen. Hair black as the trees of the forest, lips as red as the blood she had given, and skin as white as the purest snow. A child of the winter woods, born on winter’s darkest night.

A life had been granted, and so was a life taken away. My grandmother lived long enough to bless my mother with her name, and the king, who once had so longed for a child, was now too grieved to bear the sight of his new daughter. And so my mother was given over to the wife of the castle’s woodsman, recently blessed with a child of her own, and who, most importantly, lived in a cottage on the edge of the woods, far, far away from the castle grounds, and her mourning father’s eye.

For seven years my mother grew up in the care of the woodsman’s family, as loved as if she were their own blood daughter, and the girls loved each other as sisters. They spent many days beneath the shadows of the trees, and learned much from the woods. They say even then, before she had come into her power, that the creatures and spirits of that place knew my mother as part of their blood, knew that something of her had come from something within them, and protected her for it.

It was in the winter of her fifth year that she met my father, a lad of nine, trapped within an enchanted bearskin. She and her foster sister brought him into the warmth of their cabin, saving his life, and each winter for three years after, he returned. She told me once that those winters were some of the happiest memories of her life, surrounded by those she loved in the shelter of the snows.

It was in summer that her sorrows came.

It was in summer that my mother discovered the gnome that had cursed her bear, and by his death my father was freed from his enchantment, only to then return to his own far off kingdom. It was in summer that my mother was parted from her foster family, recalled to court at last--only to find her own usurper on her father’s arm.

The people of the land adored the lady who had come to them out of the sun-drenched south, calling her their Summer Queen, praising her for the abundance that had blessed the lands since she had wed the king. And surely there was never a woman so beautiful. They say that her hair flowed like sunlight itself down her shoulders until it touched the floor, braided all over with flowers of every hew, and her eyes were as blue and bright as an August morning.

My mother said she could feel those eyes trying to melt her the moment she was brought before them.

My mother was not at court long. One day, the Summer Queen surprised her with a visit from her foster-father, and though he smiled at her, his eyes seemed grim and troubled. They traveled together down to the edge of the woods, far from the eyes of any in the castle--and there he took out the knife, carved all over with flowers, to cut out her heart.

(He claimed later, when the coup was over, and my mother restored to the throne, that he had only done so to protect his family, his own little daughter. My mother granted him the same pity he had shown her, and sent him into the woods, alone and unarmed. I do not know to this day if he fell to the animals or the cold that finally came, but by all accounts, he was never seen again.)

My mother, for her part, wandered for months alone beneath the boughs of the woods. The animals did not harm her, the woods knew its own, but she dared not venture near the edges where human souls still delt, fearful now that any might betray her to the Summer Queen. And as remarkable as she was, she was still only a child, and had never had to care for herself before, and she longed for the cheer and company of creatures like herself.

More than that, the heat of a seemingly endless summer wore at her. August passed into September and September to October and on, with nary a change to be seen. The leaves on the trees remained green, and did not fall. The rivers ran along as full and fat as ever, though there was no snow left to feed them. The sun felt like a great eye, searching for her beneath the sheltering shadows of the forest. Only at night did she find respite, and she longed for the relief of a winter that never came.

Farther and farther she wandered, seeking someplace where she might find some sign of chance, some shelter from the daylight that stretched longer and longer. At last, she found herself upon the slopes of the farthest mountain. Her feet were worn ragged from wandering, and her tongue was cracked from the heat, but with the last of her strength, she managed to stagger to the summit, and there, in a hollow tucked into the dark shadows of the peaks, so dark that even the hottest of summers could not fully touch them, she found snow.

And there her strength finally deserted her. She lay down upon the snow as contentedly as if it had been a feather bed, and might have slipped into the endless sleep beneath that cold coverlet, had it not been for the little men.

The frozen-beards, the valley people call them. Dwarfs that live in the fields of ice upon the mountains, having little to do with the valley people. They delight in the cold, they are said to be able to call up snow storms to hide their homes,and in winter they might be seen galloping along in the wake of an avalanche as happy as a child at play. But for all the ice of their beards, they are warm of heart, and they took the half-frozen child into their home as readily as if she had been one of their own.

For seven years, my mother at last knew peace. In the caves of the mountains she learned much of the songs and stories and skill of her new family. She learned the shaping of swords and the setting of gems,and the summoning of wind and fog, and was happy.

But nothing lasts forever, and at last, summer found her patch of hidden winter.

The king of a far-off land had proclaimed his intention to visit our valley kingdom, which had grown in renown-- and profit-- thanks to the summer that seemed trapped within the crown of our mountain valley. The rivers and Great Lake were never clear of vessels shipping goods out and bringing gold in. Both people and purses grew fat from the bounty, and basked in the seemingly endless sunshine.

There was one stain however, upon the glorious reign of the Summer Queen, though it was only spoken of in whispers, for it would not do to complain of such small misfortune within the wake of so many blessings.

The Draining Sickness.

It came on quickly, overnight in some cases. Those afflicted withered away, drained, pale and almost bloodless, like unwatered plants beneath the noon-day sun. No one knew how it spread, it seemed to only strike one village at a time; and oddly the most healthy and comely succumbed first, as if offended by their vitality and beauty.

Fate however, seemed inclined to some mercy. For each village that was stricken with loss soon found itself blessed with an overflowing of crops and commerce, as if Death felt some blood money was owed.

It was not only the young and lovely who were taken though. The old King, my mother’s father, was struck down on Summer’s Eve itself— along with seven young girls from each of the surrounding villages. But the grief over these deaths was short-lived, such was the glory of the days that followed, the golden sunlight drying the tears from the cheeks of the mourners even as they fell. Indeed, it seemed hard to grieve anything beneath the sun of that long, long summer. The Summer Queen, clothed in green and yellow and scarlet and blue, wore only a black ribbon around her neck for mourning, and none falted her.

It was then that the rumors came, rumors that the visiting king was not only there to see the beauty of the valley, but of its women as well. Indeed, those coming before his entourage said that he was seeking out one who was rumored to be the Fairest of them All.

The Summer Queen, shining almost to match the blazing endless sun, was more than happy to aid him in his search. And it was undoubtedly her efforts to ensure her own success in fulfilling the terms of his quest which led her to discover that my mother’s heart--which she thought she had devoured seven years ago, at the start of her endless summer --still beat it’s red,red blood within her snow white breast.

A grand celebration was proclaimed in the king’s honor, a festival of such magnificence as had never been seen outside of the old stories, and travelers came from all the surrounding lands to take part, ply their trades, and sell their wares. Up and over the mountains they came, and several passed by the cave where my mother dwelt.

Was it any wonder that my mother, still so young, having found a measure of peace in that snowy valley which soothed the burns upon her soul, and made her long to return somewhat to the world of men and look once more upon human faces, took in good faith the laces, brought by from far by the cargo boats; the comb, carved and painted so cleverly with a myriad flower; and finally, most beautiful blood-red summer apple, grown in her father’s own orchard?

When my mother woke again-- to the face of my father, returned from afar at last to find the girl who had freed him from his curse, and had now freed her in return-- she was not so naive.

My father had brought many men with him, and the people of the valley had grown slow and complacent in their bounty. When his men came with their swords, and the frozen-beards called up their icy winds, and my mother rode down upon the capitol in a sleigh made from her own glass coffin, they were not prepared to withstand the onslaught. Soon enough all had either fallen to their knees —or fallen where they stood.

The Summer Queen danced at my mother’s wedding, in shoes crafted by my mother herself, in the art taught to her by her foster-fathers. Shoes which returned upon the Summer Queen all the heat of the sun which she had stolen by her sacrifices and bloody rites.

Then my mother took up her rightful throne, and winter came at last to the valley.

My mother and father were wed in the open courtyard, as the snow fell like diamonds all around them, and all agreed they had never seen a more beautiful sight. My mother’s foster sister, who had remained loyal to her true queen, was reunited with her, and wed to my father’s brother. Children followed both of them after, and for many years, the natural order of the seasons came and went.

It was on my seventh birthday that my mother found the mirror, tucked behind a tapestry woven with fruit and flowers, in the abandoned tower of the Summer Queen.

No one knows where the Summer Queen obtained the mirror. Some have claimed it was a wedding gift from her godfather, a fallen priest who had taken supper at the Scholomance. Others that she crafted it herself, from water and moonlight, on a witch’s sabbath. But my mother told me once that the mirror was only a shard of a greater whole, and that the Summer Queen had only happened upon it, and though her own powers were great, her vain and narrow mind only able to discover the basest powers of the mirror.

But my mother-- born of blood and snow and forest, learned in the lore of the mountain folk, the perfect inversion in shape and soul of the Summer Queen-- could feel at once what was before her. She had higher aspirations than to know of mere beauty. After all, why should she trouble herself over such trivial questions?

She was, and is, the Fairest of them All.

No, my mother asked for vision and clarity, and the mirror readily supplied, showing her the darkness that lay in the hearts of men, the twisted, choking desire she had already tasted in an apple grown of blood and summer heat, and she knew what she must do.

That night, on Summer’s Eve itself, the snows began to fall.

The winters lie heavy on our land now, as heavy as summer once did. Our borders have shrunken back to what they were before the days of the Summer Queen. The rivers she once choked with cargo boats and merry-makers now flow freely beneath the protection of their own glass coffins. The flowers that once crowned her traitorous head have not been seen in many a year. The mountains are eternally capped with snow, the frost-beards no longer trapped within their narrow valley. Our kingdom, once vibrantly flushed with the blood of those taken to feed an endless summer, is now white and pure, cleansed by the endless falling snow.

My mother saved her kingdom from a blood soaked opulence, from a land made rich and fat off the hearts of their own, and yet they still turned upon her. Called her witch, demon, and worse. In the end, as the purifying snows fell heavier and heavier, The Usurper-- covered in ash from the fires she’d set to hold the snows at bay-- besieged the capitol. With her brother at her side, with an army of thred-bare shop-keepers and merchants laid low, she came up the Great Road with as much pride and assurance as if the crown sat already upon her head.

My aunt, foster-sister of my mother, and others who remained loyal, who knew their true queen for the power that she was, fought back. Indeed, my aunt and the wolves that answered to her slew The Usurper’s brother upon the very threshold. But the faithful were soon overwhelmed. The few who survived were driven into the woods, seeking the shelter that had been granted to my mother. The Usurper had the trees set ablaze, calling out that the dark powers of the forest would not be allowed to aid the followers of a witch. Her army came right up to the palace gates. And my father, my dear, foolish, fearful, traitorous father, who’s heart had been turned by The Usurper’s treacherous lies--himself unbarred the door for her.

My mother did not flee, whatever they say. She who had vowed to never be driven by anyone again, she who had bent the very elements to her will. She did not flee before The Usurper’s feeble army of ragged townsfolk and treacherous palace guards,even as they tore up her portraits, burned her books, and smashed her mirror into a thousand pieces.

No,they were not granted that victory. When she fell, she fell of her own accord, and her white gown sparkled like snow-flakes in the sun as she dived, down from the window at which her mother had once sat sewing, down, down into the blazing, waiting embrace of the woods that had heard her mother’s prayer.

When the fires at last burned themselves out, they found my mother’s body, ash covered, but untouched by the flames, as if even they could not bear to besmirch her beauty. She was placed once more in the glass coffin that bore her name, and it sat in state for three days in the royal chapel. She was, after all, a king’s daughter, and wife of another. On the third day, it was gone. Some claim she was properly buried, far beneath the ground, with a hawthorn branch in her heart. Others say that the rebels took the coffin, and burned it till the glass was melted down into a lump as black as her hair had been. The faithful say that the frost-beards came in the dark of the night, and reclaimed their daughter, carrying the coffin up once more to the high valley where my father once found her, to await the day when she will awaken again.

If she has not so already.

For though my mother’s crown sits on The Usurper’s head, and her daughters are to be sent to the far corners of the earth, in hopes the heat of the sun and the scent of the flowers will drive her from their hearts, the winter still lays heavy upon the land, and the wind has not ceased to blow since the day that she fell.

Father is sending us away tomorrow, and I do not think he shall be long in following. So many have left already. He longs for the shores of his youth, where the spring and summer follows after the winter. My uncle, his brother, has already returned there, with many of his children. The common folk are leaving as regularly as they can clear the mountain passes, which is not easy in these times. The birds and gentler animals left years ago. Soon, it will be only the wolves that prowl the dark woods, edging closer and closer into the towns as more and more people abandon my mother’s frozen kingdom. They say that the spectre of my aunt can be seen running with the wolves sometimes, when the moon is obscured by clouds, red cloak trailing behind her like blood on the snow.

They can send me away, but I shall find my way back. A thousand’s flowers scents could not make me forget the smell of the pines, a thousand bird’s songs could not drown out the howl of the wind. The bluest of skies cannot burn away the purest of snows. Not all the mirror’s pieces were ground to powder. I managed to save one, one single shard reclaimed in the chaos that shattered my childhood. I have kept it close, reworked and polished it, set it into a clasp on a chain that rests even now against my heart, hidden beneath my dress so that The Usurper cannot see. Already I have learned much, not as much as my mother, I do not claim that, but enough

And when the time is right, I know it shall lead me home. Past the guards that will be placed at the door, past the gates that will be barred, over the rivers and hills and far away, back to my mother’s mountain. And there I know I shall find her again, hair as black as night, lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow; riding in her sleigh of glass thru the eternal winter air to meet me.

#my writing #snow white #snow white retelling #got inspired by a few different short stories #Tanith Lee's Red as Blood #Neil Gaiman's Snow Glass Apples #and Theodora Goss' England Under the White Witch #plus just my own love of faitytales and finding ways to mash them together #also wanted to do a dark Snow White story where she doesn't just start out as an evil vampiry child #but becomes corrupted by her fear and trauma #snow white and the seven dwarfs #snow white and rose red #little red riding hood #hansel and gretel #(the usurper is meant to be gretel as in some varients she grows up to marry a king #and who better to kill a witch?) #honestly would love to come back and explore some of the other characters in this story like her and red riding hood) #the snow queen #(really i think i just wanted to tie all the snow white/snow stories together x) #short stories #short story #walter crane #for the banner art #dwarves #witches #vampires #kinda with the witch queen

[defectivevillain]

engineered escapism

pairing: karl heisenberg x masc!reader

reader’s pronouns: he/him

[Essentially, you’re in Ethan Winters’ place, although you’re not married to Mia and Rosemary isn’t your child… For the sake of the plot, Rose is your younger sibling! Her disappearance justifies your journey into the strange village.]

word count: 2.7k [ao3 version here]

You’re quickly getting tired of this village. It’s dilapidated and wrecked, with werewolves roaming around and dead bodies scattered about the land. The area reeks of death, destruction, and grime. The smoky air is so suffocating that it makes your head pound incessantly. You shake your head in disbelief, musing on the prior events that led you here. They snatched Rose up and dragged you out of the house. You need to find Rose, no matter the cost.

After a rather painful amount of time spent ransacking the village for weapons and valuables, you find the key you need to enter the area leading to the castle. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you unlock the gates and walk towards the looming castle walls. It appears that the path leads to a side entrance, thankfully. You shouldn’t be spotted here. Upon entering the passage, you find dim torches lighting the way and rubble littered about the floors. It seems you’re still not in the castle just yet. Your eyes catch on a crank next to a ginormous door and you reach out to pull it.

“Well, well.” You whip around, dread coiling in the pit of your chest when you take in the rugged-looking stranger lurking in the corner. The man is wearing a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses. He carries a vicious metal hammer, which is currently propped against his shoulder. You gulp. “Didn’t think anyone was left! You must be pretty stubborn, huh?” As the man takes a step closer, you realize that there are things floating around him. Upon closer inspection, it appears the metal scraps nearby are hovering in the air, as if he is controlling them. You suddenly don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Who are you?” You manage to choke out.

That must be the wrong thing to say, because the man’s smirk grows wider. “You’re not from around here,” he realizes aloud. You grimace. “Even better.” You don’t get the chance to question what that means before there’s a sharp pain slicing through your chest. You look down, only to find that you’ve been impaled with a metal rod. Your knees crumple beneath you and you fall to the ground. Just as you try to push yourself up, metal slams into your skin. The scraps surround you until your vision fades to black.

You’re later awoken to the rough sensation of being dragged along the rocky ground. When you finally manage to blink the stars out of your eyes, you find that your hands are entrapped within another metal contraption. The man from earlier is dragging you behind him, using a long chain that connects to your trapped hands. You try to resist and dig your heels into the ground.

“Easy, buttercup,” the man says over his shoulder, evidently noticing your rather pathetic attempt at resistance. There’s no trace of his earlier amusement in his voice. You contemplate your options. You could try to break free and risk this guy retaliating and killing you. You could also go along willingly and try to figure out your options from there. You sigh. It would be safer to wait to see what he has in store. “We’re almost there.” He laughs. You try to keep your eyes open, but your exhaustion wins out once more.

It feels as if, the moment your eyes slip shut, you’re being roused awake again. This time, it’s not the rough feeling of being dragged around that tears you from sleep. Instead, it’s a woman’s voice. You can’t quite make out what she’s saying, so you instead wait for the graininess in your vision to pass. Once it does, you’re immediately wishing you were unconscious once more.

A small figure stands before you. She wears a bride’s gown and veil. Her skin is a haunting grey and her empty eyes lock onto you. Just as she takes a step closer, another figure enters your view. This one is grotesque. He has bones tied to his temple and his purplish skin is wrinkled with wear. The two start fighting and, thankfully, lose their interest in you rather quickly.

“My daughters grow hungry for… fresh meat.” You turn to your left, only to find a tall woman wearing a brimmed hat and an elegant white dress. She appears to be a royal of some sort. Her voice sounds somewhat familiar. You wonder if she was the one speaking just as you regained consciousness.

“Give him to me,” the man from earlier smirks.  His attention is focused on the woman standing in the center of the room. These people… They’re debating your life right in front of you, as if you aren’t even there. You stare at him, willing him to turn his head. Against all odds, the man glances at you. You send him your most venomous glare and he chuckles. “I haven’t had a new lab rat in such a long time.” The tall woman sitting across from him stirs at this, as if she has an objection.

“That’s enough,” the figure in the center of the room seethes, successfully making the space fall to silence. “I’ve made my decision. Heisenberg. The outsider’s fate is in your hands.” Trepidation prickles along your skin as the man that assaulted you earlier tips the brim of his hat to the woman speaking. Evidently, he is Heisenberg.

“Mother Miranda…” The tall woman says, stepping towards you. You instinctively push yourself backwards. “Heisenberg is immature and childish. Surely this mortal would be better dealt with in my hands.” This statement doesn’t seem to make Heisenberg happy, as he gets up from his seat and starts arguing in response. You bite the inside of your cheek, pretending that your heart isn’t racing out of his chest. The other figures from before are laughing and jumping about, evidently amused with the sudden turn of events.

“Silence!” A loud voice rings out amidst the chaos. “My decision is final.” Eight wings extend from Mother Miranda’s shoulders and her peaceful countenance from earlier has disappeared. The remark seems to dissuade everyone, as the fair lady turns her head. Heisenberg looks thoroughly pleased and he gestures widely to the space above, which—to your immediate horror—is swarming with werewolves.  

“Time for the games to begin!” Heisenberg announces loudly, accruing several hisses from the other creatures. The man then turns around and crouches down in front of you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Let’s see how long it takes you to break!” He lifts his hammer and you scramble backwards just in time to avoid a hit. His hammer cracks into the ground below and suddenly, the werewolves are standing right before you.

“Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four…” It takes you a dangerously long time to comprehend what’s happening. By the time you turn to run away, he’s nearly done counting. You just barely manage to jump down a hole in the corner when you hear him joyfully announce the last number. “One!” You race through the tunnel you drop down in, heart pounding in your chest. The pathway is narrow and rocky, filled with boarded up areas that house angry werewolves. To your annoyance, you hear Heisenberg’s laugh loud and clear. It seems he’s found a way to broadcast his voice throughout the place. You roll your eyes and continue sprinting. Eventually, you come across an obstacle in the path and you have to kick through it to continue on.

Jumping down to another cave area, you take no time to rest and continue running. “Well done!” Just as he yells that, you see a ginormous, hulking creature towering over you. The thing has a giant hammer in its hands and it swings it at you, knocking the wind out of you. Before you know it, you’re falling backwards and down a long tunnel. It eventually spits you out onto the ground of what appears to be a holding cell. Werewolves claw at the bars down at the end of the rocky space. You think you hear Heisenberg say something else, but your adrenaline is roaring in your ears and you don’t have the time to focus on him.

Spikes are falling from above, you realize with horror. Just when you thought you escaped, another insurmountable obstacle appears. How in the hell are you going to survive this? You look around the cell frantically, desperate for some way to escape. The spikes descend closer and closer, until you’re almost crawling to avoid them. Thankfully, in the back of the cave, there appears to be an exit low to the ground. You pull at the wooden planks blocking it and crawl through. Somehow, you find yourself in yet another tunnel. Once it ends, you jump down into what appears to be a dump of sorts. You hardly get the chance to take a few steps before Heisenberg’s voice is echoing throughout the chamber.

“You didn’t think I’d let you escape, did you?” You whip around, only to find another set of spikes. These ones are even sharper and they roll towards you quickly. You race to the rocky wall and manage to find an alcove. The spikes continue to get closer. An idea pops into your head at that moment, and you recklessly hold up the metal contraption cuffing your hands together. “Fresh ground beef!” Heisenberg yells excitedly. The metal rubs against the spikes until the contraption breaks and the spikes stop spinning. You’re left breathing hard as the jagged metal is mere inches from your face. You manage to crawl out from under the spikes and stand up in the wreckage.

Once you regain your balance and your heart is no longer in your throat, you walk into the tunnels ahead of you. To your annoyance, there are more spikes scattered about these paths. Though, thankfully, they don’t appear to be functioning. You fumble your way around until you come across a wooden door that is locked from your side. After quickly unlocking the door and peeking through the crack to the other side, you find that you’re in the same place from earlier—the area where you first encountered Heisenberg. You take a step forward and close the door behind you, before sagging against it for a moment’s respite. Your breaths are still rather ragged and your chest aches from the way he impaled you earlier. You use what little first aid you have left to treat the wound, but, unfortunately, it doesn’t entirely disappear. As you walk through the tunnel, you find yourself outside. Your chest burns and your scratches and scrapes sting against the cold air. It appears you weren’t technically in the castle after all.

To your surprise and wariness, a merchant in a carriage is waiting for you. He’s definitely suspicious, but you settle for buying some of his wares and leaving. He’s far from the top of your priorities right now. Rose is of utmost importance. You have to find your sister. The thought pushes you forward into the castle itself. You push aside the heavy doors to reveal a large gallery. Ornate golden decorations line the white walls and elegant furniture enhances the ambience. You feel incredibly out of place here, but you’re quick to push aside the feeling. None of this matters. Rose is the only one that matters right now—strange creatures be damned.

You finally manage to find the entrance hall, after perusing around the few side hallways that connected to where you first entered. You hear a scream as you enter the space, so you make sure to spend as little time there as possible. You’re quick to run through to the nearest door and continue exploring. Weirdly enough, you can’t shake the feeling that the secrets in this castle will lead you closer to Rose. Clearly, the creatures all know something about her whereabouts. They have to.

Scarily enough, the merchant is somehow inside the castle now. You wonder how you didn’t run into him on his way in. His carriage is rather big, after all. Surely you would’ve crossed paths. You shake your head to clear your thoughts and continue on your way. As you explore, you begin to feel like you’re in a bit over your head. The castle is positively huge and you’re frequently getting turned around. To make matters worse, Lady Dimitrescu and her sisters are often roaming about the halls, so you have to be cautious when exploring. You do encounter one of the sisters, but you’re able to fend her off by breaking the windows in the room you’re occupying and exposing her to the cold winter air. The sisters are vulnerable to extreme changes in temperature, you think. After that encounter, you’re quick to continue exploring. At least, until you come across Lady Dimitrescu. You’re standing just outside her window. You have to crouch in order to keep yourself hidden, but you can still hear her voice as she calls someone on the phone.

“Mother Miranda,” Lady Dimitrescu starts. Well, that’s pretty expected. You’re not sure who else the woman would be calling. You decide to remain silent and continue listening in. “It appears the mortal has escaped from Heisenberg’s foolish trap… I find myself perplexed. Heisenberg has never taken such an interest in someone before.” That last statement throws you off. Taken an interest? What does that mean? You grimace and decide to continue moving, not bothering to listen to the rest of the phone call. It’s pretty difficult to comprehend a one-sided conversation. With that knowledge in the back of your mind, you manage to make your way back into the castle. You’re amazed you haven’t come across any of the other sisters yet. Unfortunately, that is when your luck runs out.

“Come out, little mouse.” You freeze upon hearing Heisenberg’s voice echoing through the hall. Evidently, the man’s trying to beckon you closer. You can’t help but scoff at the new nickname, even though you did feel rather akin to a mouse in a labyrinth earlier. Shaking your head, you look around the space, but there’s no one in sight. For a moment, you think you see a shadow, but it’s gone before you can confirm its existence. Your hands are trembling as you take careful steps forward. You hesitantly push the closest door open, only to fall backwards upon seeing the figure standing in the doorway.

“It seems I’ve finally found you,” Heisenberg says, deftly swinging his hammer up to rest on his shoulder. You take a few steps backwards, but the man matches your steps and grins. The furniture behind you begins to rattle and a few scraps of metal hover in the air near Heisenberg. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long. Perhaps you could be useful after all. ”

Without thinking, you throw the nearest object you can find at him. He dodges the projectile with ease. You begin to think that was the wrong choice, upon seeing the hungry gleam in his eyes. You clasp the gun in your hand and shoot a few shots as a test. Sure enough, they don’t seem to affect him in the slightest. The man takes a few casual steps forward and you glance around the space for an escape. Surely, there’s somewhere you can run. This can’t be the end.

“You’re a tough one,” Heisenerg remarks, unknowing of your internal struggle. You take another instinctual backwards, only for your heel to brush up against the wall. Hopelessness settles deep in your chest and a shiver goes down your spine as you’re faced with the Lord. “I think I’ll keep you.” Before you can begin to comprehend what that statement means, Heisenberg is swinging his hammer into you. You duck down and his swing wrecks the wall you had been standing against. He brings his hammer down again and you throw your hands up at the last second. However, the force of the blow is still enough to send you toppling. Heisenberg is lightning quick and his third swing is far too fast for you to block. The last thing you see before your vision fades to black is the malicious smirk on the engineer’s face.

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