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sillyblues · 10 months

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𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐠𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ੈ✩‧₊˚𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: miguel tells you how annoying you are

ੈ✩‧₊˚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: last and second part of annoying is here!! thank you so much for the huge support yall broke my app my notifications weren’t loading properly lmao THANK YOU! this was supposed to be just a short one but here we are with a part two and a bit bigger word count m’gonna need rest and need more time for the preggo fic

part 1

Wordlessly, you left the team. You returned to your own Earth and did your own thing again. There was a slight tinge of unfamiliarity, knowing that you might never work with other spider people, your friends, again, but you forced the feeling down.

Miguel’s outburst haunted you wherever you went. Even as you fought villains that disturbed the peacefulness of your home, even as you mingled with the other civilians and hung out with your friends, even as you laid down in the comfort of your bed, his words would constantly echo through your head, and they would threaten the fall of your tears every single time.

If Miguel thought you were annoying, what about your other friends? Do they think you were bothersome as well? Maybe, you bitterly thought as you brought your knees to your face. Maybe the civilians don’t like you as well. The thought of the people you treasure and care for so dearly, the people whom you devoted most of your life to save, the people whom you risk getting hurt every day for, hating you, left you breathless.

More tears fell, and you gasped. The ache in your heart was too much to bear and seemed to sting your entire being. You clutched your chest as you laid sideways on your bed, pillows and blanket long scattered on the floor. You tried to muffle your cries, but it was useless, as they still vibrated through the room of your apartment.

Oh, god. Please don’t hate me. Don’t hate me, please. Don’thatemepleasedon’thatemeplease—

“[Name]?” the familiar voice momentarily halted you in your weeping. You slowly rose a bit, supporting yourself on your arm and looked towards the source of it. Peter’s worried look greeted you as he crawled himself out of your window.

“Oh, [Name].” you wavered at his heartbroken voice. He immediately rushed in to hug you. He sat on your bed beside you and embraced you. He rocked you back and forth, one hand on the back of your head that leaned into the crook of his neck, and one hand caressed your back.

“P-Peter, I ca– I can’t,” you hiccupped, and with shaking fingers, you gripped his suit tight. You felt your heart would burst with the way it was beating so fast and hard, ringing in your ears. “I can’t— I can’t breathe.”

“It’s okay, [Name]. I got you. I’m here, okay?” his voice was slightly muffled by the top of your head, but you could still hear him. “I want you to listen to me. Stay with me, yeah?”

You tried your best to respond, but it felt like your body wasn’t listening to you. He pulled back a little and held your face in his hands. You look at his eyes full of undisguised concern overflowing, and you desperately hope he doesn’t hate you too. You gathered what was left of your little strength and nodded weakly.

“Can you tell me three things around your room?” you try to look around as you cling to his arms. You looked away from his eyes and looked around you. Your old lampshade provided you with dim lighting in your dark, cold room. Your messy books were in disarray on the table. You saw a mirror. You saw yourself and how miserable you looked. Your face was wet with tears, and your eyes were red. You also saw how Peter looked at you with such solicitude, and you want to cry all over again.

“Um, lampshade.” You said and winced at the painful scratch in your throat and your hoarse voice. “Books. Mirror.”

“Good job. You did well. Can you move three body parts for me?” you unclasped your hands from his arms and tried to clench and unclench them. You wiggled your head out of his hold, embarrassment starting to creep onto you being seen so sticky and so wet and such a mess. It was fortunate that he understood and he chuckled. You were silent for a moment, and you didn't know what else to move so you settled on headbutting Peter.

“Ow! Of all things, really? Can't believe this is what I get,” he grumbled as he rubbed his forehead. You giggled at his exaggerated expression and unknowingly to you, your tears had stopped flowing, and only hiccups remained.

“Are you feeling better, [Name]? You can talk to me, my shoulder is vacant for you. Or do you want me to just stay quiet? Because yeah, I can do either. Just tell me what to do,” you chuckled even more at that. “I’ll even give you a pass for laughing at me.”

Seeing Peter comfort you like that, there was a sense of relief wash over you. It was obvious he was being genuine with you and if he wasn't, he most likely wouldn't even have the patience to sit with you and let you cry on him.

“It's nothing, um, it's just that,” you sighed as you weakly played with your fingers. The words are lodged in your throat, and you slowly breathe out. He looked at you with encouragement to take it slow, to breathe and you did. “I found out people at the headquarters think I talk too much and they didn’t really like me. Then I made Miguel mad, and I learned how I was annoying him. He probably hates me. And, uh, it got me thinking, what if you and Jess and Hobie think the same way? What if everyone thinks the same way?”

There was an urge to cry again, but it felt like you had cried it all out. There was none left for you to cry anymore.

“Wow, I knew Miguel was all bite and no bark, but I didn’t expect he’d bite that deep. What the hell is wrong with him?” the genuine disbelief made you sputter and chuckle.

“First of all, whoever doesn’t like you is automatically wrong. I mean, who could not like you? You literally make everyone’s day. Jess loves gushing with you about her husband, and Hobie loves talking about how his punk stuff and fighting the literal government which I think it’s really pretty cool of him don’t tell him that he’s going to tell me I should do it as well and I just can’t,” he said. “And I love talking to you because you’re funny and so positive you just know how to make me cheer up. Besides, I’m talking too much now, aren’t I? Always have been. But did you think I was annoying?”

“No! I never once thought you were one.” You replied without a beat.

“Exactly. Us either. Look, [Name], everyone loves you. Trust me when I say that.” He said with confidence and finality that you had no choice but to believe him,

“But, Miguel..”

“He's stupid. I know. Don’t mind what he said because it’s all bullshit anyways.” He grins. “Lyla told me what happened. I’m not taking his side because what he said is just wrong and I get you, you know? Having to hear all of that hurts. But from the bottom of my heart, I think Miguel did not mean what he said. Like, all the pent-up stress got to his head and boom, it suddenly burst out. I’m not saying that it was a valid reason, no. I just wanted to let you know that he doesn’t truly think you’re annoying, you know?”

“Besides, from all the time I knew him, I had never seen him genuinely enjoy his time with someone nor mope so bad when you didn’t come to the headquarters anymore.” He said with a deadpan expression at the end.

“Pfft, really?”

“Yes, really.”

There was a pause, it wasn’t awkward but it made you appreciate him more for coming here for you. He smiled at you and you did too, leaning on his shoulder for support. He hugged you sideways, one arm rubbing the side of your arm and you closed your eyes.

“I missed you, [Name]. We all did.”

“...I missed you all too.”

The decision to come back to the headquarters was a bit hard but you took it slow with Peter’s support. He never rushed you nor forced you to come back which you really appreciated and when you did return, you were sure you didn’t regret it. Jess and Hobie immediately latched onto you, they hugged you tight and told you how much they missed you so bad. They asked you how had you been, if you were alright, if were you hurt, and all that. Seeing their sincere worry for you, you smiled hard enough to hurt your cheeks and slowly you were going back to the old, happy you.

What changed right now was that you avoided Miguel. When you first returned to the headquarters, Miguel was there a bit far away from you. You could feel his earnest gaze at you and you looked at him briefly. The bags underneath his eyes seemed to be bigger and you wonder if he had gotten a bit bigger too. A reminder of his words rang instantly through your head and you breathed deeply silently. You quickly looked away as soon as you laid your eyes on him and that remained true for a couple of weeks.

During the briefing of your missions, he would look at you expectantly as if you would stand beside him like you always did. But you usually stood nearby Hobie who was at the entrance of his office. Sometimes you stood beside Jess and Peter which was a bit near him but not quite so.

“You’re not gonna be near him?” Hobie once asked as he lay down on a flat surface. He nudged his head in Miguel’s direction who was looking at you a couple of times as he talked about the mission details. You smiled bitterly.

“Aight, guess I got more time to catch up with you, huh?” the tip of his lips lifted up, “Wanna leg it and come join the protest in my home?”

“Oh no.” you silently snorted.

“What? It’s fun and we’re doing the right thing, you know.”

“Hobie, are you listening?” Miguel’s voice interrupted you both. You look away, not yet keen on looking at him.

“Yes, big boss. Ears open for you, don’t worry about me,” he stretched his arms before he folded them to lay his head on his clasped fingers. You wondered why he hadn’t called you when you weren’t really listening to him as well. Maybe he targeted Hobie on purpose to make you feel uncomfortable? You bit your lip. No, that can’t be. Peter said Miguel didn’t hate you and you trusted him so despite the voices haunting voices once more, you decided to believe in him.

Sometimes, you two would meet outside the building on his favourite Mexican stand outside the building. Maybe it was a habit formed over the time you knew him that you would buy him his empanadas. Now that you couldn’t bring yourself to talk to him just yet, you bought some for yourself. You could not deny that you missed buying his food, only to eat half of it yourself.

“Ah, it’s [Name]! How have you been? I haven’t seen you in so long!” Mrs. Flores exclaimed as soon as she saw your walking figure towards her. You two have gotten close a bit back then and has since then insisted you to call her ‘Abuela’. “Have you lost weight? You’ve gotten smaller since I last saw you!”

You didn’t think you did but before you could deny she was immediately cooking some empanadas, “Just wait, I’ll cook some for you, okay? No need to pay.”

“Abuela, thank you, but I can’t accept this without payment. Please, let me pay,” you opened your wallet and took some money but she wasn’t having it.

“No! I told you I don’t need any money! Do I look like I need some, huh? Don’t make me angry,” she threateningly pointed her clamps at you. You just sighed, knowing full well that her stubbornness was stronger than any villain you had fought. Suddenly, a figure crept behind you and you paid it no mind, figuring it was some other customer but the voice surprised you.

“Buenas tardes, Señora. Lo de siempre por favor.” You looked at Miguel in reflex. He wore a plain white shirt and trousers and oh, he was so close to you. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but hesitation dripped from him so you took the opportunity to look away and stepped to your side to create some distance between you.

“Oh, ¿es tú novio, [Name]? ¡Lo sabía! Why didn’t you say so? He’s been the one buying empanadas instead when you were gone.” You choked on your own saliva and embarrassment immediately crept up your cheeks. You coughed it out as she side-eyed you. Miguel was silent and you wonder if he wasn’t going to clear this misunderstanding up.

“You had a fight, didn’t you?”

“No, Abuela, he’s not my boyfriend—”

“He isn’t? ¡Qué hombre más estúpido! Are your eyes not properly working? What are you still waiting for?” she snorted at him. The bubbling noises from the oil fill the silence as you didn’t really know how to respond in this situation.

“Well whatever, you will fix it, won’t you?” she glared at him. In that moment, you felt loved once more and you were starting to truly believe that those who said you were annoying were wrong. You bit your lip. You did not deny to yourself that you were expecting to hear his answer.

“I will.” He replied with such determination and resolution as he looked at you. Your heart throbbed, you saw how much he wanted to fix things right with you and you didn’t know how to feel. Glad? Happy? But you also felt upset at yourself because you almost wanted to smile just because of that and it felt like you were too easy in forgiving him even though he hurt you so much. You quickly dismissed the confusing feelings down and when Abuela gave you the empanadas, you hurriedly slipped some bills while you took the food and almost ran off.

But everything would have to come to an end, including this avoidance of yours of him. You sorted out your thoughts, and your feelings, each day as you avoided him like a plague after numerous encounters because you feared that if you saw him one more time, you would burst out and say things that you didn’t mean like he did.

On the day that you decided to finally stop everything and just talk to him, you were beaten to it by Miguel. You were looking through the windows in the building and stared at the beautiful blue skies and the white clouds that decorated it. The flying cars and the mega train running vertically were like the birds and the beam of sunlight back in your home and you were reminded of the differences you and Miguel had.

“[Name],” his voice was so soft, so unlike the tone he had the day he yelled at you. You admit you had gotten comfortable with the pain you felt since that day that you still wanted to evade his gazes and attempts to reach out to you. But the rational part of you, the one that grew from the pain, knew you had to meet his eyes this time. To let him reach you this time. And so you did. You looked at him, you looked at his eyes that were looking at you so desperately, so hesitatingly.

“Can we talk, please? Just the two of us,” he said but to you, it felt like he pleaded with the way his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw was clenched, awaiting your words that seemed like it would decide his fate.

“Okay,” you breathed out and he did too. The crease on his forehead slowly thinned out and his shoulders moved back. You knew that if someone different saw Miguel like this, they would think he was normal and that he wasn’t acting differently. But you knew better. Despite the tough shell he portrayed, there was a man vulnerable just like you. You just had a soft shell.

You two went to his office and the door closed behind you two. He asked Lyla to not let anyone enter for at least a while so nobody would disturb you both. She saw you and waved brightly at you. She then nodded and finally disappeared.

“Before you say anything, can you honestly answer this one question I have? Just one, please,” you asked him, nerves started to creep onto you and you wanted to look away so bad but you have to search for the truth in his eyes. You have to know his answer to your question.

“Sure, yes. I’ll be honest, I swear.” He promised you.

“Did you ever really think I was annoying? That all I do was nothing but cause trouble for you?”

“Never.”

“Liar.” You were disappointed. You were not as stupid and oblivious as others thought of you. There was a part of yourself that knew that you were bothering them. That you were bothering him. But you couldn’t help it. You cared for him and if talking too much, if bothering him would make him distracted from the grief and the pain he had from Gabriella then you would gladly do it.

“No, I wasn’t lying, [Name]—” you looked away. He couldn’t even be honest with you. Were you that unworthy of honesty? That was all you had asked. You clenched your fist and let your nails dig into your palm. “Listen to me, please.”

You start to walk away.

“[Name], por favor,”

You were nearing the exit.

“I— fuck it, yes! I didn’t like you because you were so annoying. I hated you.” You immediately looked back at him. Disbelief was obvious in your face and tears fell from your eyes. You felt a sense of betrayal at this. If he hated me so much, then why did he let me so close to him? Were you just a show to him? Were you entertaining? He was approaching you and strength had left your legs from the shock at what he said but you remained still.

“I hated the way you talked so much I felt like I was losing a part of myself because I wanted to know more about you and listen to you talk. I hated the way you know so much about me. I felt like you could see through me and I was so scared that you would hate me if you knew what I truly am. I hated the way you cared for me like no other because I cared for you too and I was so terrified to lose you too. I hated the way you’re so reckless, you don’t care if you get hurt as long as it’s for others.” He stopped in front of you and tears were also coming out from his eyes. “I hated the way you captured my whole attention whenever you’re there by my side because I can’t look at anything else anymore. I can’t work properly anymore. I can’t think properly anymore and– and I, oh fuck.”

What?

“You’re so annoying because you distract me so much. I hated you because I fell for you and you’re all I could think about and I just don’t know anymore,” he shakily breathed out. His figure was so big but at this moment, you felt like he was so small. His tears ran continuously like a furious stream and you were sure yours were too.

“When you left, it didn’t feel right anymore. I missed you talking to me. I missed you eating my food. I missed you annoying me. I missed you so much it hurts.” His voice turned hoarse and you finally moved. You caressed your hand on his cheeks and he leaned his face against your touch. “Lo siento, [Name]. I really am. Es la verdad, por favor créeme. Por favor…”

“Are you stupid? Why didn’t you tell me?” you cried out as you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him tight. But you couldn’t really blame him. Because he was the same as you. Despite his flying cars and vertical running train and your birds and beam of sunlight, there was still the same blue sky and white clouds. Despite his tough shell and your soft one, you two were just as vulnerable as the other.

“I’m sorry, don’t hate me please…” he croaked out and gripped onto your suit tight. You leaned back a bit to hold his face in your palms. His face was wet, his hair was a mess, and he looked so haggard. You lean your forehead against his.

“I don’t, I promise. I could never hate you and I hate you for it as well,” you giggled amidst your tears.

Really, he was such a stupid man and you were so annoying.

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#blue writes! ✧˖*°࿐#spiderverse 2 #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman 2099 #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv angst

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torahtot · 1 year

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ok fine ill listen to my therapist. goals for winter break

- go outside every day

- finish a book

- hang out with someone at least once

- work out

- practice driving, maybe get my license?

- try to figure out where people hang out around here

- teach rats a new trick

#ok thats enough #weeping bitterly beside the river #i get one more day to mope then im shifting into self care mode #nachi speaks

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mondaymelon · 5 months

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— " 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐢'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧... "

art by @/kodokunoakashi on twitter, edited by me !! angst. an eensey weensey redemption at the end

xiao, zhongli, wanderer, neuvillette x gn!reader

[ centuries after their lover’s passing, they finally are able to rest in your ghostly touch. ₊˚ෆ ]

Perhaps the day he had found your lifeless body, eyes long fluttered closed and splatters of red decorating your throat was the day Xiao began falling apart.

He knew it from the start, that your death would be inevitable. You weren’t like him - a weary soul who had traversed these lands for thousands of years in search of a refuge that Teyvat had never provided for him. No, you were like the evening’s first star, brilliantly shining and setting the entire night sky ablaze. A warm glow that sparked flames wherever its light reached. He was one of many fortunate enough to be caught in your spiraling trap, those cursedly charming grins and a laugh with the innocence of a child. Your sweet warmth was addicting, and once he had a taste, he couldn’t get enough of it. Was that why the adeptus found himself leaving his corner of the inn more and more often, just to trail by your side? Maybe this was the reason he had found himself expressing something on his lips that he had never before?

Fragments split your face in his memory. Years, decades, centuries had passed. To the outside eye, all that could be observed was that the yaksha was particularly more elusive than before, only having briefly appeared once or twice before mortals. With ignorant and foggy minds, they’d declare that the Conqueror of Demons must feel despair over the sudden death of Rex Lapis, and they’d just leave it like that. An open question hanging in the air with no answer to pair it with.

Xiao didn’t know if he still had tears left to weep.

His brethren that he had lost so many years ago had robbed them with their passing, and they were nothing left but an empty remnant of once had remained. A shapeless echo… yes, perhaps that was what he was now. All that knew him were certain that your passing had stolen a part of him that would never recover. The fragments of emotion that you had left with him had only dissipated with time, and he despised himself for it. Shards that danced in his vision as he hefted his spear, whirling it with precision and slaughtering all in its path. They had dared lay hands on you. They had taken whatever resolve he had left. Now, he was but a shell, hollow without your embrace.

It’s cold.

Sometimes, he heard your laugh on the wind, and he’d whip around, expecting to see you there, but only to be met with the terrible, terrible silence, and all the adeptus could do was laugh bitterly. Crystalline drops of tears would threaten to roll past the barriers of his carefully crafted facade, and he’d curse at himself, grasping at his chest with heavy breaths and blown eyes.

He didn’t deserve to cry. No, not after he had failed to protect you. Guilt, self-loathing, karma, all of it… it bound him down with red tendrils that burned against his skin. Pain bloomed throughout his body, a brilliant crimson that stained his clothing, an anguish that he ardently welcomed. His vision dimmed, and his honey eyes which had long since lost their light slowly shut, embracing the darkness that reached for him.

Darkness, so how come when he opened his drowsy lids, all he saw was light?

“Xiao?”

A familiar voice, one that had blurred with time, yet now rang clearly in his senses. Those excitement-filled eyes, that mischievous curve on your lips, and the warmth of your fingers with his. The grass prickled at his back, and the scent of blooming wildflowers filled the air with its spring sweetness.

A smile tugged at his lips. His sorrow spilled from his eyes. He almost could’ve laughed at your concerned gaze, and with a bandaged heart he pulled you closer in his arms. His wounded voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you… for waiting for me all this time, love.”

He still remembers it. It’s a sight that’s been burned into his eyes. The way his composed expression had collapsed, how his disgraced self had fallen to his raw knees. Zhongli had held you then, feeling the precious warmth leave your body, listening to the thrum of your heart slowly ebbing away.

He had been seconds too late to hear what you had spoken in that moment, and only saw the wordless utter on your moving lips, the raspy, labored breaths, until they ceased to nothing but silence. How could something void of sound be so unequivocally loud? The silence rings in his ears, like a horrible testament of his broken contract. That bright moment the two of you had shared seemed centuries ago, an abstract painting of something that couldn’t have possibly occurred. With a beaming face, you had held his larger, gloved hand with two of your smaller ones, grinning at his touch.

“Let’s always be together, okay? No one can keep us apart!” You laughed to yourself at how red the man had grown at your words, and then stared fondly at the silver band he had placed on your finger a day prior, when he had kissed your hands and uttered his words of confession. Red dusted your cheeks at the thought, and to the wide-eyed man, you looked simply ethereal, with the way your lashes fluttered with every blink and the way your cheeks were warm with a smile.

“Yes.” Zhongli had been starstruck by you, so utterly breathless at how speechless a mere mortal could make him. It was astounding, how your smile seemed to steal his words away. He wanted to do nothing but to freeze those seconds, to place them in a glass and cherish them and relive them in a loop that lasted eternity.

Oh, what’d he do to see the way your lips curved upwards into a cheeky grin that you’d display just for him, the snarky comments leaving your mouth, and the way you laughed at his subtle reactions.

It’s only been two hundred years. Should he say “already?” Time passes slow, then fast, fluctuating without any thought of the man in mind. At times, when the clock strikes midnight and moonlight spills into the courtyard like liquid silver, the seconds slow into minutes and the minutes slow into hours, and he’ll gaze out onto the grassy fields where the two of you used to stroll hand-in-hand, and he’ll allow himself a moment of reminiscence. In other times, the world speeds up around him, and the incompetent man is unable to keep up. Your funeral was one of those times. How could he simply walk away from your framed portrait and declare, “that’s that?” Liyue had suffered a terrible loss, yet only he seemed to register that. How come?

Some days, he’ll talk to himself, as if you’re beside him. His words meet empty air and he smiles vacantly, holding a hand that isn’t there and kissing the lips of someone who is long gone. Your shadow is everywhere. He can’t escape it, but that’s okay. He doesn’t want to. Zhongli allows those remnants of you to linger and dance in the wind with the reddening leaves. By the bridge, excitedly petting the stray dogs, calling each and every one of them the name that you’ve bestowed upon them. A sight Ganyu would have loved to see. Or in the branches of a particular tree, laughing down at him with a giggle like birdsong, taunting words. “Would you look at that? Up here, I’m even taller than you, Zhongli!”

And every time he hears your transparent, faded voice, he can’t help but smile, despite how hopeless he feels. You’re gone, and that’s the truth, so where’s the harm in bathing in your afterimage just a moment longer?

He knows it isn’t you. It can’t ever come close. As centuries blur and whirl past, and he finds himself departing to the more secluded spaces of Liyue’s wilderness, he decides it’s time. His nation no longer needs him. The reason he had for living is gone, and the heart that had once been so lively has dulled.

Would it be too foolish to hope that when he opens his eyes, you’ll be there, waiting for him?

“Xiansheng? Come on, come on sleepyhead, wake up already!” Pause. “Oh, will this do the trick?”

And then there’s warmth on his cheek, the feeling of your lips against his skin, and he feels alive, for the first time in those archon-forsaken years. He knows what he’ll see, when he opens his gilded eyes that are shimmering with dew. “Yes, love. I’m here.”

Betrayal. Those sickening words you had spoken to him, sweet beyond belief… Wanderer hissed through his teeth, holding his hands over his ears as his tears fell to the earth and soaked into the dark earth.

Yes, at that time he should’ve known. The truth you spoke to him was simply too good to be true - a fantasy that could never be attained. Yet he had been swayed by your smile and fell for your warmth, and since then had been willingly trapped in a void that was you, with no intention of escaping. It amazed him, almost, how he can smile in this moment, albeit however sour it is. What more proof did he need? To be unable to stay somber in the moments of your passing, did that not just prove how flawed he was? How undeserving?

He detested it. No wonder why you had left this world. It was a pain to even be by his side. Words without “love” and a chest that did not thrum with flusteredness could never convince you to stay beside him. Once again, someone he yearns for has cleverly slipped through his fingers. From the beginning, he was a sinner. A worthless puppet incapable of feeling a shred of what you held for him.

Red dripped from his fingers as they clawed at the earth, as he bends into himself with ugly wails. Could you see him now, wherever you were? Tears flowed freely from his eyes, not heeding his mutters for all of it to cease. He wanted it to end, all of it, the suffering that he felt and the emptiness he could never fully elude. The fatui, his mother, they’d all laugh at him with pointed fingers if they saw him now, wouldn’t they? His flushed cheeks are stained with salt and his throat was raw from his shouts. The blood pooling around your body has already cooled, and your fingers that were intertwined with his had already grown cold to the touch.

“Woah, Wanderer, your skin is really cold! Aren’t you hot at all? It’s summer!” You had stared at him with a childlike fascination, holding his hand in yours, poking it for extra effect, only growing more astonished.

“It’s nothing to be impressed over.” He cleared his throat into his fist, yet did not let go of your hold. “If anything…” At the time, his words had not completed themselves, yet his gaze had trailed to your own hands, and he had kissed the back of them with a cheeky half-smile. I like yours. They’re warm. There had been an inkling of naive hope, that your life could fill the void in his, and perhaps that was what allowed his plastic expression towards you to grow into true ones.

“H-Hey, c’mon…” His voice broke, unsteady like the legs of a newborn fawn. He took your blood-stained hand and pressed it to his cheek, only further wetting it with his tears. “This isn’t funny, you know, you can… you can stop now…”

Look how broken he’s become, stooping as low as to speak to a corpse.

That was only a decade ago. Every morning, the ache of its recollection brings a fresh dose of misery. Every evening he lulls himself to sleep by repeating the words you once said, imagining the stroke of your hands tangled in his hair, imagining your sunbeam-like smile as you gazed down at him fondly.

Really, what’s the point of living with you gone? Could he really call it “life?”

Those questions still remain sharp in his mind as he sputters out a cough, glancing down at the blade in his shattered chest, positioned right where his heart should have been. Cold, unforgiving steel, driving down and tearing apart. Wanderer blinks up at the cursed heavens above and heaves out blood that leaves a lingering red on his lips, and he can’t bring himself to cry anymore. He spits out a final damnation at Celestia before slipping away, eyes closing as he finally-

“Wanderer? Where’s your hat? You aren’t wearing it today?”

Your voice. It breathes life into his empty soul. Warmth. He wants to hold it, hold you, ever closer like he never had the courage to. His violet eyes spring open as he sits up with a start, his disheveled garments flinging about. “Y-You-!”

“What’s with you today? You’re acting strange, silly. Did you eat something you shouldn’t have?” You grin stupidly, an idiocy he finds all so lovable. The twinkle in your eye - you’re alive. You’re breathing and you’re existing before him. A final grace that he can’t thank whatever for enough.

There’s the sound of wind, and then you find yourself tightly wrapped in his embrace, your shoulder stained with his tears that spill despite how much he doesn’t want to show you this weakness. He buries his face into you, and you can feel the ghost of a smile against your skin. “I’ve missed you. So, so much. Please, please, don’t leave me again.”

Lifeless, your body lay, along the shores and lapped by waves stained crimson. That day, Fontaine realized what it was like to truly rain, not a few drops, or even spring showers. Water fell endlessly from the skies, a downpour that may never end, an all-swallowing sea from the heavens that swallowed all unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. Irony clouded the skies, and Neuvillette found himself broken into pieces he didn’t know how to put back together.

His efforts to understand the human population were in vain. A complete, utter failure. How could he possibly judge, knowing the world despised him? Knowing that the scales were upturned and that nothing could ever be just? Your death, it was unfair. Unfair to the world and unfair to he who held you ever so dear. But what else could he do but continue his oversight? Quitting his position wouldn’t bring you back. Nothing would. He could hear your cheery voice in his ear, and the hint of a pout, a chiding tone. “Neuvi, you can’t quit! Let’s all try our best, okay?”

The days where you were by his side were the happiest. Fontaine had become akin to Sumeru’s desert, the sun blazing overhead and the moon shining brightly at night. Yet, how come the people of Fontaine had seemed upset at the skies for his contentment? They begged for rain, begged for their dying crops, to the point where you were forced to distance yourself from the man for days at a time, just the unrelentless sun would cloud over and perhaps a drop or two of rain would be squeezed from the heavens.

If he had known you would leave so soon, he would have never permitted you to depart from his side. If he had known you would pass this world and traverse to the next, he would have held you with every ounce of his soul, he would have declared his love for you over and over, he would have placed the ring he had been saving in his pocket, the one he slipped on his finger whenever he was at a particularly difficult trial.

So many “what if’s.” None of them would materialize. Once again, his efforts would fall short. Once again, he’d lose someone.

The tea was hot. It burned his tongue, yet he couldn’t feel a thing. You, the clearest of springs and purest of waters, had set his own sea into a never-ending storm. Lightning struck and its own surface churned choppily with enough rage to devour a nation. The second tea cup that was on the other side of his office desk remained untouched, the contents slowly cooling into nothingness. A something that could never be.

“Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry~” He could hear it when he shut his eyes for what he hoped to be the final time, your voice from the mist that shrouded his mind, and he wanted nothing more than to embrace the owner of it. How could he possibly heed your words, when he felt his tears slip past his eyes, flowing as unperturbed as a river? Your back is facing him, but you know he’s there. You glance back with a fond beam, extending your arms outwards. An invitation. One that he’d readily take, any time, every time.

He would never enable you to slip from his grasp again. He allows you to engulf him in your arms, he allows you to stroke your thumb on his face and wipe away his salty tears, he allows you to brush his hair behind his ear and press butterfly kisses into his closed eyelids. Your warmth floods his body, and with a smile he takes the ring he’s saved for you out of his pocket, and fulfills his regrets as he slips it onto your finger, a final tear rolling down his cheek. “There’ll be no more reason to cry, not anymore.”

(a/n) this further proved to me that writing angst is so fucking mind destroying but at the same time provides this sort of quiet sorrow that you aren't able to attain anywhere else and for some twisted reason this is literally one of my favorite things ive like. ever written. holy shiiiii

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife

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strangersmunsons · 9 months

Text

read 'em and weep

you and Eddie meet at the library. he’s smitten.

Contains: Eddie x Reader, bookworm!reader, lovesick!Eddie, reader gives Eddie book recommendations. No mention of reader’s physical appearance, no use of y/n. Warnings: brief mention of loneliness & negligence in Eddie’s childhood. Word Count: ~2.2k it's my hope to make this a little series! i think eddie is def a bookish guy - no lord of the rings quoting, metal head dungeon master hates reading. he would certainly be open to any fantasy/horror recs you had for him! <3

Indiana. 1989.

Hawkins Library sees a lot of action in the summer.

They offer a wide variety of youth programs to keep the local kids busy and the parents sane while school is out. One of the main events is Saturday Story Time, a beloved weekly staple that you have recently been tasked with putting on.

It’s simple. You gather a number of books, usually with a common theme, and then read a select few to the children who had signed up for the day. Most of the kids in attendance are no older than six or so, with some parents even pulling up chairs to the back so they can sit with infants cradled in their arms. The older ones sit criss-cross-applesauce on carpet squares in front of you, their chubby faces alight with giggles as you recount each silly, fantastical story with all the spirit you can muster.

And then there’s always an accompanying arts and crafts project, of course. If you read The Very Hungry Caterpillar then, naturally, you have to make little googly-eyed caterpillars out of popsicle sticks and colorful pom-poms. You don’t make the rules.

If trouble occurs during Story Time, it’s usually in this phase. (Giving paste to toddlers is always a gamble – you never know what they’re gonna do with that.)

And on this particular morning, it’s been chaos from start to finish. A whopping eighteen kids had signed up, and you stretched yourself pretty thin trying to attend to everyone.

One of the babies spit up directly onto the little girl sitting in front of him and his mother. Someone slipped on their carpet square and fell harshly to the floor, earning a bruised elbow that you gently fussed over. You wrangled a pair of twins who fought bitterly over a bottle of Elmer’s glue. There were three individual running-with-scissors-scares and, finally, you spent a good ten minutes soothing one sobbing child with whom there was nothing apparently wrong with, and that you suspected was just in need of a good cry.

So yeah, it was basically pandemonium.

But eventually, to your great relief, things wound down. The audience dispersed, with their handmade goods clutched in sticky fists, and went to peruse the glossy line of picture books you put out for display. Within the next hour or two, everyone traded the cool darkness of the library for buttery sunshine, and all was quiet again. You waved cheerfully to the last parent-child duo as they made their exit, promising them that there’d be a fun activity next weekend too.

You love these storytime sessions, you really do, but sheesh. Sometimes they run you ragged. With the havoc of the morning finally over, and the promise of lunch in your near future, you try to shake off the weariness, and instead take it upon yourself to clean up the disorganized mess someone’s made of the horror section.

You’re going about your work, tongue poking out in concentration as you strain to reach the really high shelves, when you notice someone standing in your peripheral vision. You turn and glance at him, or at least, what you can see of him. He’s half-hidden by the shelf behind you, but you catch sight of brown hair and denim.

A pale face appears on a craned neck from around the corner. His dark eyes meet yours, widen slightly when he sees that you’ve caught him lurking, and he abruptly disappears again.

You purse your lips to hide your smile. This isn’t uncommon; such moments often occur when you’re cleaning up a section of books someone is hoping to sift through. In a small act of kindness, you move over to the neighboring shelf and look for something to busy yourself with; trying to give the guy a chance to browse without having to ask you to step aside.

He doesn’t emerge. You wait, expecting to sense him passing by you, but no dice. It’s amusing to think that someone might be frightened to approach you (You? Really?) but you can’t help feeling sorry that you were in his way.

The rest of your shift is rather uneventful. At the end of the day, you punch out and head home, the stranger behind the shelf forgotten.

When you come back to work on Monday, it’s much quieter than the last morning you’d been in. You greet your coworkers and set up shop at the front desk, opening up a book of your own to pass the time until someone needed assistance.

You’ve been reading for about half an hour when the big double doors open up for the day’s first visitor, the sound echoing loudly in the silent, spacious room. You look up in interest, ready to greet the person with a warm smile.

“Good morning!” you softly call out as he comes into view. He walks slowly towards you, shoes scuffing the checkered tile with each step. As he comes nearer, you can see that he’s biting his lip, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture oozing self-consciousness. He only makes eye contact with you for a second before his gaze flits away again.

He’s pretty conspicuous-looking to be approaching the desk with such hesitance, you think. He has dark hair that hangs in slightly-scraggly curls down to his chest, and huge dark eyes. The pale skin of his arms, sticking out from within a denim vest/Judas Priest t-shirt combo, are littered with tattoos.

He pauses a few feet away from you, like he’s debating whether he wants to stop and chat, or to simply veer off towards the bookshelves and start browsing. Ultimately he decides to shuffle forward, closing the distance between the two of you.

“Hi there. What can I do for you?” you ask, voice gentle but encouraging.

He looks down and rests a hand on the desk, absentmindedly tracing the wood pattern with his thumb. “Um, yes.” He doesn’t offer anything else.

There’s a pregnant pause, both of you digesting the fact that what you had asked was not a yes or no question.

He tries again. “I…am in need…of some new reading material.”

You nod gravely, expression serious. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Did you have anything specific in mind?”

He begins to rock lightly back and forth on his feet, contemplating. “I like fantasy, especially Tolkien. I read a lot of horror, too, and sometimes sci-fi. If you had any suggestions for me, that’d be great.”

“Oh, we can certainly find you something,” you reassure him, already flipping through a mental rolodex of your favorite books in those genres. “Here, come with me.”

You stand and move around the desk to meet him, beckoning for him to follow.

Eddie watches you run a delicate hand over the spines of the books, keenly aware of the clammy sweat that’s flooding his own palms. Be cool, Munson.

“So,” you begin, a gleam of excitement in your eyes, “you like fantasy. Do you read Le Guin?”

Eddie nods eagerly, hair bouncing slightly with the movement. “Oh yeah, I’ve read the Earthsea trilogy.”

“Have you read any of The Hainish Cycle books?”

“I haven’t read those ones, no.”

You pull out two slim paperbacks from the row, holding each one out for him so he can study the covers. “These ones are science fiction, and they’re pretty good. You might like Rocannon’s World since it’s similar to a fantasy novel, but personally I think Left Hand of Darkness is the best.” You suddenly pause, and look around furtively, like you were checking to make sure that you two are really alone. You even put a hand up to the side of your mouth, as though shielding the conversation from eavesdroppers.

“Honestly,” you lower your voice like you’re admitting something scandalous, “I even liked it better than Earthsea.”

“No!” Eddie immediately matches your whispered, gossipy tone and lets his jaw drop, pretending to be aghast.

“Yes!” you insist, seemingly delighted by his willingness to play along. Eddie’s heart soars.

“I guess I can’t refute that until I read it, huh? What’s it about?” he asked, taking it from your hand.

“An envoy is visiting this frozen alien planet, and he’s trying to convince them to join this intergalactic coalition that he represents, but they’re making it like, really difficult for him. Also, gender doesn’t exist, and there’s political turmoil stemming from border disputes.”

“...oh. Cool.”

The next half-hour passes in this fashion. Your soft, mild demeanor is aglow with enthusiasm as you pull out book after book, giving him an off-the-cuff elevator pitch for each. Eddie can practically feel the cartoon hearts swirling around his head, bright pink and red bubbles that are almost certainly going to appear out of thin air and give him away.

He can’t put his finger on what it is, precisely, that’s pulling him in so deeply, drawing him towards you like a magnet with an opposite pole. Maybe it’s the tender way you talk about each book, the love and care that’s so tangible in your sweet voice, the way you speak about them as though they’re your old friends. Perhaps they are.

It’s not an unfamiliar concept to Eddie. A childhood steeped in loneliness and poverty, instability and dysfunction, neglect from his volatile and unreliable parents…yeah, he gets it. The wanting, the longing, the dire need to escape to someplace that doesn’t exist, some place where things were better and didn’t hurt, a dreamworld that would be kinder to a scrawny little boy with unwashed hair and a mean father.

The closest he ever came to it was when he lost himself between the yellowed and dog-eared pages of the few, precious books he owned.

So he listens to you chatter away with chest-aching tenderness, already thinking that he could listen to you like this for hours and be glad for it.

“You love fantasy, but you’ve never read The Last Unicorn?”

Eddie gives you an apologetic half-shrug, no longer able to keep the goofy, besotted grin from unfurling across his face. “Never got around to it, I guess.”

“It makes me cry. You have to take it,” you tell him with pleading eyes, adding it to the top of the growing pile in his arms before he can refuse. Not that he ever would. How could he, when you look at him like that?

“You cry at this one, really?” He looks curiously at the artwork on the front, an innocent picture of the pale horned creature. “But it’s so unassuming…”

“Don’t be fooled, it’ll get you. Take it,” you repeat.

Eddie shifts the stack of books to cradle it in one arm, so he can raise the other at you in a salute. “Yes, ma’am. And when I’m finished with it, I’ll give you a full report on the emotional damage it caused me.”

This makes you giggle, lips turned up in a gorgeous smile, and Eddie knows he’s a goner.

Back at the front, you resume your previous positions at the desk. Him in front and you behind, this time separated by a short pile of books.

You hold your hand out. “Card, please, sir.” Polite and professional, but with a little sparkle in your eye that lets Eddie hope for a moment that his time with you this morning was more pleasure than business.

He fumbles with his wallet, slipping out his library card and slotting it between his index and middle fingers, extending it for you to take. His chunky silver rings catch the light.

You accept the offering. “Thank you” – you quickly read the messy signature at the bottom – “Edward.” You look back at him with a grin.

He cringes, face scrunching in embarrassment. “Oh God. Call me Eddie, please.”

The scanner gives a little chirp! as you begin the checkout process, nodding. “Will do, Eddie.” His name sounds like a song when you say it, one he never wants to stop listening to.

You finish scanning his books, and slide a receipt into the jacket of the novel on top (which just so happens to be Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love). Instead of sliding the stack towards him, you keep both hands clasped on the cover, hesitating. You bite your lip, an unconscious imitation of himself earlier. “Listen….”

Eddie straightens up a little, stomach flipping like a coin. “Yeah?”

You bow your head. “I’m sorry if I talked too much. It’s just – most people who come in don’t actually ask me for recommendations, and I got excited,” you admit quietly, looking sheepish.

“Don’t apologize,” Eddie says without missing a beat. “I appreciate it. I really enjoyed it, actually,” he adds, eager to quell your anxiety. “I liked talking with you.” More than you know.

“O-oh,” you stutter, taken aback. “I liked talking with you, too.”

Eddie nods, smiling slightly. “Would you like to…talk again?” He flushes scarlet and coughs. Smooth. “I just mean, when I finish these” – he motions towards the day’s finds – “we have to discuss them, right? You helped me pick ‘em out, after all.”

“Of course. You have to let me know what you think.”

His smile gets bigger. “So we’ll reconvene?”

“We’ll reconvene,” you chuckle.

“Awesome. Looking forward to it.” He sweeps up his books, and gives you a little wave. “Thanks again, sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”

And he can hardly wait. It looks like he’s got a lot of reading to do…

thanks for reading!!! <3 edit: this is now a series! Read Ch. 2-> Here!

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x bookworm!reader #stranger things fanfiction

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 4 months

Text

Push the Sky Away - Part One

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Lorra Stark) Chapter warnings: Angst. Canon typical violence. Mention of loss of virginity. Smut. Word count: ~6.5k

Summary: We are getting to know Aemond in this chapter. Some scene setting and world building, not much to be found of our OC until she is introduced towards the end. Laying the groundwork for what's to come later. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @sapphirehearteyes. I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Fire and Blood, the infamous words of House Targaryen. It is a phrase that both haunts and eludes Aemond Targaryen from an early age, with its promise of greatness and constant reminder of all he will never be.

The Targaryen name is the only thing of any value that Viserys has ever bestowed upon his sons. Aemond ponders whether his father’s disinterest in him is a result of the illness that weakens his body by the day, or if he simply has no room in his heart for the children borne of his second marriage. When he watches him interact with Rhaenyra, how he lights up in her presence in a way that he does not for him or his other siblings, he knows it is the latter.

The fireplace warms his skin, uncomfortably so, and despite the septa’s caution that he not sit so close, he refuses to budge. Sweat prickles the back of his neck, dampening and curling the ends of the hair that sticks to it. His discomfort is of little importance to him, he needs to remain within this proximity to the hearth in order to keep his egg warm, to ensure it hatches. It is a vigil he has kept for as long as he can remember, not moving until he is forced to bed with aching joints and soot covered hands. Unable to understand why it had never hatched in his cradle, he is certain that if he does his due diligence then soon he will have a dragon of his own.

His mother is alerted of his disobedience, and Alicent regards him with sadness in her large brown eyes, as she reaches for him.

“Come away, my dearest love, you will have a dragon of your own one day.”

He simply shakes his head. She could not understand. He does not want just any dragon, he wants his. There must be a reason why this particular egg was imparted upon him, otherwise it is all for nothing.

Despite this, day after day the hardened scales remain cool to the touch, little more than a rock between his tiny fingers. Perhaps placing it within the flames themselves will yield the result he hopes for?

He leans forward into the fireplace, heat blazing against his pale cheeks, and an acrid stench fills his nostrils. It is not until he is pulled forcefully back by the firm grasp of the septa that he realises the ends of his long, fair hair have singed, charred and blackened by the heat of the fire.

The egg is taken away after that, and Aemond weeps bitterly at the unfairness of it. It is his birthright, his only birthright, and now his sole purpose for being has been snatched from him; it seems there is little point to his existence now. He never sees the egg again, but he often wonders what would have happened if he had been left uninterrupted to place it upon the flames.

When Aemond is a little older, he begins to frequent the Dragonpit, for what is a Targaryen without their dragon? If he no longer has his own egg then he will find another, or perhaps claim a riderless mount of his own.

The warmth beneath the Grand Sept is different from that of the fireplace. It is dank and humid within the pit, the odour of droppings hangs heavy in the air, mixed with sulphur and ash. The smell sticks to his clothes when he returns to the Keep each evening, and momentarily he feels his chest swell with pride as his mother winkles her nose in disgust at the scent. It is the same look of distaste that she bestows upon both Helaena and Aegon when they return from flying, and for the briefest of moments he can pretend that he has too.

Yet still he goes to bed each evening dragonless, and begins each day anew with the bitter taste of jealousy in his mouth as he watches his nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys, interact with their dragons, Vermax and Arrax. Targaryens are considered to be closer to gods than men, so it feels like a cruel twist of fate that his half sister’s bastard offspring should be blessed with eggs that hatched in their cradles when his did not. Rhaenyra’s children have the favour of the Seven, whereas they seem to have turned a blind eye to him.

Aemond’s heart soars with hope when the dragonkeepers reveal to his sister that Dreamfyre is gravid. If she produces a healthy clutch of eggs then he can claim one, one that will actually hatch. In spite of the warnings that the she-dragon be left in peace during this sensitive time, and Helaena’s frustrated and repeated requests to stop disturbing her, he cannot resist the pull towards where she roosts within her darkened cave. If she is to lay an egg, then he wants to be the first to see it, to ensure he can take one for himself.

The blistering heat of the flames that Dreamfyre expels with her mighty roar of anger as he approaches yet again causes him to stagger backwards, wide eyed and slack jawed. But Aemond feels no fear as gazes into her fiery maw, his only thoughts are that one day soon a beast of his own will do much the same.

When Aegon claps a heavy hand upon his shoulder, steering him forward, and claiming a dragon has been found for him, he does his best to remain calm. He is used to his brother and nephews’ cruel japes at his expense. But as he stands at the top of the slope to the Dragonpit, he cannot help the way his heart races with excitement at the possibility that it might be true.

His hopes are dashed when a pig is led out to him, trussed up in wings, having been jokingly named “the pink dread”. He bows his head at the raucous laughter of Aegon, Jace and Luke around him, humiliation flushing his cheeks for having dared to believe it could be true.

The echoes of Aegon’s mocking pig grunts ring in his ears all the way home, and he stands dejectedly as Alicent delivers yet another scolding for him having dared to disturb Dreamfyre. He is usually silently accepting of her scorn, confident he knows better, and prepared to defy her all over again the next day. However, this time he can no longer bear the injustice of it all.

“They gave me a pig!” He cries, feeling the prickle of tears in his eyes. “They laughed, they all laughed.”

The warmth of his mother’s embrace does little to comfort the inferno that blazes inside of him. Today is proof of the fact that his own brother does not view him as equal - how could he? Aemond is a second born son and has no dragon. He is worth nothing.

If he is not destined to be a dragonrider, then Aemond decides he will give his all to becoming a fearsome warrior instead. He excels in the training yard with each daily practice, every strike of his wooden sword against the straw stuffed target more ferocious than the last. The proud glint in the eye of Ser Criston Cole as he watches diligently, offering guidance on both stance and technique, serves to spur him on. He will be the best at this, he has to be.

Much to his displeasure, the allotted time for sparring is shared with his nephews. Though they learn under the watchful eye of Ser Harwin Strong, there is still a competitive element, and an underlying sense of animosity between Criston and Harwin that he does not quite understand.

Aegon later tells him it is because Ser Harwin is the true father of Rhaenyra’s children. He feels a smug sense of satisfaction at being privy to this information, and it brings him and his older brother closer together. The two of them share rare moments of comradery each time they don their armour and pick up their practice blades. It’s the only time that Aemond ever genuinely laughs or smiles.

There is an obvious divide from that point onwards, Targaryens uniting against Strongs, and as the tension grows between the boys, it does between their mentors too, until one day it reaches a boiling point.

At first Aemond titters along with his brother as they watch Criston scuffle with Harwin, but his smile quickly fades upon seeing how valiantly their father fights for them, knowing his own would never do the same for him. As he looks up into the solemn features of Aegon, he knows the sentiment is shared. It is yet another privilege that Rhaenyra’s children possess that he does not have; the love of their father.

They journey to Driftmark when they receive the news that Laena Velaryon has passed away in childbirth. The icy, coastal winds that whip Aemond’s hair around his face as the stone coffin is committed to the sea are as bleak as the mood that envelopes them all. He seeks warmth near the brazier, attempting to catch the eye of Jace, who stands on the opposite side. Despite the tension between them, he hopes to offer condolences, knowing the loss of both Ser Harwin and his aunt play heavily upon his nephew’s mind.

He realises it is a futile gesture the moment that Jace turns away in disgust, and once more Aemond is reminded of how alone he truly is, that he has nothing. Luke will inherit Driftmark, and their mother has betrothed Helaena to Aegon. Luke snivels at what he is offered, claiming that when Driftmark passes to him it means everyone will have died. Aegon scoffs at the notion of being married to Helaena, claiming they have nothing in common.

It angers Aemond, to be overlooked in favour of those who are so ungrateful for all they have. If he were set to inherit anything, he would do everything in his power to prove he is worthy of it and bear the title with honour. If his mother had betrothed his sister to him, he would do his duty and ensure the match produces heirs that would make House Targaryen proud.

His attention is drawn to the clifftop when he sees the spread of enormous wings and hears the mighty rumble of the creature atop it. Vhagar. Laena Velaryon’s dragon is now riderless, and the pull he feels towards her is one he simply cannot ignore. At last, he has found his purpose and his desire to claim a dragon is reinvigorated with new strength.

Aemond waits until nightfall. Sea spray has made the rocks slippery beneath his feet, and he ascends carefully, though determined, towards the top of the cliff where Vhagar roosts. Windswept and breathless by the time he reaches the top, he stands awestruck at the sleeping dragon. Even partially submerged in sand, she is a magnificent sight to behold. She had appeared massive when looking at her from above, but it does nothing to prepare him for the sheer scale of her up close. She is gargantuan.

For a moment, icy fingers of fear grip Aemond’s heart, and he considers simply turning back, he has made a dangerous mistake. He shakes the thought from his mind the moment it presents itself.

I am no craven.

His approach is tentative, palms outstretched to communicate that he does not present a threat, as the elderly beast grumbles and shakes sand from her back. He stares transfixed as she opens her jaws, the white hot inferno that swirls within their depths makes that of Dreamfyre’s seem like a mere campfire. He feels as though he is looking into the very mouth of the Seven Hells themselves, but instead of fear Aemond feels kinship. Vhagar is without purpose, as is he, until now.

“Lykirī,” he calls out, the wind carrying half the sound away with it. Yet she hears, and she stills, eyeing the child before her with keen curiosity. Be calm.

Emboldened by her calmness at his command, Aemond steps closer, fingertips ghosting against the heat that radiates from her scales.

“Dohaerās, Vhagar,” he tells her, voice trembling. This is the same dragon ridden by the great warrior, Visenya, the conqueror’s wife. She is battle hardened, and with the smallest of movements could snuff out his short life. Serve.

The faintest sound of displeasure reverberates through Vhagar’s body, yet she remains still. Aemond’s heart beats wildly in his chest as he grips the ropes attached to her saddle and begins to pull himself up. If he had thought the climb to the top of the cliff difficult, it proves nothing compared to this. His arms ache with exertion, the expanse of the great beast he is attempting to summit is vaster than anything he has ever climbed before.

By the time he pulls himself into the saddle, Aemond’s palms are red raw with rope burn and his skin is damp with perspiration. There is barely time for him to catch his breath though, as the moment Vhagar feels him settle on her back, she rises to her feet, vast quantities of sand slipping from her back and wings in drifts.

The movement startles Aemond, and he fears he will fall. His sore hands cling tightly to her reins as he shouts his final command to her.

“Sōvēs.” Fly.

As she rises into the air with an effortless flap of her wings, he feels as though he has left his stomach on the ground below. The rush upwards is dizzying, frightening and exhilarating all at once. Aemond begins to laugh as he grows used to the weightless sensation of every ebb and flow through the air as it whistles past his ears, and chills his skin to the bone. He is finally complete, he has his dragon, and for the first time in his life he is genuinely happy.

That happiness is short-lived.

The moment he reaches solid ground, his cousins, Baela and Rhaena, are waiting for him, alongside Jace and Luke. He had anticipated this, and is well prepared.

“It’s him!” Rhaena shouts as soon as she sees him.

“It’s me,” he responds calmly, confident there is nothing to be done now that Vhagar is his.

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should have claimed her. Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride? It would suit you.”

He is startled when Rhaena angrily charges towards him, though he is bigger than her and pushes her to the ground with ease. A punch from her sister, Baela, catches him off guard, the pain in his face enraging him and causing him to hit back so hard she falls over.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” He snarls angrily.

Jace and Luke rush at him, and in a moment of confidence Aemond thinks he has bested the both of them, until all four children knock him down and begin to rain their fists down upon him.

He is the rider of the world’s largest dragon, and his new found confidence coupled with the surge of adrenaline allows him to fight them all back. He grasps a rock, holding it above Luke’s head as he grasps him tightly by the collar.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did. Bastards!” He hisses.

“My father is still alive!” Luke wails.

Aemond smirks, rock still held above his sobbing nephew, and he glances to Jace. “He does not know, does he, Lord Strong?”

Jace unsheathes a dagger, to the protestations of both Rhaena and Baela, and the distraction is enough for Aemond to knock it from his hand. His dedication in the training yard has paid off and he quickly gets the better of Jace, snatching up the rock once more, prepared to bring it down upon his skull should he try to attack him again.

In Aemond’s mind, the matter is settled, they should accept what has happened and retire to bed.

Unfortunately, his nephews do not share the sentiment. He winces, staggering backwards as Jace throws sand in his face, and before he has had time to fully recover, Luke is racing towards him, Jace’s dagger in hand.

The pain is excruciating as his nephew slashes upwards, and suddenly his vision shows blackness on one side, instead of his surroundings. He falls to his knees, a shriek of agony leaving him as blood seeps through the fingers of the hand he clasps to one side of his face.

His only focus is the searing, torturous pain he feels, waves of nausea rippling through his prone body, until a clamour of armour alerts him to the presence of the Kingsguard. As a knight kneels beside him, coaxing his hand away, his pale, horrified expression and exclamation of “Gods be good” are all Aemond needs to know that his face is ruined forever.

The fire in the hall of Driftmark is warm against his skin, and he does his best to focus on that sensation instead of that of the Maester extracting his eye from his skull. Though he has been dosed with milk of the poppy, he still feels every cut, every tug, and the pierce of the needle as it’s pulled through his skin repeatedly to stitch up the wound.

Aemond is unsure if it is the milk of the poppy that dulls his senses, or the satisfaction he feels at having claimed the world’s largest dragon, but he does not feel anger or sadness as he expects he would have when he is told his eye is lost forever.

When his mother snatches a knife and charges towards Rhaenyra, he is certain she has more blood of the dragon coursing through her veins than his coward of a father does. She is willing to risk everything to avenge his disfigurement, while Viserys makes excuses and appears more affronted at his eldest daughter’s children being called bastards. The loss of Aemond’s eye seems of little importance to him.

It is in that moment that Aemond feels the tiny semblance of respect he had for his father wither and die. As he takes in the harrowed expressions of Alicent, Aegon and Helaena, he knows they are all he has left.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” he says softly, rising to comfort her, though unsteady on his feet as he adjusts to his partial sightedness. “I may have lost an eye, but I have gained a dragon.”

A scar mars the flesh of Aemond’s face, but also ravages its way through the Targaryen family. Rhaenyra and her children leave King’s Landing, settling upon Dragonstone with Daemon and his daughters. Meanwhile, the health of Viserys continues to decline and the instances he is not bedridden grow fewer. Aemond does not miss his presence.

Worry hangs over his mother, a permanent shroud of anxiety, while Aegon becomes more debaucherous, sinking further into his cups with each passing day. Helaena retreats deeper into herself, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and bristles at any initiation of physical touch.

Slowly, Aemond heals, though it is not without struggle. He must learn to do everything anew. His favourite books become a chore to read, no longer able to pore over their pages for as long without suffering a terrible ache in his head.

Criston has to begin his training with the sword all over again. There is a newfound blind spot to account for when he fights. Not only does he have to learn how to balance, pivot and wield his weapon with accuracy, he also has to develop hyper vigilance and an acute awareness of where his opponent is at all times, to prevent them from drifting to the side from which he cannot see, and besting him.

Even flying on dragonback is difficult, though he only has one flight to compare it to. He learns fast, and is grateful that Vhagar’s advanced age makes her placid and more forgiving than a younger mount might be. When Aemond is airborne he can almost forget his disfigurement entirely, until he returns to the ground and the world is half blackness once more.

It is enough to make Aemond want to scream in frustration and give up at times. However, he is accustomed to a life of feeling out of place, of having to work harder than everyone else to prove his worth. There is nothing to be gained from a defeatist attitude, so he hardens himself to the challenges he faces, determined to be better with one eye than he was with two.

If his vision of the world is now limited, then he will simply expand his mind beyond that. He loses himself in tomes of history and philosophy, ignoring the dull pain that plagues his skull as he reads into the small hours.

In the training yard, he is quick to learn to keep Criston within his line of sight at all times, and wields his sword viciously, relentlessly, always striving to be faster, stronger, more precise. The proud look upon the Knight’s face means little to him now. The only person he means to prove anything to is himself.

He reasons that a warrior must appear as fearsome as they fight, and takes to wearing a sapphire in the empty socket of his eye, when it is not covered by a patch.

The single matter that Aemond is never able to quite grasp is that of the fairer sex. Aegon has always seemed to have an overly indulgent interest in women, moreso what lies between their legs, but he has never understood his brother’s obsession with fornication. He has read about the mechanics of it in books, and the idea makes his lip curl in disgust. However, he reasons that Aegon is older, and perhaps his own appetite will develop in much the same way as he ages.

Aegon reasons that women’s skin is soft, they smell nice, and when you find one that has the perfect pair of tits and legs then there is little else that matters. While it is agreeable to Aemond that women are indeed more pleasant to look upon than men, he questions why he should not take an interest in their education or how they like to pass the time. His brother argues that once you are sheathed inside a woman, it is not what is in their mind that matters in the slightest.

Upon Aemond’s thirteenth name day, Aegon slaps him on the back and informs him that it is “time to get it wet”. The very idea makes his guts churn with unease, yet he dons the clothes of common folk just the same, pulling a hood over his head, and allows his brother to guide him to the Street of Silk.

The walk through Flea Bottom reeks of urine, with men staggering half drunk through the narrow cobbled streets, while women in varying states of undress beckon them forward into darkened hovels. Aemond keeps his head bowed, dreading what is to come, and is thankful when the establishment that his older brother guides him to looks slightly more respectable than the half a dozen they have passed by already.

The pleasure house is dimly lit and the heady scent of cheap perfume burns his nostrils, though it barely covers the smell of another undesirable stench that he assumes is the byproduct of what goes on here. He half wonders if it will stick to his clothing, much like the smell of sulphur and ash does when he returns from dragonback. He sincerely hopes not.

His throat runs dry when Aegon staggers away with a busty woman, full of giggles, leaving him alone. The brothel’s madame has a kind smile, though it does not meet her eyes, and when she places her hand upon his shoulder it makes him shudder. He feels her touch there like a brand long after she has taken it away.

“Choose any of my girls that you like,” she tells him.

Timidly he eyes all of them. He wants none of them, but how can he say that?

When he hesitates, she chooses for him, pushing him towards a room with a girl that cannot be much older than he is. Her hair is the colour of straw, her skin reeks of the same perfume that lingers thick within the air, and there is wine upon her breath.

The fireplace burns low in the room as he lays upon the bed, and he keeps his eye fixed upon it until it is over. He has enjoyed none of it, the finish feeling little more to him than the satisfaction he experiences when scratching an itch. He cannot understand why Aegon makes such a fuss about it, if that is all there is to it then he never wants to partake in such an act of vulgarity ever again.

He leaves without saying a word, and walks as quickly as his legs will carry him back to the Red Keep. In the bathtub that evening, he scrubs until his skin is red raw, wanting nothing more than to erase every trace of what he has endured that day.

When he is served his favourite meal for his name day feast, roasted haunch of venison, he finds he has no appetite. Sickly perfume fills his nose and turns his stomach, and he leaves his plate untouched.

From that day forth, Aemond decides that he has no taste for depravity, and dedicates his time to reading, training with the sword and taking flight on Vhagar. Despite the nagging ache at the back of his mind that Aegon is set to succeed their father when he passes away, despite neither wanting nor deserving it, he feels a sense of fulfillment in knowing that he is making both their mother and House Targaryen proud.

There are few books in the Keep’s library he has not read at least twice, and he trains daily in the yard with Criston, now at a point where he is the victor in almost every sparring match.

The years pass, and Aemond is content with solitude, assuming that is his lot in life. Fire and blood course hotly in his veins, and in spite of his disfigurement he feels every inch a true Targaryen.

Viserys deteriorates to the point that Aemond’s grandsire and Hand of the King, Otto, now oversees most of the royal duties, and he has begun in earnest to plan with Alicent for Aegon’s eventual coronation. It comes as no shock to Aemond the day that he is beckoned to the Small Council Chamber, though he is surprised to find it is just his grandsire that sits at the table, there is not even a cup bearer present.

“I trust you are aware of the plans to crown Aegon once your father passes?” Otto asks, once Aemond is seated in the chair nearest to him.

Aemond sits up straight against the backrest, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, as he regards Otto impassively. “I am.”

“Good,” Otto nods, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Then I am sure you must know of your own duty to the realm.”

Aemond purses his lips, eyeing the older man carefully. “I will do what I must to ensure Aegon’s claim to the throne goes unchallenged.”

Otto sighs, leaning back and regarding Aemond with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Rhaenyra is sure to challenge your brother’s birthright, as your father foolishly named her heir, but there are means to remedy that.”

Aemond says nothing, waiting for Otto to say what he means. He watches as he fills both their wine cups, before setting the jug down. He takes a deep drink from his own, but Aemond leaves his untouched, wishing his grandsire would just get to the point.

Otto clicks his tongue before continuing. “To strengthen Aegon’s claim, we must curry favour with the other Great Houses of the realm.”

Aemond lowers his gaze, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the armrests of his chair. “You wish for me to marry.”

“Yes, Aemond, you are to be betrothed.”

The tone of voice in which Otto says this has such finality, it sounds as though a match has already been decided. His eye flickers upwards to meet the unyielding gaze of his grandsire.

“To who?”

“Your mother and I thought it best not to present you with suitors, we know you would not enjoy such a spectacle.”

You know all of them would take one look at me and be horrified by the very notion of being married to me.

Otto continues, “So we have chosen for you. The daughter of Lord Rickon Stark, Lorra. She is a pretty girl, and having the allegiance of a Great House of the North will weaken Rhaenyra’s claim.”

Aemond stays silent as his mind races.

House Stark. Their sigil is a dire wolf, their words are Winter is Coming.

Beyond that, he knows nothing of Northerners, what could he possibly learn about his betrothed from a book anyway?

He wets his lips, resigned to his fate. “When?”

“She will arrive in King’s Landing in two weeks, so that you can begin your courtship of her.”

“I will do my duty.”

“I trust that you will.”

Aemond retires to his chambers for the remainder of the day. He had anticipated that he would have to marry to form a political alliance at some point, however, the thought rattles him all the same.

He is a solitary creature by nature, what on earth will he do with a wife? He supposes life will stay much the same, if his mother and father and Aegon and Helaena are to be used as examples - both couples married, yet living entirely separate lives. It is a mere formality. He will not be expected to spend time with her.

They will be expected to produce heirs, however. Nervousness swirls in his gut at the thought. He does not want to endure what happened to him at the brothel each time he couples with his wife, yet he cannot leave her childless either.

Lorra is a highborn lady, however, not a common whore, so perhaps he will be able to find pleasure in the act. Doubt niggles in his mind as he ponders his inexperience. A Prince must know what he is doing if he is to produce children, and Aemond possesses neither experience nor interest in the act of procreation. He will need to prepare if he is to perform his marital duties as anticipated without embarrassing himself or his wife.

The thought of returning to Flea Bottom makes him shiver in revulsion. He has no desire to part with coin for an act that sickens him. He will need to find an alternative.

There are plenty of maidservants around the Keep who are pretty enough, and of a similar age to him. He does not wish to be like his brother, however, and will not take what is not freely given. He has observed the way that Aegon expresses interest in the women that attend to them during mealtimes and decides to deploy some of the same tactics, though in a much more subtle manner.

At supper the following evening, he spots a young woman who is pleasing to him. She has a slender neck and pretty face, her large eyes framed by thick lashes. He watches her carefully as she rounds the table, filling each cup with wine, and when finally she approaches him, he deliberately reaches forward, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her wrist as she pours from the jug she holds. She glances down at him and he looks up, holding her gaze, the faintest of smirks on his face. A slight blush creeps up her neck, dusting its way across her cheekbones and he knows she is interested.

He spends the rest of the meal catching her eye whenever he can, and when the evening draws to a close, he lingers in the doorway, beckoning her with the slightest tip of his head when she looks at him, before walking back to his bedchamber. Aemond does not have to wait long for the knock at his door.

“Your grace, will you be needing anything else this evening?” She asks with a polite smile.

He closes the door behind them, steeling himself before turning to face her. “You understand why you are here?”

She nods, reaching up to cup his face as she leans in. He turns away, pulling back slightly.

“I have no need for you to kiss me.”

She nods in understanding and moves towards the bed, slipping out of her clothes. Aemond stands in silence as he watches her disrobe. She is attractive to look at, much more desirable than the girl he had coupled with in Flea Bottom. Smooth skinned, with subtle curves and firm breasts. He wonders how many others have looked upon her in the same manner that he has.

“Lay down,” he instructs her, once she is fully bare before him.

She moves to position herself face down, but Aemond steps forward, halting her actions.

“Let me look at you.”

“As you wish, your grace,” she whispers, blushing again, and repositions onto her back.

Aemond stands over her, his eye raking over her form as he takes in the way her chest rises and falls with every breath, the way the narrowness of her waist expands outwards towards her hips.

Tentatively, he reaches forward, fingers trailing lightly over the plush flesh of her inner thigh, tugging gently.

Obediently, she spreads her legs and he sucks in a breath at what glistens between them, curiosity guiding his actions as he spreads his fingers through the slick folds. She sighs in pleasure, and he looks back up at her face. Her lips are parted, eyes hooded with desire. Admittedly, though this is a much better experience than what he’d endured when he was thirteen, he still feels little in the way of excitement. Aemond appreciates that she lays there quietly, however, allowing him to take things at his own pace, and he feels his body respond to her regardless of his lack of emotion.

When his cock strains almost painfully against the lacings of his breeches, he unfastens them, crawling over the maidservant to cage her body in with his. She feels better against him than the whore had, her skin is more supple and her scent not quite so overpowering. He grunts as he pushes himself inside of her, her tight, wet heat gripping every inch of him as he slides forward.

The inside of her is different from the grasp of his own hand. Aemond is no stranger to the act of self pleasure, using it as a means to clear his mind or lull himself to sleep on nights when rest evades him. It is not a carnal act for him though, he simply focuses on the sensation, guiding himself to release. Despite the pleasant warmth of her body, he does not feel driven to desperate passion as he had anticipated, as he has so often heard Aegon describe.

As he rocks his hips into hers, back and forth, the growing ache he experiences is nice enough, but it does not light a fire within him. He is simply rutting against another person. The dulcet sounds that fall from her lips as he pistons into her sound too performative, and he feels resentment as he looks upon her face, just wanting to put an end to it.

He speeds up, and her sounds grow louder. Annoyance prickles at his skin.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses.

She falls silent and the room fills with the sound of the slap of his skin against hers, until finally he spills inside of her with a quiet gasp. He is quick to withdraw from her, standing and tucking himself away.

“You can go now,” he tells her, turning away.

He doesn’t watch as she dresses and quietly leaves his chamber. Aemond feels disappointment that he is unable to derive pleasure from such a carnal act. He has read that it is supposed to evoke excitement within a person, and from the way Aegon behaves he knows it is certainly true. So why does such a feeling evade him?

It matters not, he supposes. He will treat his wife in the same way he has the maidservant this evening. He will not take her by force, and he will be gentle with her. The act will be for the sole purpose of producing heirs, besides that they will live their lives as they please. He did not choose her, and she did not choose him, so he is confident that this will be an arrangement she finds satisfactory.

The next two weeks pass by without incident. Aemond reads, he trains and he flies, and thoughts of his betrothal scarcely enter his mind.

Upon the day of Lorra’s arrival to the Red Keep, he gathers in the Great Hall, with Alicent, Otto, Aegon and Helaena to greet her upon her arrival. He stands straight, hands clasped firmly behind his back, eye scanning the room impatiently. He hates the formality of it all, and wonders what could possibly be taking such a long time.

He will, of course, be dutiful and stand here for as long as necessary, but irritability simmers within him as he exhales heavily through his nose, wishing to be anywhere else right now, the library, the training yard, on dragonback. Such a display seems wholly unnecessary for an arrangement that is a mere formality.

When finally the doors open to the steps that ascend into the Hall, he faces forward, eye fixed upon the Kingsguard that file in. Until he sees her.

Draped in a cerulean cloak, trimmed with grey fur, she seems as though she is floating, rather than walking as she approaches. Her ivory skin is tinged with the faintest of pink against her cheeks and the curls of her ebony hair are braided down her back.

Aemond’s throat runs dry, his heart pounding quickly against his ribcage, and he realises he is holding his breath. The last time he felt such a powerful combination of fear, awe and longing had been the night he had first laid eyes upon Vhagar. It unsettles him, and he is grateful that his hands remain behind his back, otherwise he is certain that she would be able to see how they tremble.

“Lady Lorra of House Stark,” comes the announcement to the Hall, but it sounds distant and far away to Aemond as he stands, transfixed by her.

His blood pumps like liquid fire through his veins. Her eyes, so blue they could almost be sapphires, meet his and he feels a shiver run through him. After a lifetime of resonating in the warmth of flames, he is chilled by the ice that is reflected back at him.

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fukashiin · 1 year

Text

a whit of hope — housewardens

❥ twinkling stars, luminescent fairy lights, and a stuffed plushie that sits in silence.

In which you weep in agony in the wake of your mind telling you that you may not be able to ever return to your beloved world that you hold so closely to your heart.

Your quivering soul is ever so grateful that you have the housewardens from the respective dorms to kiss your tears away.

cw: gn reader, self-deprecation, hints of depression, very inconsistent writing style + half beta read

wc: 8k (1000-1530 per chara.)

implied book 3 and 6 spoilers for azul's and idia's piece

Your ears take in the pitter-patter of the rain that resounds outside of Ramshackle dorm. You disassociate into the rather sentimental ambience of the room that you've become familiar with in a matter of time. The stars look particularly brighter tonight, you thought. But is that really something to be happy about at this moment?

Your teary eyes directs to your jagged study desk, with jumbled notebooks that sit open as they washed in the moon's accompanying light that would falter in certain moments. It feels utterly cold, your mind wanders. Your knuckle-swollen hands clutches the wrinkled bedsheets as the semi-busted lamp in your room flickers. You feel yourself looking vacantly at the pent-up vest that hung atop the wardrobe's knob.

You've lost count. How many months, years has it been since your existence from your home world faded into nothingness completely? You wanted to reject reality, smash it into fragments, shout out your thoughts that's been a burden weighing on your shoulders until your body gives in a shuts down.

You gave your word to the headmaster in a heartbeat, that you'd promise to take diligent supervision over Grim until he discovers a way back to the place where your entire being stays loyally rooted to. Your subconscious would always surpress the raging urge to click your tongue bitterly once he resorts to tomfoolery when asked if he has made the necessary arrangements to send you back. The swirling feeling of hatred that stills in your stomach makes you oh-so desperate to just double-over and vomit.

Why? Nobody understands. Not even you have a single clue to why that crow was so stubbornly adamant on keeping you here in an alternate world where you didn't even sense a relevant belonging in. Why, why, why? Teeth clenched, you feel the stars looking down before you as they laugh at your devastated state in mockery.

These deadly thoughts tore your mind to shreds. Will anyone even remember me? What if there's no way to actually return and I'll just have to keep surviving? What if they think I'm just dead by now?

You break. Mentally and physically.

Sight going red, your eyes dart around the dim-lit room to look for something suitable for your—supposed disappearance. You were nearly at your limit. But at the very same time, you were still fortunate enough to have even a microscopic sliver of hope floating in your chest. You heaved a sigh, as you look down at the floor beneath you.

With that, not even the tears could hold itself back anymore. You weep, cry, and beg. Wails getting louder as it echoes hauntingly throughout the room. The sound of your prolonged grief, will ever be rivalled to the roaring waves of the sea.

Until you sense another being approaching closer to your state.

Riddle Rosehearts

"I was wondering who could've been up at 1am in the morning to make such noises," You hear Riddle's muffled, fatigued voice outside of the door that leads straight to your room. He surely must've been off-ing heads left and right, with the swift movement of his magical pen.

You—immediately—to not be heard—seize the pillow by your side to shove your face in, in high hopes that your cries wouldn't be overheard by another living being. Especially Heartslabyul's queen, whose job is to enforce his disciplinary onto those unruly residents who makes zero effort to act in accordance upon the tyrannical rules that were upheld.

Riddle takes your suspicious silence to creak the door open, "Prefect," he lets himself in, "Why are you not in bed yet? And—where is that flaming cat of yours? Isn't he supposed to be with you?"

"In addition.." he thought his eyes were playing a prank on him. Could someone ever be this disorderly? That could compete with a certain two in his dorm for the award-winning prize of the most unmanageable student there is in all of Night Raven College? "What happened to your room?! It's in absolute disarray!"

He, at once, halted his comments as his gaze flickered at your hunched-over figure. Hugging the pillow in a deathly grip, you avoid his eyes as much as you possibly could. Oh, how much of a fool you were to believe that he didn't catch the way you guarded your body as your arms squeeze around the item impossibly tighter.

The dejected state you were in, unknowingly shot a hole through Riddle's heart. Cruel, unforgiving.

Silence quickly dominated the room. To put it simply, Riddle was at an unfortunate lost for words. Have you been crying this whole time without telling a single soul? Why were the velvet strings that were tugging at his heart convulse so violently, as if he was acquainted with the fact of how much of an impact you have made on him after the incident that he was longing to forget? He looks at the way an unforeseen tear drops at the corner of your bloodshot eyes, as it streams down to your chapped lips, decorated ugly in fissured cracks.

He didn't know. He couldn't grasp how his anger turned into sympathy in a matter of seconds. Queries raced through his mind alarmingly. Was it Ace and Deuce again? What exactly was so misfortunate for the uptight prefect that it was able to bring them down to their knees? But you were unaware of a heavily harboured feeling in his heart, an unfamiliar sense of protection that strayed within.

"Who..." Riddle is cautious. He takes a few steps towards you, carefully—as if you're made of some sort of pottery that has been precisely sculptured—but not for this world, since he fears you might back away from his fuming presence, "Who is responsible for this?"

This triggers your fight-or-flight response. You cower away from the redhead apprehensively, scooting closer to the headboard of your bed as your eyes fall shut. What is he possibly planning to do? You couldn't fathom what Riddle's thoughts were at the moment. "Look, I know I stayed up past bedtime but!—"

You feel a certain warmth caress your tear-stained cheeks. "No."

It was..Riddle? But still, you're scared to open your eyes. You're afraid that he might cast out his magic in a millisecond, using the deceitful look of pity on his face as a chance to discipline you correspondingly. "...I don't care about that."

You peaked a glance at Riddle, slowly opening your left eye, stiff as ever. You wanted to continue your depressive episode, but for an entirely different reason now.

Why was his warmth so comforting? Why isn't he saying anything more than his signature line? Why do you find the utmost solace lingering in your heart when he wipes your tears away? The Riddle Rosehearts, doing all of this to Ramshackle's prefect, that has stooped so low behind everyone's absence?

You decided to disassemble the safety guards that's been shielding your heart, and let your feelings fall free.

"I...I apologise for staying awake till now,’ you gasped through your sobs, “And...how you’re seeing this side of me.” Your icy-cold hands take ahold of his that stroked your cheek gently, in an attempt to calm you down from whatever has been troubling you. You’ve never seen him so caring before. It’s like whoever up there, that you were hopelessly praying to above, heard your pleas and sent the perfect angel down your way to mend your heart.

He didn't want to care about study guides anymore. The sheer will power that reflected in his eyes, only goes to show he isn't afraid to let down the sky-high expectations that were carved into his very being.

“You surely speak of nonsense when your mind is not in the right place.” He awkwardly crouches down to your level, meeting eye-to-eye, as he hesitantly cups his palms around your cheeks. You yourself were aware that this, of all times, was definitely not the moment you should be stifling a laugh. From his tousled hair, his blazing hot cheeks where bloomed a rosy-pink shade and his neat pajamas that look like they’ve just been freshly ironed head to toe.

“I am not the most amiable when it comes to the language of comfort,” he whispers, soft and low, with his lips inches away from yours. “But I know very well that someone who suffers daily with a number of three rowdy raccoons on their tail shouldn’t be suffering alone. ..I guess, I myself am familiar with that feeling, somehow.” He casts his eyes down towards the ground in shame, and back up to your face.

“P..Please, tell me if I do something out of your liking.” stated firmly, his face closed towards yours, palms still resting on both sides of your cheeks, as he gives them butterfly-light kisses that linger for a few seconds. His eyes scan your reactions after pulling away and diving right back in, but you’ve never felt your heart being filled to the brim with overflowing affection in your entire lifetime.

“Now,” you see Riddle, the regular Riddle, stand tall and direct his attention on the door entry. “I’m going to search for that gremlin of yours. It’s immediately off with his head once I find him after abandoning his oh-very precious owner.”

Leona Kingscholar

“Ah, seriously...” You jolt upwards, with your hair standing on end as a husky voice rings through your ears. “I came here to relax cause’ all the guys in Savanaclaw are causing sucha’ ruckus and my ears are sensitive,” gulping mentally, your frame becomes smaller as your rough hands hurriedly wipe the tears off your face, moments away before Leona nudges the door open with his foot,

“And what do I find but a certain herbivore wailing like a baby in the crib in the middle of the night?”

“Leona...” The everlasting feeling of frustration numbed on your tongue, tears growing hotter at the eyesore of a situation that unfolded in front of your eyes. You punch your pillow, hoping to get a blow out of it. Does he even know how your nightly problems shouldn't concern him in the slightest? Why send Leona—a prince—someone who's been living under the dignified curtains of royalty for generations since the time of his birth to come to your aid?

You’re angry, frustrated, infuriated—a swirl of emotions numbed in your stomach. You just wanted to go back to your own world.

You would rather drop dead, eyes sore as tears seep under the sparkling moonlight continuously with no end, than to have an actual prince comfort you. You would feel like none less of an undeserved peasant.

But your stubborn front only masks the tears that fall behind. You're uncertain how much longer you could keep up your facade before the black filth that fills your body consumes you whole.

His slothful nature remains as he stays glued to the ground, his eyes boring into yours.

“...This is causing me a headache too, you know that?” Scratching his head, Leona trudges towards your bed, steps heavy from endless exhaustion, as he sits down and lays his head in your lap. A dry gasp emitted from you sore throat as you raise your arms in defence. He lets out his laugh, throaty and chock-full of overwhelming pride as his stare burns into your face from underneath.

“I don’t wanna see you bawling your eyes out like that,” met by a glowing set of emerald eyes-one that is stripped off of its usual arrogance and is replaced by a sheen of gold, shining tenderness. Leona rests his hands above yours and enwraps it in a slight squeeze, hoping that his message of hospitality travels to your deadly cold corpse.

Your body is going to break. Mind smashed by the ruthless hammer of reality, breaths quickened as you process the scene before you.

“Tear your heart out, yell at the top of your lungs, shout at the whole world how much you hate everyone,” he rambles on, lips moving tenderly in each second against the misty air, and you get the gist of what he’s trying to convey.

“But just don’t bottle it all up. You’re doing the exact opposite of what you wanna achieve.” Harsh, unwavering, but filled with warmth. Like a morning sunrise that greets your view at the crack of dawn, one that shines with a fierce blaze above the earth’s horizon which blinds your sight.

But luckily, you don’t feel the least blinded at all. You feel fulfilled, that you could witness such a sight. A sight that punches you right in the gut and ripped your bodily nerves out, one that showed you that life is not always sunshine and rainbows.

You clutched his hands in your shivering palms, which you held on to like a salvation on this helpless night.

“A..Are you okay?”

“What..?” This was expected. He was seen dumbfounded in seconds. Wasn’t he the one who’s supposed to support you at this very moment? When you’re sobbing endlessly with no one to turn to?

Emitting a rough groan, his eyes fall shut. And he thought all his efforts were wasted? Silly. Wondering, you tried your best to oppress a laugh that’s been bubbling in your throat.

“I meant, whether you’re okay with coming in here and telling me all these sweet things.” You rub his forehead and smoothed his hair back, attempting to give him some sort of comfortable friction as small payment back for what he did. Like a devoted mother inclining to her own child, as they lie in bed with a temperature higher than average. “You rather wouldn’t do this at all, would you?”

“Ah..how seriously troublesome.” Admittedly, he’s embarrassed. His cheeks are flushed, and you certainly don’t miss the chance to sneak a peak, earning a light flick on your forehead.

“Whatever, feelin’ better now?” he pinches the thick skin on your waist. Better? Feeling better?

Your tears have stopped flowing, your mind clears of all foggy implications of possible futuristic ideas of you building up to your breaking point, and your heart squeals in content. You’re grateful, that at least, one beating heart can connect to yours in a split second. That could listen to your worries, your cries for help, and how much you loathe yourself to no end.

“..Sure.” Your response falls flat in an instant. Leona isn’t an easy individual to fool, so his eyes widened out of his sleepy trance. You giggle and look at him with the softest of eyes, filled with all the affection in the world you could muster.

“Hah? I’m not going to come in here every night to pat you on the head and wipe your tears away like a spoiled toddler,” His eyebrows furrowed, “So make sure you treasure this, cause it won’t be for free.”

Twirling his soft tendrils in your ring finger, you mutter. “Like Hell I expected it to be.”

Sharing one last look of passion between both your eyes, Leona leaves feathery kisses on your knuckles, that trails up to your neck, which leaves all types of tingling sensations that spark within. You don’t miss the way he murmurs one last sentence, one that renders you lightheaded.

“I’m proud of you, my one and only herbivore.”

Azul Ashengrotto

A certain individual’s newly polished footwear clicked and clacked on Ramshackle’s worn surface. Curiosity aroused, you peered up at the entrance of your room sheepishly.

“Now, this is unexpected, dear prefect.” Propping his glasses comfortably just right above the bridge of his nose, he opens his arms wide, as if he contains the most long-lasting benevolence which puts the Sea Witch that rules over the glimmering waters to shame. “Ah, but fear not–we can clearly talk this out! Just give me a scrap of your trust and time, and I’ll make sure that all your misgivings will vanish from this world in an instant. No traces left behind.”

You quirk an eyebrow, not the normal kind of quirk where you’re actually establishing interest in his playful deeds. But the one that leaves you astonished, that makes you question Azul’s course of action as you’re weeping. Infront of him.

A glint of mischief flashes in his diamond eyes, intent crystal-clear as the raindrops that races down the windowpanes that are attached to your room.

You’re not surprised in the least—no, you’re just plain out bored of all his pitiful attempts at trying to seal a deal with you, even after all the history that took place. His unceasing passion for capitalism dreads you to the core, you avoid the thought of the possible number of inferior patrons he managed to fool with his underlying schemes he’s planned out with two other underlings.

“I don’t need your cherished benevolence,” You felt pathetic under the eyes of a sole founder of a striving lounge that could outlead you in a split second. “Or your cheap deals, or that dangerous look on your face-seriously, what are you doing here?”

Azul lets out a moderate hum, arms crossed over the other in displeasure at your question. “My, what a miserable tone you have there.” In normal circumstances, he anticipates the rate of you using your usual tactic of first, brushing it off with a coy smile, and second, saying the expected “Maybe next time.” to shield your entire sanity before devoting your whole body and soul to be close to, if not a 100%.

But where was Ramshackle’s prefect? The person who managed to dastardly out-villain a massively feared individual, the person who faced and threatened Leona of all people with bravery, and the person who was able clasp Azul’s heart that was thrown around, kicked about, and thrashed under other children’s immaturity to envelop it in their own embrace?

Where was the person who was able to bring him back to his senses before no one else could?

His eyes squint to the ground. He’s beyond frustrated, over the top and it’s embarrassing. It sets a disgraceful name to the twins, the only people who have known him since elementary and stood by his side that took zero to no interest in bullying the poor octopus. That was until, when you came into the picture.

“If you’re just going to stand there then...please, leave..” You cough, a lump of ruined pride splattered onto the bedsheets disgustingly. The tears are never-ending, like some forgotten tap that has been running for a full minute. Except it wasn’t just a whole minute for you, but for months. Months, months and months till years where the outrageous thoughts booked a spot in your head and refused to leave until it broke you down to feeble little pieces.

Azul sighs. Weak and defeated.

How was he going to help you in this condition? His mind trails to other useful possibilities, intent pure, thoughts not-so. But as of now, his only priority, no matter what it costs, is to bring back the prefect that Azul Ashengrotto himself has grown so fond of.

He closes the door behind him and gave you a spiralling look of determination, initially faltering.

“..Well, it’s not that I am in the exact same predicament as you are,” he saunters before you while stripping his coat off in the process, stuffing his gloves in the hip pocket. “But I can’t say that I don’t understand your feelings of wanting to get back at the world for its mistreatment it has put you through.”

You don’t want this. You don’t want to be forced into signing a contract that benefits only the initiator, not again.

You flinch momentarily as he closes in on you. But you don’t fall back. Instead, you lose yourself in the immediate feeling of consolation as it blankets over your body. And what was causing that feeling—

Was his coat.

His large, fabric-sewn coat that hugged you like a fuzzy bear. Protecting you from all the other outside species that dared come to get closer by an inch. Your mind tells you to stay away at all cost, that you don’t need a sadistic money-hogger to hog your emotions away as well. But your heart swells, love overflowing for this one man that treated you so kindly. Gave you his notes, showed you his weaknesses, and even stopped editing his childhood pictures that he just wants to tear to shreds like a wild animal behind your back. All for free and for you, not for anybody else.

Because that’s how much you mean to him. Even if he doesn’t show it.

You can’t help but let the tears fall once again, but silently, as you look up at the person behind all this.

“Merfolks have it easy under the cold weather, so no need to sweat it.” Masking his flustered state, he shrugs his shoulders and raised his arm in defence. How truly, magnificently silly I am. He thought. “And I am no different as an octopus.”

“But..rest assured, I have grown.” Leaning down to get a closer view at your face, he frowns at your wet cheeks that have been stained by the waterfall of tears, tired eyes that painted a faded crimson red around the edges, and the last spot—your forehead.

Suddenly, you feel dizzy. Dizzy and drunk from everything he’s giving you. You now, more than ever, want to steal his whole wardrobe of apparel and wrap them around your figure that yearns for his touch. The alleviation that transmits to you through his thick clothes, his branded clothing that smelled of pricey, hand-plucked plumerias from a bottled-cologne which Azul usually wears. And his own natural scent. God.

You’re spiralling.

Easy little pecks were left on your forehead. A peck that swelled with everlasting affection, one that overwhelmed with his unfair favouritism towards you, and the other that told you nobody else could ever deliver these passionate feelings to the entirety of your body that twists and turns while he claims you as his own.

And lastly, a drunken kiss on the lips that leaves you wanting more.

“Though, I’m not entirely sure on how to bring you back to where you came from,” He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. Both of you know it was just seen as repetitive at this point, regardless...

“But you are always welcome to come running to me if you have even the slightest bit of problems. Just tell me the name, and surely, I’ll make sure they’ll never lay a hand on you once again.”

Kalim Al-asim

Merry. Cheerful, happy, and lively. Feelings that you don’t hold in the palms of your hands at the very moment, paints your ghastly hallways in luxury as it bounces off your cries.

Kalim was too drowned out of his own thoughts, arms holding a basket of flowers that was specially picked out from the own good will of his heart from Scarabia’s highly-treasured plants of botany that originated centuries ago, adorned in red, lustre trinkets that priced at a small value. The same colour of his eyes that hypnotised you every time you steal a glance of warmheartedness.

“Jasmine, Kudu, Iris-mm, they’re all here!” He could never be more happier. His finger tips graze over the fragile petals, leaving a speck of powdery pollen on one’s smooth skin as he dusts it off. He wishes to see you smile, brighter than the sun will ever be—brighter than him. To let you know that your entire being is worth more than his everything he’s ever received in his life. By his parents, servants, Jamil–that’s why he’s here in the first place.

To not see you cry yourself to sleep.

Before you knew it, the wooden basket that was crafted under one’s professional leisure, all the carefully picked blossoms that held a thousand meanings at your mercy, drops and crashes to the ground.

He thought it was suspicious at first. How you didn’t respond to the repetitive bangs on your door that tarnished in a distasteful, brown-to-grey colour scale that drifts of dust. Anybody could’ve sworn he would break the door down with his mere knocking-considering how weak it has grown over its unused years.

Not only that, he was sure that the fragrance that falls off the flowers was strong enough to grace the entire household of Ramshackle. Given Jamil’s advice, he didn’t want to taint such beauties that he preserved just for you. As his friend, and unknowingly, as his majesty.

“K-kalim!” Plunging off your sunken bed in an instant, burst of hidden energy coming from God knows where—you stood up with jelly-like legs, ready to give out at any moment. His face that told a forgotten story of horror, fingers trembling with the wind across his clothes-features that made you want to grasp on to the last ounce of strength that you mumbled under your breath for the heavens above.

“Why’re you here at this hour..? Are you sure Jamil isn’t yelling at each and every one of the residents in Scarabia to go search for you?” You were beyond concerned. What could happen if he went outside alone again? Disturbed as you were, but admittedly, you didn’t want him to go back. Back to Scarabia, where you would morph back to the lonesome, pitiable self you were.

He laughs as his dimwitted-self would. Everybody grows uneasy at such a positive individual. He brushes off a heavy task of his-even if it potentially causes his life. People around complain and tells him it wasn’t as safe as he thought.

But you treasured such an individual. You wanted to stay with this individual for as long as you could, you wanted to become this individual that portrayed such angelic charms where no one could compete. You didn’t want to stay at Night Raven Collage, the title of the powerless prefect enforced upon you against your own will. You didn’t choose to stay here in the first place.

On the spot, soft sniffling took over your senses.

“No...” You weren’t even given the time to react, before a pair of shaken hands grab on to your shoulders by force. “No...who did this to you?!”

Wide eyes stared into the endless depths of your soul, an iron grip stronger than the struggling ceiling that looked like it was about to collapse onto your defenseless bodies at any second. You're surely exaggerating, an eery image that was to be recorded inside the textbooks of former, worldwide-phenomenal history, one that automatically forces a stain in your sullied mind, something that you won’t be able to forget so simply.

Kalim’s overbearing emotions, rotton as the flowers that were stepped on as they lay lifelessly on the floor.

Your body froze, heart cracking emphatically for the entire world to hear. You never wanted it to come to this point, because you expected such response. You knew that the great tears of his beloveds will pollute the clarity of his mind, instantly turning to self-blame, which you dread to see. You never wanted anything more than to seal yourself away from this world without anyone ever noticing.

“Please, don’t ever think this was any of your fault.” Caressing his dampened cheek, you cooed as low as the crickets of a mockingbird that reverberates around the neighbourhood at the wee hours of the night. The last thing you ever wanted was to spell trouble for Kalim. Now, two unbroken streams of tears flowed, his still prevailed.

“No. Now that that I’ve seen your tears..” He wipes his eyes, “I want to give you something that significances in value more than my life!”

Silly, something that doesn’t quite sit corrected with the mood. But you know he’s dead serious, right?

“Jewellery, makeup, fancy clothing, a chandelier—anything! Please, just name the price! I don’t care if Jamil disapproves!”

You wanted to cry yourself to sleep.

“Please...” He pulls you in a hug. A hug that warns you to never let go, a hug that held you like a life support, a hug that gifted you unconditional love that the world failed to send. “Tell me what’s wrong, I’ll send ten-no-a hundred servants on your way! You won’t have to worry about a thing, they’ll take care of you better than I ever wi-”

Immediate silence, desperate cries arrowed by your hushed move to place a kiss on his lips. His heated ramblings that fell off the tip of his tongue that tuned in with your head in a daze, making your heart oh-so ready to jump out of your body and offer the same pleasure back.

Immediately, he cradled your head in his arms. Love radiating from his body, burned hotter than his hometown where he stepped foot in every day. A longing pang of guilt, mixed with the sentiment of an olden song from the Land of Hot Sands that would bring tranquil upon the children of the sun who would squeal in euphoric measures. A core memory that Kalim enjoys reminiscing every now and then.

He does everything in his power to bring such comfort to your mind.

“S-so don’t worry about the flowers...” He pulls away as he grips the side of your head, “I’ll give you something much more worthy.”

He closes in, peppering sweet, saccharine pecks on the shell of your ears that flavoured of honey and vanilla. Kisses soothing as morning Jasmine tea, topped in luscious sugar cubes that shimmered in the slightest under the soft, hovering sunlight. His kisses are heavenly, to die for, and something that you can never get from anybody else.

“Hey, can we go to bed together?” He rubs your temples shyly, hoping that you agree to his offer. “I want to stay with you till the sun rises. To give you all the cuddles and nose nuzzles you deserve in the entire world.”

To no one’s surprise- you thought for a second, even having your doubts and possible consequences that ran through your head. But you realised-that doesn’t matter. And even never will, if you’re lucky enough. So all you could do was nod.

In the blink of an eye, you both are now scurrying to the middle of your bed with the door shut. Your heart flutters, lead by Kalim’s loving grip.

His feelings now beamed a radiance of dazzling, eye-blinding smiles.

Because he would rather be greeted by the comforting view of your pretty face in the morning. Something different other than a tray full of metal utensils, accompanied by expensive ceramic bowls filled with freshly picked fruits, and a cup of warm tea that waits to be sipped on.

Vil Schoenheit

A faded tune plays out just outside the room of your door, as one’s sensual voice reaches your ears just loud enough for you to hear, amidst the torrential rain.

“Mira, Mira, tell me something.”

A pause,

“Who, at the moment, is the most beautiful of all?”

You shudder in anticipation. A name that existed in this world, a name that’s been forgotten by the people from your world that was nowhere near in sight, which possibly made multiple headlines and was altered to deceased in the end-

A name that belonged to you. A puny human being.

“(Y/n) (L/n).”

You audibly scoffed at how stupid it was. You? The fairest? Not even the bloody stars that aligned for you every once in a while could behold such a weak lie right in front of your face. Yes, you’re far from the fairest, far from beautiful, far from presentable—just a body sown by crimson threads interlacing in the most poisonous, velvety of patterns where one saw fit to mingle their courtly love with.

“My, did you hear that? It didn’t say my name for the first time.” Shoving his handphone back into his pocket, he rests his hand on his hip, assuming you’d get the message, a simple trick up his sleeves that he knew it were to be of use one day. You catch a quick glimpse of his hand. It’s still the same as ever-smudged, dry lipstick that matched the colour of Vil. What enticing aura that surrounds him, which you could never hold a candle to in a million years.

“Perhaps, it is I who has kept on believing such hoax? The Magic Mirror never lies.” He places a finger to his lips, “So, calm yourself. It would be a problem if I were to stain my hands from tears like yours.”

Demeanor as harsh as the Evil Queen, but you know from the bottom of his heart that these words weren’t lies. At all.

He swiftly pushes the door back until it closes, as his gaze ricochets among your worn pajamas, unruly hair, and your indented fingernails present of hours from unconscious biting and pricking-a slacked appearance that defeats the whole purpose of being beauty’s shining light. But don’t worry, just add the tiniest budge of makeup, make an appointment for the most world-class salons that makes tenfold the amount of money you make and conceal all those imperfections with the help insincere compliments that sheds of jealousy. Doesn’t sound too bad, does it?

Vil rolls his eyes. Wrong. An absolutely atrocious idea.

Your shoulders drop the way your tears did, your presence a mockery to his. You shift awkwardly under his peering eyes that were no different from a hawk’s as he studies your figure. After a moment, a small smirk dances on his face, fleek eyebrows raising as your tumbled eyes stared at him in contempt. Vil swishes his hair back before he walks towards you and cups your face in the palm of his hands.

“Well, the thought of you being the fairest doesn’t sound...half bad.” Twisting your head slightly, he analyses for it for a few seconds and combes your hair with his elongated fingers, easing the frizz that eats away at your chances of being the utmost beautiful amid all the other unwithering bouquets of roses out there.

But..you didn’t want to believe that. You obviously can’t be so sure that you are in fact, the most eye-catching anyone has ever seen. You didn’t—couldn’t see how Vil saw you as one of his kind, a lovely rose put on display for the hungry eyes of influencers, model scouters and agencies that actively has their eyes open for new talents. In short, you were less than worthy.

But to Vil, and to him alone, you were the most prettiest rose he has ever layed his eyes upon. A rose that lit up his sad endings, making them ones he would want to live through. As long as you were there, no bad endings would ever be bad endings with sunken eyes and dried tears. Because you were there to give him his own happy ever after that he's longed for forever.

Whispered coos brushed against your ears as he babbles on about how much of a mess you were at the moment, but he’s aware that we was balancing on a thin line of string that was his own mentality. He wanted nothing more than to take care of you and to tend to you to your uttermost enchanting self that only he could call his. A name suitable for Ramshackle’s prefect, no?

A beauty amongst all the other dorms, uniqueness that piqued countless interests at school, but you chose him? And he still wonders why till this day. Exactly why-he’s set on caressing your body, shushing your worries and unravelling your deepest of vulnerabilities. He wants you to prosper more than ever, to spread your wings that you kept a secret from everyone and soar magnificently through the burdensome storms until you reached the mount of the stars above.

“But, these tears are terribly troublesome.” He pulls your face closer, “Come now, let me wipe them away.”

You froze up for a bit before shifting away slightly. You don’t know why-but the thought of Vil doing something so out-of-character makes you shudder like a lonesome, stray cat in the windy nights. Not really that far off from your current state, but you digress.

That’s when realisation actually starts to hit you like a truck–It’s way past his bedtime, did he even get to do his routinely touch-ups before coming here? Your sanity is nothing more than past the levels of recurring zeros, but you haven’t completely lost yourself. At least, that’s what you hoped. For both you and your beloved’s sake.

There, he tsks. “What are you, half-asleep?” His eyebrows knit as he looks down at you cross-armed. He isn’t wrong-you were still trying to process his unprecedented courses of actions that kept ambushing your thoughts on by one.

Not particularly good for the wellbeing of your mind, but you would be lying if you said cupid hasn’t played with your heartstrings like a contrabass if his streaming flow of purple-tipped locks that skimmed right over your eyelashes in the most graceful way possible-didn’t make your heart beat a few milliseconds faster, followed by heated, flushed cheeks. “But, you said-”

“Do you not know how to take a joke?” He tips your chin upwards in the slightest, giving you a better view of his eyes that swirled of his complete endearment towards you. Entranced, is a word you would describe yourself in. Everything about him makes you want to melt into a puddle this instant. His body language, his hair, to his tantalizing scent, flirtatious but soft-hearted touches of gold that sparked a connection only between two hearts and no more.

Your tears fall harder than before, which managed to startle Vil as he pulls his fingers away from your face. Yes, you look pathetic, but you’ve never wanted anything more than just an iota of comfort. From anyone, you even pleaded for the heaven’s wave of hope above, for everyone to hear but no one to appear. You’re desperate and drained, unfilled with life as your soul screams out just as loud as your cries do.

“Goodness.” His gaze softens, as he directs your hands rubbing your eyes to the large of your thighs. Gleaming eyes meet yours as he closes your eyes shut. Once he deems you ready, you were immediately swept away with the fervor feeling of bliss that spreads throughout your entire body.

Tenderly kisses were placed on top each of your eyelids, sending a low hum of pleasure down your throat as Vil captivates you deeper into the tunnels of his own heart that he’s guarded for so long. He wants you to understand him, to fulfill his lovestruck desires that makes all the 7 types of Greek love drastically pale in comparison. A love that no one could ever copy if they wanted to, a love that’s shared between two devoted individuals, as dazzling as the Evil Queen’s tiara that flashes in front of wandering eyes.

He holds the sides of your jaw so passionately, it makes you knees go weak.

He wants to show his fans—the whole earth—how much of an otherworldly being you can truly be, and that his relationship with you was not all just show.

“I’ll stay with you for the night, that way I can make sure you’re all prim and proper in the morning once you wake up from your daily slumber.” He plants a soft peck on your lips, directing one hand down your waist while massaging it quietly.

You nod, fluttering you eyes open as he grazes his thumb ever so gently on your forehead. You’d succumb to each and every one of his effort to take care of you, no matter how strenuous it may seem. Because you’re all his. A person that he’ll gladly spend all his endings with. Just without the script this time- because true love doesn’t need such artificial shortcuts when it’s between you and him.

Idia Shroud

“U-Uh...” Your eyes spot an imprecise silhouette as it strolls closer to your door, taking unsure steps while visible strands of incandescent hair that sways in place lights up the closed area–that you reluctantly call your home. Incoherent mumbles of defiance slides through the dull width shaping the space between the door and the decaying wall that’s been collecting dust and inducing nasty pests for God knows how long.

Twiddling his thumbs in motioning circles, he stutters to speak the next audible sentence that’s been waiting to roll off the tip of his tongue. Fidgeting eyes stayed ultra-glued to the ground as he presses his lips tight. Summoning the tiniest bit of courage to peep through the crack that has been distancing both him and yourself from ever getting closer, he mutters.

“I...I couldn’t help but hear you.” His fingers come to a stop as his hand latches on to the metallic-painted doorknob, widening his field of vision of you tightening your grip on the poor bedsheets that probably sustained countless hours of unrestrained rage that doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. He sighs, before resting his hand once he came to a comfortable position.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

You huffed, one laced with arrogance, and you dully motion his shaking form to come inside with the tip of your finger. He oddly lacks reaction for the first time despite his past inept encounters with you where you could only recall his solid refusal to make direct eye contact, how he tipped his hoodie further down his face so he could hide his eyes finding his oh-gracious savior–either Ortho or the nearest door next by where he could trip over his own loose shoelaces to hide in.

He shuts the door and stumbles inside to sit at the side of your bed—his shoelaces are still untied. That serves your mind into a disorientation, not knowing whether to chuckle at his childish carelessness that is the same of a child’s or to cringe at how painfully long he took just to reach the remaining half of the bed-and to occupy it.

Though he wouldn’t mind if you did laugh for just a millisecond. Hell, even cracking a delicate smile would’ve been enough to bring silent peace to his heart. Your laugh is an un-sung melody that jazzes with the wind. One that compliments your endearing gaze, unblemished with the tiniest glint of protection in your eyes that pierces right through his, sharp as a honed needle.

He swears he saw flower petals that enriches the school grounds comedically come flowing down behind you, like he was meant to see such an ethereal sight bestowed upon his eyes. Was the sunlight gracing your skin too bright as if an influx of blinding stars were shooting down to hit the earth ground-first, or was it just him?

No matter, once he was comfortable, he shuffles closer–just a little closer, so that his breathy voice could be heard within the thunderous downpour. It’s nothing compared to your endless stream of tears, he feels. And it’s true.

“...Can’t go back to your own world, huh? Must be depressing.” There winds away the momentous sympathy he presented so obviously to the naked eye. But the words that he spits out of his running mouth and his body language are two entirely different things. He’s growing increasingly nervous as the clock ticks by.

Your seemingly boundless patience is truly a gifted trait, if you could knock out someone’s tooth once or twice right now, you would.

But once he looks into your eyes once more, he feels it—the ruthless pang that scarfs down on his own heart, repulsive, disgusting, unsightly, your disheveled appearance rips open an undiscovered memory of his, one that he wants to forget. The demonic voices in his head that submerges him deep down his past inability to come to the rescue for someone who needed it the most. Tingling nerves creep up his body, as the knots in his throat displays him utterly, deafeningly speechless, unable to scream out.

Will it only get worse from here?

If he won't be able to save the very person who accepted him for the way he was, just because of his own negligence again?

It's terribly cliche but he does it. Like a real mvp would, his mind speaks things he can't say aloud. His hand hovers just right above your own, achingly close, and he slowly caresses your scraped knuckles, before interlacing his raw-boned fingers between yours. His fingers twitch in the slightest, but he calms the disastrous war in his mind and squeezes the flesh that only dares to squeeze back.

"I get it...i-if I'm not some type of fairy tale prince that's all lovey-dovey." His other hand toys with the ends of his hair. away from your curious gaze. His words, how he enunciates them, the way they don't leave your ears with unfilled fondness that's been deeply rooted in your heart for ages-are choppy as usual. And you love him for that.

Could he have found someone else so abruptly unjudgmental of him? Someone who sees right through his loner facade? He wishes this moment could last forever, just you and him, under the glittering moonlight that highlights your facial features, a prepossessing sight that mirrors the exact same times where you sit together in the day, on the same bench, under the same tree.

Whispers filled with room for only two souls.

"B-but, it's only natural for me to take this much courage," He pauses before inhaling a sharp breath, "okay..?"

You could only send out a small laugh before his free hand slips off the fabric that covers your frame-hiding your shoulders. Your eyes widen momentarily before you fall into a bliss of heavenly exchange.

His lips connect with the skin on your shoulder. A soothing texture that subdues the whirl of emotions that rack through your entire body, replaces it with unsaid longing for your mere touch. Forbidden anesthesia to your train of thoughts, the voice which you couldn't seem to find within yourself anymore, to which you decided to roam your tear-stained hands in his flickering hair, mumbling sweet praises of love while he plants his pecks in each and every inch on your shoulder, leaving tiny smacks from his lips once it disconnects.

You could never ask for a better way to showcase your love for Idia. Undying, naive love that even he would find stupid for a lone wolf like him. But his eyes could only stray to your lips. Lonely—was one way to describe it.

Maybe one day he could empty out his own thoughts, his own arrogant feelings that cages his ego, and substitute the loneliness that masks it with his own lips that were none other than lonelier.

It's a few minutes–maybe longer than that, before his face leaves your body and his thumbs massaging the bare skin while he catches his breath. Rather someone as inexperienced as him was bound to do something silly, but he leaves you in a state of surprise when he pulls it off. Was the side quest really that hard? You chuckled. "I'm happy you came. Really."

His gaze swiftly returns to your eyes. Eyes that sheen on the surface–there it is. Eyes of someone beautiful, the opposite of him.

"Is there any way I can pay you back?" You ask once again. You have a vague idea of what he might demand back as payment.

His mood lightens, and suddenly, his hair seems brighter than usual.

"...Let's go back to Ignihyde dorm together. Tons'a sweet games we can play on my PC until the sun rises."

Malleus Draconia

You've lost your track of time, how long it's been since you've been holding in the disgusting bile that hangs over the tip of your lips. Hideous tears that paints your face, the word 'pathetic' scrawled ruthlessly across your forehead, ridiculing each and every course of action you take out of pure pity. Scrunching your face out of anger? Nails digging into your skin so dangerously deep trickles of crimson blood gushes out of it? A childish emotion you’re taking way too seriously?

Foolish. How dense could that headmage be to let you enroll at such a school as Night Raven College?

You could only hiccup once more before palish flickering lights—ones identical to fireflies—illuminate the room that blinds your line of sight. A gentle gust of wind that whisks upon coming in contact with your figure. A rather soft glow that relishes with the dampened air that surrounds it. You recognise the scenery before you quickly, it’s burned into your the deepest caves of your mind at this point.

The tall figure looms before you, eyes shut, as he regains his consciousness and takes seconds to let his eyes flicker a few times before his gaze settles wholly on you. A shudder slithers through your body.

The Malleus Draconia. A prominent, noble profile from Briar Valley where heads are hung low, torches are lit, gates are unbolted, all in favour and in submission for a singular prince that reigns over the land where residents sing a chorus of praises at his very name.

You wonder if he’s here to give you a greeting regarding a goodnight’s rest? After all, it’s been around a month’s span since you’ve each had your enchanting encounters with each other in the dead of the night.

“Child of man.” He whispers, beyond your hearing. The rainstorm distinguishes your own ability to hear past his low utter of words, other nights were just fine, but this particular night is where your humanly senses betray you. Your sentimental daydreams you have where your back in your own world, the nostalgic scent of home that brings your disdained body back it’s dignity that you felt was missing your entire time here in this unfamiliar world,

And your homesickness finally going away. The melody that weaves with the endless song of time, harmonizing together, wrapping your heart in a paramount supply of hugs that’s warmer than the frayed blanket that sits atop your shivering frame. The nocturnal air that stabs you all throughout your body gives your bones an unwelcomed smile.

Still, he continues. “Your gift of cries are...horrendously loud. I suppose, abnormal for even the human aural to bear hear to.”

The snot that clogs your nose and sniffles leaves you next words sounding-somewhat decipherable. “I-I’m aware..”

You’re positive you’ve passed the safe levels of lifeless insanity at the point. An esteemed prince who holds onto the steel ropes of eternal living, face-to-face with a frail, powerless human being who’s lost it’s way in life. The basic need to be grateful for being given such a short lifespan but such a widespread of humanly emotions, gone with the wind.

But Malleus only has so little to show you before you die down into mere dust, no?

“..Would you like me to take my leave?” He questions. It’s simple: Someone’s bawling their eyes out in front of you, it’s only normal to assume that they want to be left alone at most, right?

You didn’t answer. You couldn't answer. No body language, zero eye contact, the unfiltered noise of silence that grows larger as both of your hearts beat in rhythm. You were sure that if anyone from his hometown were to stumble upon this, to see your lack of basic respect towards its beloved kind, you could have never prepare for the cruel fate that dawns upon your very being.

You sit still. The hands that tremble under his gaze, barricading your ears from listening any further, The thunderous rainstorms are particularly loud tonight, was it his doing? His own emotions reflecting in the rain-bearing clouds that only seemed to gather more neighbouring ones to produce more short-lived lightnings of thunder? Or was it yours too?

You await his response. The disturbance that creeps up behind your back is suffocating.

But the only thing you see in his eyes is sorrow.

Emerald green, eyes that usually basked in glossed solemnity, faltering before your very eyes. Eyes that go soft, only in the light of your very presence.

How it started? You’re not sure. How he moved after despite your purposeful ignorance? He was too quick that he appeared in front of you, right in the blink of your teary eyes.

The tip of his finger, pointed under your chin as he invites the tiniest scrap of magic to use to make you look up at him. Just what was he planning to do next? Chant out an ancient spell that sends your head hitting the pillow the next instant? But you can’t deny, his face was..a sight to take in. You were probably missing out the past couple of nights chatting with him under the light pole that weakly casts light upon your talking bodies, due to Ramshackle still having yet to be renovated, possibly throwing away a couple of thousands of thaumarks just to fix that age-old building which sends a storm of dust flying your way.

“Child of man,” Your eyes focus solely on him. “do I have your appropriate consent?”

Appropriate consent? Your mind strays off to countless possibilities—what possible measures could he have thought about taking, dubious enough to ask for your very own consent, one that comes out from your own mouth that speaks your heart but doesn’t dare to speak the very depths of your mind?

Malleus remains poised—as usual, regal air that he carries around with him everywhere. On the other hand, you were conflicted. A one-of-a-kind chance! One of his supporters would persuade. You had no idea what he could be hiding behind his front. The blood in your veins run cold, but the scars-the blazing scars you obtained through the numerous overblots. The unpaid labour that you were coerced into, making you scurry from left to right for a certain mage, the restless nights where you had to skim through unfamiliar formulas as it started downing on your brain.

But you choose to trust. For the first time in a while, because your heart knows he isn’t the type of person.

Nodding, you feel your eyes fall shut.

His steady fingers, tracing the very tip of your jawline, a passion that radiates out of his own intimacy, cracking under the closure of your eyes. You wish you could open them, but you didn’t want to interrupt the loving sensations that brought the utmost peace to your wounded soul. It didn’t feel like thorns pricking at your skin, no, but a bundle of tight roses, presented in the most delicate fashion that soothed the invading noises that thundered in your head, which now felt like a distant memory.

The colour of fiery red, the same colour that splashed his heart, setting it ablaze, only the best for the person who saw beyond his frontal image. The person who saw such rumours about him silly. The person who was able to grasp his heart and bond it with their never-ending kindness.

And you feel him hesitate. But he was still the same as you ever saw him.

The Malleus Draconia, who would stop at nothing to protect your defenseless body from anything that dares to bring harm to you.

Who would take an excruciating sword to the heart for your own sake.

The Malleus Draconia, who would make the sun and the moon collide, just for you.

The tears begin falling, they’re non-stop, and they don’t plan to stop any time soon. The love-filled kisses he leaves on your jawline feels deep. Full of months from craving, since the moment he found out about your existence in this twisted world. He figures how much you abhorred it all around, and all the awful memories that relives itself through your mind each and every night, memories that morphed itself into nightmares.

But he whispers into your ear once again that he’ll bring you into a world full of sweet dreams, that you’ll no longer have to brood over such ugly daydreams that echoes blanky into your head. He continues his nurturing actions, his intoxicating kisses, feeling that his gift of love was far from ending.

Because he only wants to bathe you in all forms of peace, something that he couldn’t sincerely feel until he met you. So he’s simply giving back what he took.

A worthy gift from the heart, healing on this helpless night, no?

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