#⊰ ` i. study: sheet / / we are the children of the sun. ´ ⊱

[rahorak-a]

WHEN DO YOU GAZE AT YOUR SOULMATE?

when they're getting ready for the day.

this is all you've ever wanted. you and them and the promise of a future. you should be getting ready too. but you lay in bed for a moment, still feeling the traces of their warmth on the sheets, their scent on your skin. you watch how carefully they choose their outfit for the day. you watch as they pair the colors. you memorize that face they make when they stand at the mirror checking every detail. you savor how routine it is. you savor it because you both earned it. there is something precious in the domesticity and you vow to never take it for granted.

#⊰ ` i. study: sheet / / we are the children of the sun. ´ ⊱ #this is so soft omg

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Six)

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader reborn as lady greenstar. it was no secret as aemond’s admiration grew.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, size kink, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and Aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: this chapter is ONLY in Aemond’s pov. ooc aemond, but still is a cold-stone, charming prince we all love. Thank you for being patient with me; i took so long to write. I used a reference from Nanami’s line from JJK—he said “Being a child isn’t a sin.” And the trailer of HOTD S2 is 😍😭🔥❤️‍🔥👏

Chapter Six: The Rebirth of Lady Greenstar

~Aemond’s POV~

Aemond couldn’t stop gazing at you in your sleep, no matter how often he saw your chest rise and fall with soften breath drawing past through your lips—sinful lips, droning out soft noises, he recalls the day where he undressed you. Moles engraved on your lower lips and neck, and several others spotted on the collarbone. Some at the back. The shape on your smooth legs sprawled and tucked at turns you rotated whilst in dreamland—he recalled your skin marked in red outline of a dragon on your right thigh, and a green dragon on your whole backside.

Slender arms rested beneath your head despite the ivory pillows are there, all fluffed and cleansed with new ivory sheets, aglow under a yellow sun.

Quenched as he is, Alicent’s word stung; his hands and teeth clenched. “But the truest of your heart—your love must be hidden in secret,” she told him once.

He knew what she meant.

Studying the histories of the Targaryens—of those who had children out of wedlock for an escapism in horrid and loveless marriages assigned from previous kings are often ridiculed and reigned in contempt, in curse—bastards.

He hated bastards. Lucerys and Jacaerys are one—they claimed to be as Velaryons throughout—and on a night of Laena’s passing, Aemond, at the age of three-and-ten claimed Vhagar and lost his eye, that damned good-for-nothing bastard—a Targaryen pretender who was out of Rhaenyra’s womb, bathed and born with brown locks and pug-like nose and sneering features—Velaryons tend to have delicate and soft features, but still manly in their own way like Targaryens do, but not Strong. House Strong are rugged and filthy.

But—

With your case, as a newcomer, as an outsider, he knew you don’t belong in this world, considering how you tried to avert Aemond with diversion. You’re neither a royal nor a bastard. Though punishment can be given to anyone in the royal court or outside the Red Keep. Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Though of course Dorne accepted bastards.

Aemond’s intrusive thoughts overcame. A battle of restrain lashed out, when the prince approached towards the lush your sleeping figure. Your breath steadied at the rise and fall on your hilled breasts; the torn and worn out nightwear severely took a toll on the guards yanking you as if you’re a fragile doll.

If one’s act of taste that considers as a sin, then it’s a sin I shall give.

His head leaned forward, face closing to yours, tip of his tongue tingled as his left hand clasped on your head, the other rested on your waist as his tall body brought down on the bedside atop of your sleeping form. He had memorized, and counted the moles—once, as he lay himself to sleep in his quarters on the night after he first saw you. There’s a theory that moles came from a past lovers planting a kiss on empty spots. Aemond could offer you more. His tongue slithered on the soft line of your neck, and brought back to pucker with balmy smack, leaving a small trace of string silava coated on your now bruised skin.

Squirming underneath him, Aemond satisfied, humming, his right hand snaked on your waist, then fondling your left breast, pinching the taut nipple as he devoured the scent on you as he hungrily kissed your jawline and slope on your neck.

Earning a moan from you, Aemond spurred, his fingertips roamed on your breast and lowered down to your thigh, kneading. Your face—your lips—directly aligned to his, drawing a quiet sigh.

Adrenaline rushed in his veins, his body grew hot, trousers compacted with his engorged cock. He couldn’t get enough of you. The taste of you, your beauty and your fiery heart. He envisioned of what your face would be like, your voice would sound like, if you’re awake during the pleasurable intercourse or under his tantalizing fingers and mouth.

Countless footsteps skittered across the hall nearby. And so, Prince Aemond sat on the chair with his legs crossed and his elbows resting on the armrest behind the wall, spying on the maidservants passing by the opened door without batting an eye, maids chatting as always.

A hushed sigh of relief drew from his lips. By then, he looked at you one last time, spotted a love bite on your neck, before ushering himself out to go at the hall and disappeared with his lips, licking—tasted and lingered upon more ravaging thoughts of you.

~~~

Into a wide-ranged room, roofs decorated like constellations and metal works of the orrery, and the broad balconies garbed in light and ruffled curtains swaying. The council planned to use this room to divert the newcomer and persuade her to join hands and swore oath.

They have hoped that a new change of environment will appease her. Aemond couldn’t blame her; the Council room is filled with discrimination and accusations, despite his interest on becoming a sovereign—unlike Aegon who he rather be a sovereign in between someone’s legs at the brothels upon the Streets of Silk.

Regardless of Alicent’s cautionary, both Green sons lurked and eavesdropped on the members, who are more frantic and belligerent in comparison to previous meeting.

“She’ll be here,” Aegon teased. “Ser Arryk is coming to fetch her. Poor girl lost her way in the Red Keep.”

Aemond folded his hands behind his back, abiding, cold and calculating, and twice as tall, passed from Aegon’s stature.

“How long will she last, I wonder? With all the skills, beauty and remarks she has gotten,” Aegon emphasized on the word “beauty” as sarcasm, “do you think she’ll survive, even after the council? This is no easy task, of course, residing in Red Keep. The Blacks are here again. And Daemon didn’t come here alone.” His head jerked, indicating towards Rhaenyra. “I don’t suppose you’re aware, but the poor girl might risk her life again. Shocking how the Blacks and Greens weren’t showing hostility despite our shared past.”

Aemond watched within the presence of the council—Blacks and Greens united—without bloodshed. A bizarre sight to behold.

The doors creaked, and entering (y/n), following Ser Arryk.

The Blacks and Greens gaze with watchful eyes, tension rose as (y/n) proceeded closer and sat down on a vacant chair nearby the entrance door but struggled; Ser Arryk assisted her and perched down as she thanked him, returning a similar unnerving gaze back, unyielding even when appearing fragile. Her posture eased; she glimpsed at the decorated ceilings and tables with constellations.

It appears she likes it, Aemond thought.

Until her eye landed on Aegon and Aemond himself with her elbows rested on the left armchair, back slouching, eye concentrated intensely.

Aemond’s heart skipped that she faced him, in devoid of sheepish demeanor. And there, she smiled.

“Shall we get started?” Rhaenyra insisted.

(Y/n) couldn’t stop gawking at Aemond and Aegon.

“My lady,” Rhaenyra called out firmly, and (y/n) snapped back to actuality. (Y/n) eyed on everyone, then looked down onto her hands on the armrests.

Silence ensued. Then (y/n) requested to their introduction since they came to know (y/n)’s. All have introduced themselves—Hightowers and Targaryens. When Green brothers are finally introduced, Aemond spotted (y/n)’s lips curled a little; her dimple dented. But overall, she seemed happy throughout the introduction.

“First, we must address regarding to House Blackwood,” Otto drew the scrolled parchment, and distributed to (y/n) through the sentinel. “This letter is sent from a raven at this morrow.”

Sleeking her wavy strands—long curtain bangs back, she read the lines in the parchment. “Is this supposed to be a joke or something?”

“House Blackwood demands for your head, since they accused you of murdering Remon Blackwood,” Otto said. “Anything to have say in your defense?”

Tongue in cheek, (y/n) chortled, aloud for everyone to hear.

“Does killing others amuse you?” Daemon challenged. “Or would you rather a quick execution by a dragon for your childish act?”

“I’m sorry did you say dragons?”

Daemon unanswered her question, but she knew he wasn’t lying.

(Y/n) recollected herself. “It’s three knights that chased me, remember? They killed Ser Remon Blackwood long before they chased me. I used the blade he gave me, not the large swords.”

“There are other reports that the three knights are imposters,” one claimed. “That their faces aren’t quite as recognizable. And their armor and breastplates are entirely soft—a forge through cheap metal. Their blades and blunt and uncared for.”

“Must’ve been the rapers from the North.”

“Ser Criston, what was the weapon she was holding when you first found her in the woods? Was it a sword?”

“A fine blade that belongs to Remon Blackwood,” Criston replied.

(Y/n) sat there and released several guttural coughs, which got their attention.

“Are you alright?” Alicent concerned.

“I’m fine,” (y/n)’s voice croaked. Alicent ordered the servant to fetch the hot tea, to which you drank after being served.

“Has she drank the Milk of the Poppy,” Otto asked the Maester.

“Apparently she hasn’t drank any since this morning; deeply fell asleep.”

Relaxing in the chair, (Y/n) tossed her hair over to the side before she took out two objects again from the pockets on her nightwear and placed it onto her lips, and blew out smoke, but away from their direction.

“What are those objects that you possessed?” Daemon asked.

Crossing her legs, (y/n) blew out another smoke, her eyes glazed darkly, her demeanor changed as if it was an illusion. “This is the cigarette, and this is a lighter.” She demonstrated the items again, but only she’s precisely shown the golden lighter, carved in detailed dragon, and fire lit from the metal.

“Where are you really from?”

(Y/n) clicked the lighter shut. “I already told you last time,” her voice crossed.

“Are you a slave?” Rhaenyra asked.

(Y/n) is taken aback, brows scrunched, bewildered.

“Everyone saw the markings on your body,” Rhaenyra pointed out.

“No, I got these since I was young. Let’s cut to a chase. What do you want?”

The members of the council baffled at your straightforwardness.

“Since we’re here, I don’t intend on wasting anyone’s time,” she resumed, her voice hardened. “What do you want?” Her voice darkened.

“Are you aware to why you’ve been summoned in the council?” Otto questioned.

“Oh please, do enlighten me,” (y/n) said in sarcasm.

“Lady Rhaenyra has planned on you becoming a knight—you both saved the children and experienced in combat during the battle outside the Red Keep.”

(Y/n) laughed again, though not as cruel. In anger, the knight trudged towards her, but she stopped the knight with her left foot stomped on his breastplate, revealing the red dragon tattoo, your hand ran through your luscious hair; Aemond stared for so long that he ignored his surroundings. He found himself yearning to taste you again.

“At ease, good sir,” Alicent ordered. The knight backed off and your leg lifted down, crossing over to the other.

“Why refuse?” Rhaenyra challenged. “Do you wish to be executed from false charges?”

“You misinterpret me, my lady. Do you want to know what happens when you put a woman as part of the Kingsguard? People will riot. No man would accept a lady knight because they don’t want to be ashamed of not holding much power.” With her elbows propped, the upper body slouched, leaning forward, intensely gawking at their familiar mortified faces. “If anything that you should be worry about,” her index finger pointed outside behind (y/n) at the open archway; behind her is the town of King’s Landing, “it’s the people. People hold you on the highest regard; anything you do, they’ll use it against you. You have dragons,” she reasoned, counting on her fingers, “legions of army and holds the utmost reputation—everyone knows your name and your appearances distinguished from others. If laying a single mistake, people will make an excuse to take the opportunity to tarnish—even bring hell to Westeros. If you put two and two together, it’ll be difficult for people to accept as much as I want to help,” (y/n) cautioned.

Unused cigarette wafted in the crisp air—and (y/n) stomped on it with her fingers.

“As a matter of fact, I couldn’t agree more,” Jason Lannister encouraged. “Ladies are not suitable to guard for the ascendance of a potential heir. Women take longer to dress than men, after all they’re made to be dulled for a tedious hobby.”

Aemond disagreed, otherwise.

“Why save them?” Rhaenyra asked.

(Y/n) blinked.

“Being a child isn’t a sin,” (y/n) said, solemn. “They don’t deserve to what they’ve gone through.”

“Never thought you find this miserable,” Daemon said.

“I have soft spot for children and those who are broken.” She darted her eyes to Aemond once more.

Rhaenyra sighed, her hands enveloped, glancing at neutral Daemon next to her, poised. “We shall find an alternate option for you to abide here in King’s Landing—tasking the vital aspects of being part as the Red Keep’s vessel—everyone has their own role to play, knowing their place, and you’re no exception.”

Refusing, (y/n) inclined back into a relaxing position. “Figures,” (y/n) muttered, posture sank into the chair.

“I know it’s difficult to accept, but should you stay, you’ll learn a thing or two of the culture and the history, everyone around you included,” Rhaenyra suggested. “And we shall do the same to yours. Though the customary traditions in Westeros must steady. But it won’t mean you’re limited from freedom at the assets of your personal values and desires and expression.”

“It would be the wisest,” Rhaenyra added. “People won’t know and comprehend this, but us, despite you’ve given simplistic explanation of your vast side of the story.”

(Y/n) pondered; fingers tucked on her chin.

“They’ll never accept me,” (y/n) lectured, locks undulated in steady motion. “No matter how you vouch or reason for me, they won’t adapt; I’m just an outsider. It wouldn’t be as upsetting once I get hurt. They won’t understand yours or my intention if I decide to stay here. Or worse.”

“But there’s still a chance for you to prove yourself, allow your presence to be seen and heard,” Alicent coaxed.

Rhaenyra contemplated. “Or perhaps you could join us at Dragonstone,” she proclaimed, rather blithe. “Of course you’re free to choose.”

Aemond disliked the idea of you residing in Dragonstone as much as Alicent, based on displeasure etched onto their delicate and finely features, green as envy—as Hightower’s colored banner that summons war, strong gazes projected towards Rhaenyra like a serpent in the shadows.

Gritting and grinding her teeth, (y/n) tongue clicking. “No, I’m not staying in Dragonstone, either. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, consider how I “arrived”.”

Aemond’s breath unwinded. Flush smothered your cheekbones. Stared long enough until Aegon elbowed him in a single tap, as a reminder to stay focused.

“I’m afraid it’s far from possibility, since you came along way from the other vast side of your world. In the meantime, you must reside here in Westeros, in King’s Landing. We may never know your intentions, but it’s best to keep it simple and quick. Do tells us what you want.”

Refusing, (y/n)’s face turned away, sheepish.

“You want gold? Reputation?” Rhaenyra insisted, to which you answered “no”.

“Do you wish to possess a dragon?”

“First of all, dragons are hard to take care of. Two, I’m not a Targaryen! That’s your thing, not mine. I can’t even take care of my dog.”

“Then I assume you want the Iron Throne,” Daemon insisted, but the Blacks and Greens shot a piercing glare at him in unison, warning him not to give anymore ideas, but he awaited for (y/n)’s reaction.

“That chair looks uncomfortable! I’d rather sit on a cold ground rather than having an iron swords jabbed up and bleeding in my ass.”

Aegon snorted, covering his mouth when Otto noticed his grandsons, scowling.

“What can we do to convince you,” Alicent resumed, hands rest on the armchair.

“I don’t think you can help me on this one,” (y/n) said, begging them to let you go.

Rhaenyra maintained her posture. “Then what is it that you truly desire at this moment, Lady (y/n)?”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Never.”

Shaking, deep in pensive notion after hearing their relentless offer disguised as blatant curiosity.

Silence prevailed, at first. Fireplace flickered, soft howls bypassed the constellation room. Everything stood still, as does their anticipation, weighing and resting on their fate of the house.

Rising onto her feet, and she got close and flatly pressed down to a cold stone pillar with her hand. “I want to see the ocean, the sky—the smell of salt and cloudy air. I want to feel the wind as I walk by, or draw and paint surrounded by flowers as I looked out onto the ocean as the ships sails by.”

“A very simple, mundane request,” Daemon commented, folded his arms. “Anyone could percept the instability of waves and ships passing through and the fragrant smell of blooming flowers.”

“Sometimes taking the simplest pleasures in life must cherish with joy and savor with love,” you told him, remaining your eye locked onto the waves, wobbling and crashing. “You’re a dragonlord, Prince Daemon, I think you should be grateful. As for me, I rarely get to see the ocean, because I lived somewhere far where it has no ocean, no flowers—the weather is humid and sometimes shows a little rain. On most days, hot air suffocates you to a point you want to drown in cold water.”

“There’s a chance people might conclude you’re from Dorne or Yiti. Or perhaps as Ser Criston’s sister.”

Aemond watched (y/n) shooting Daemon with a deadpan expression on her dulled hues. Criston, on the other hand, didn’t appreciate Daemon’s unnecessary commentary, but made no urging trifle.

“I’m not, and if I do, you would recognize the Dornish accent at this moment. Clearly you can’t. Sorry to disappoint you,” (y/n) replied, nonchalant.

“Anything else,” Rhaenyra asked, anticipating.

Silence occurred.

“What of other things you acquire to be more convincing,” Alicent chimed in, coaxing, sensing an alarming and animated expression hidden from you.

“Nothing,” (y/n) squeaked, though her cheeks flushed says so otherwise.

Aegon snorted as Aemond lifted the corners of his mouth into a piffling smirk—as he found your sudden expression unexpectedly chaste with shyness and charm.

“The matters settled, then,” Rhaenyra got up. “I look forward to see you and more. I expect great and admirable accomplishments from you, Lady (y/n). I think it’s that for now you must stay in the capital. If you do intend to serve the realm, I’ll reward you, anything to your heart’s desire. As long as you make contributions, we’ll make your dream as certain. In the meantime, that is.”

(Y/n) ventured in a languid motion near towards the members in the council. In the end, the favor on her side—Rhaenyra and Alicent’s request—might go smoothly if done right. But Aemond’s heart grew heavy at a thought of you leaving King’s Landing, leaving Westeros, feared you might not recall your ventures and people you encountered alongside of the journey—feared your mind and sight of seeing Westeros and its people are nothing but a figment dream.

Alicent pushed herself up from her reclining. “I shall do my part as well. You’ll do great things, I’m certain,” she assured (y/n), enfolded atop (y/n)’s cold hand.

Happiness faded from (y/n)’s lips when a cold end of the blade—Dark Sister—tipped and traced a thin line on her centered neck. Daemon’s violet eyes gleamed at hers; her hands raised an indication of surrender.

Aemond’s eye snapped in fury. The guards Rhaenyra accompanied clutched their blades, viewing like vultures standby.

“I’ll never trust a cunt like you,” Daemon proclaimed. “You may wield a blade, you may save anyone who you wish, but you’ll never be part of the court. The look in your eye—arrogant and maliciously stricken with pretense. Common whores like you—pretending to be humble and virtuous when you really are neither.”

Yet you fuck whores in the Streets of Silk on your pastime, Aemond thought.

Sighing, (y/n) said, “Then kill me. If you really think I’m dangerous to the Red Keep and to the monarchy like Ser Marrow claimed, then end me.” Then she gripped Dark Sister and pointed it at her chest daringly. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

He scoffed, despite Rhaenyra’s attempt on pushing Daemon back.

“Don’t speak to me as if you’re my equal. We are nothing alike.”

“Thank god I don’t have a cock, then,” (y/n) shot back, rolling your eyes. “I don’t have to worry whether I’m going to get gelded or not.”

Like a child, Aegon stifled his giggling.

“Fucking simpleton,” Daemon hissed, pressured the Dark Sister. “You know nothing of Westeros and its people. Might as well have your tongue remove. What say you, warrior?” he mocked.

“Seven Hells, Daemon, you’ve said enough,” Rhaenyra warned.

Aemond strode onward, never minding Alicent, who was rushing to his side, begging to not worsen an escalating quarrel. But Aemond paid no mind; his mother’s words drowned and emptied in his fueled rage.

“I saved both lives—a boy and a girl,” (y/n) protested. “I saved two young people who are separately belong from two mothers—who were at their near deaths. I saved you too, by the way. Guess it doesn’t matter, right?”

Daemon tsked. “And that’ll be the last thing you’ll ever save, considering your reputation has been nothing but meddlesome. I’m afraid your reasons on saving your neck has come to expire.”

Aemond trudged in front of (y/n), holding his long dagger and situated his honed silver on Daemon’s neck. He felt her cold hand pressed against his chest and gave a little push, but no to avail; she’s still weak under the Milk of the Poppy.

“Hold down your blade, Uncle,” Aemond warned. “You gave her quite a fright. I thought the deal has been final.”

“I never thought I’d take you as a fool, Aemond—that’s twice you’ve committed a sudden act.” Daemon’s lips curled in disgust. “Being blinded by her, I see.”

“She saved my sister’s life,” Aemond justified. “And I’m eternally grateful.”

Without shifting his eye, he saw you wandered your glance up to him before facing back to Daemon.

Aemond shifted closer, Targaryen against Targaryen.

“Take one more move, and you’ll lose another pair of your eyesight,” Daemon sneered. “What happens then, if I do cut your other eye out? So, shall we test it?”

(Y/n) managed to block herself in between Aemond and Daemon.

“Then I’ll be his other eye,” (y/n) declared, defended, one arm spread, shielding Aemond, the other hand held high against Daemon, bandage slipped from her visage.

All noise ceased.

Aemond’s heart quickened at a roaring declaration in a vibration on your tone—soft yet firm and fiery—like a dragon reborn.

“I’ll be his other eye,” she repeated, shielding Aemond. “Stay back,” she hissed at Aemond, insisting on shoving him back to lessen the tension between two factions. Aemond glimpsed at her shaken hand, yearning to hold her.

Even (y/n) knew a large cost of encountering Targaryens through fate, aside learning the history. Dragons never cower in their palace of red and gold of Red Keep, in a palace of black stoned walls of Dragonstone, their banners—sigils of red or green. Dragons come and reign in a price of fire and blood and fearsome, colossal beasts taming Westeros.

Knowing the consequences of her shared words, who knows what might occur depending on her unfickle judgement.

“You heard the maiden,” Aemond said with a smug on his face. “Release your blade, Uncle,” he commanded.

Grimaced, Daemon drew his sword back in his sheath, parting the gap, and endowed (y/n) and Aemond with imprisoned through his hues. “She’s no maiden. Perhaps I shall call her “Green’s bitch”.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed. Little by little, he stood inches near (y/n), like a proud and mighty dragon stood by its owner.

Watching close by, Rhaenyra and Alicent shared knowing glances.

Overhearing the sound behind them, the king produced an agonizing sound of his breath, (y/n)’s able to catch him from falling in brisk reflex.

“Get the maester, quick!” Alicent cried, as you are clinging onto the ailing king, who was moaning and groaning due to his severe ail.

Everyone made haste as Alicent and Rhaenyra assisted (y/n) on putting back Viserys onto his chair.

Adjusting the king’s posture, Alicent dimissed (y/n) by saying, “We shall talk later. I must tend to my husband. You go on ahead.”

And with that, the council adjourned—(y/n) ushered out, giving Aemond one last look with a slight bent on her neck.

With a final word, Aegon said to Aemond, as they trudged back to the halls. “Daemon took great pleasure in stirring commotion, especially a certain lady, who you’re so keen on.”

Aemond hasn’t utter a single word.

“Obviously, he has missed his youth involved with treachery and rebelliousness. I supposed these days have kept peace quite busy despite our father’s poor lapse of judgment.”

Aemond sauntered farther, but Aegon caught on in a same pace.

“I never knew you had it on you, dear brother. But was it really an act of good will for Helaena’s life or was it a pure instinct to an act of affection?”

“It was all for Helaena’s sake,” Aemond said.

Aegon leered. “Is it?”

From there, Aegon fled.

For once, Aegon never said something stupid or drunk.

Aemond stalked his mother on meeting (y/n) in the chambers he trudged in upon darkest shadows, carefully listening in.

Alicent came over, agitated even concealed in unsuccessful, mortified demeanor. “The Council has been reached to a verdict,” Alicent told (y/n), as if it’s a death sentence—probably the men discussed and finalized to an upcoming conclusion.

He watched as (y/n) was plopping onto the bedside, the last cigarette held between finger has thawed into ashes.

“I see,” (y/n) soften tone echoed the room, rippling against his skin.

Alicent touched (y/n)’s upper arm. “I apologize on behalf of the circumstances. I know it can’t be easy,” she said, sincere.

(Y/n)’s eyes twinkled.

“Despite Rhaenyra vouching for you for saving her son, you have declared of being Aemond’s other eye, and thus, your declaration brought an uprising of questions to the Blacks.”

(Y/n) acknowledged.

“A word of advice; should you wish to keep your wits and tongue, play your part, and keep your head down for the Blacks not to detect or test your patience,” Alicent said. “Common folk, even nobles tend to have ill intentions far from a plain gossip. Kingdoms tend to hatch a birth of vipers and stabbers every corner of the castle walls.”

“I’ll do it,” (y/n) said, without looking back at her, picking on her fingertips.

Alicent clasped her hands over (y/n)’s, and heaved. “Rhaenyra and I are in a current matters of discussion regarding of your future duties in King’s Landing. She proposed the idea of you being as the cupbearer while I proposed the idea of you being as Helaena’s handmaiden. Nothing has set in stone. We did so to ensure of your livelihood be at safest, to cease the gossip that has been spread far and wide regarding to your arrival. But first, the king must anoint you at the throne room for a private ceremony—no audience shall be present.”

You stayed silent; your right hand stroke your left wrist; the feeling the absence without your possession.

“Is something the matter?”

(Y/n) shook your head, light-headed.

“In time of fear and change, that is where you must be brave,” Alicent advised, eyes glistened.

Aemond has never heard of Alicent—his mother—spoken ever so motherly to anyone, not even Aegon.

A sudden shift glided in you when you have decided what to do as (y/n)’s role in King’s Landing. “I’ll bend the knee.”

Alicent’s dulled eyes brightened at your answer. “Then I shall inform my husband regarding to your call.” She laid her hand on (y/n)’s shoulder blade.

Once she stood up, (y/n) bid Alicent goodnight.

And Aemond stayed in the dark, and the only words replaying in his mind are the words she declared opposing the Rogue Prince.

I’ll be his other eye.

The way you shielded his body and ordered him to shift back, Aemond knew that no noble woman or commoner in any Houses would defend him and his honor as a Targaryen and Hightower. Or more than his status as a one-eyed prince. As a swordsman, he can hold off his battles, even in close quarters, but something about you, a strong-headed girl, who knew of little consequences, protected him that he find as devilishly unique.

His mind stirred in a matter of battling between whether he want to fight your battles or claim you.

Perhaps both.

Aemond had certainly come to a closure, a predetermined arrangement of taking you, but obstacles must come forth before a dragon claims the maiden as his crown, glory and a hymn that he won’t mind spend the rest of his life hearing.

Upon a daylight hour, the decision came to a close when both Greens and Blacks debated to assigning on (y/n)’s fate for the realm, despite a given answer. In the end, King Viserys has a final say, which both factions surrendered for an hesitant agreement. In the Red Keep, guest of nobles and common folk alike flocked inside to a point where it’s nearly and impossible to fit, all awaiting, all mind shared one reason.

Hours before the occurrence in the throne room, in Aemond’s quarters, two servants awoke him to bathe, and one maid provided him information regarding to (y/n)—the Maester inspected and mended on her wounds once more before withdrawing. Her eye, however, is healed, just as it was yesterday when she ripped the bandage off.

In the throne, there she was, blocked by tall members of the Kingsguard.

He imagined that a maidservant tugged the strings harder for a cinched waist, despite this, (y/n) cooperated without a fight. Knowing resistance will bring disaster. Until a thought of disaster is long gone. From there, the guards veiled for (y/n) to cross passage towards the steps of the Iron Throne, seeing upon a pristined condition—clad to an outfit befitting for a youthful and appeased maiden to soften at the hardened image of a brute fighter. Her straight long (h/c) locks with thick stands braided as headband atop of her head; strands of baby hair left untouched, and soft paint dabbed it on your chapped lips and cheekbones, tainted in reddish shade to liven your surly visage.

King Viserys proclaimed and summoned (y/n); she knelt with a hand over her chest, head inclining down that her long (h/c) locks framed on sides, reciting her vows. King Viserys crowned her with a green brooch with a four-pointed star sigil pinned on her centered chest once she stood.

“As a last hope for a darkened age within House Targaryen, in hopes to reunite both factions,” King Viserys announced, hoarse. “Salvation rests in your hands. I wish you nothing but the very best to soothe the realm with your grace, Lady Greenstar.”

Two factions appalled at his last claim underneath their vacant neutrality in their hues. Spectators gathered and exchanged in gossip, all frantic and perplexed from their King’s announcement.

A girl from a modern century has been remade through rain of fire and light, befall and rose from sky. Arise onto her feet, who peered upon audience, before the eyes of the two factions, who solely darting her eyes to Aemond, as if she wanted him to sense her heart is surged with heaviness, rebirth as Lady Greenstar.

Aemond did—but couldn’t offer the arms of comfort. His fierce and benevolent maiden. But in the eyes of Gods, Westeros won’t lay rest, as he keeps his ardor hidden.

And chaos entered.

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[love-that-we-were-in]

the harder the pain, the sweeter the sun

the aftermath of Luke's quest. or the consequences of not being a hero.

a/n: hello i didn't mean to be so sad on my entrance but we move! have fun (i'm so sorry)

It shouldn’t be like this, he thinks as he steps back across Camp Half-Bloods borders. There’s still the same mill of activity, archery and pegasi and swords grating against one another. Everything is exactly as it was when he left. Some people notice him as he makes his way towards his cabin - they don’t make small talk, what’s the point of that when he’s not the hero returned. His scar, still fresh, still raised and red across his face, feels heavy. It’s almost a beacon; a guiding light towards his failure. No one comments but he can feel it, the shift in energy as he walks past each cabin. Pity for the son of Hermes. 

His bunk is untouched. 

Collapsing onto the sheets, he glances around the space. It’s only him here, faced with his own reckoning and renown. His bunk is untouched but there’s two abandoned opposite, a careful stack of belongings at the end of each. Before dinner, he’ll change those sheets. He’ll pack Cora and Eric’s belongings into a box to stow away in the big house, amongst a dozen others he’s left there over the years, and he’ll burn shrouds to them with his campmates in the evening. 

Luke wonders, as he takes in the makeshift beds on the floor, if it was even worth coming back at all. 

Everyone moves on. Within days, there’s barely a mention of either of his quest companions. Both of them were unclaimed, watching their lives tick by in the two years he’d known them with little idea of who they were. The Stoll twins were given their beds upon their arrival at camp two days after he returned. They had been claimed, sent in the right direction by Hermes himself, and Luke despises the way he has to sit down with people he’s known for years and tell them they’re back to sleeping on the floor. Seniority is one thing - being claimed is more important. 

He trains. It’s the only thing he can do. There’s no pride that comes with failure. Some of the Ares kids jeer at him but none of them try to fight him, just watch as he fights with Annabeth like old times. Knife against sword. He trains and he studies and he watches as the floor of Hermes cabin becomes a minefield of belongings as summer peaks. 

Little will change between now and fall, he knows that with certainty. He’ll still be stuck burning food for his father, willing something to happen that will earn him a deserved quest. Maybe it’s foolish, this desire to try again, to keep going on quests until he returns from one he can say was his. Not a feat of Hercules, but a tale of Luke. He has camp glory, he needs more than that.

*

Summer ends, as it always did. He says goodbye to more cabinmates than anyone, standing at the edge of the borders until the sun is nearly setting in the sky. Thalia’s tree is behind him as the last kid leaves, an eleven year old girl that had done nothing more than stare with wide eyes every time he lifted a sword. He wonders if he’ll see her next June at all. 

“Back to basics again,” Annabeth says from behind him and he rolls his eyes as she shimmers into existence, baseball cap in hand. “Do you think it’ll get easier?”

He forgets sometimes that she’s still a kid. Wise beyond her years, a strategist to be admired, but just a kid. And a first time cabin counselor. She hasn’t said goodbyes like this before, to everyone she’s housed over three months. Teenagers that had looked to her as their leader, even if they didn’t understand her being given such power. Children who revered her position and her history as if she were a Greek tale herself.

Luke had understood it, had fought for it in April when Kieran Ho had sent word to Chiron that he wouldn’t be returning that summer. She had seemed so prepared to take on the role. He hadn’t realized that it might take more of an emotional toll than she was ready for. 

“Honestly,” he leans back against Thalia’s tree, surveying the camp below them as if he’s never seen it before. Annabeth glares at him for it. “It gets harder every year. It doesn’t end.”

“Some of those kids aren’t coming back.” Annabeth says it as a statement, a fact of life that they’ve both come to terms with. But there’s a shake to her voice, the kind saved only for when she’s terrified of being wrong, so he lets it linger in the air and get carried away. He thinks that’s answer enough. 

*

Winter Solstice comes and he feels ready. Months of only fighting Clarisse and Annabeth. Meals spent with the busiest table still, but with nothing to talk about. So long dedicated to being angry, to dreaming, to waking up in a cold sweat from everything he’s been given permission to see. 

He steals the bolt. It’s a simple plan, one he doubted originally, but it works a charm. There’s no questioning how important the Gods think of themselves anymore, how above everybody else they view themselves (literally and figuratively) to be. He escapes from floor 600 of the Empire State Building with the source of Zeus’ power in his possession and no one bats an eye. 

Annabeth will never have to come to terms with losing campers. Thalia’s sacrifice won’t be in vain the way it has been since his return. Hermes won’t be able to ignore him any longer, pretending as if being a glorified mailman means more than his son. By next summer, the world will already have begun to change. 

Trekking through Manhattan, he understands now why he was destined to fail against Ladon. What his scar will come to represent in years to come. Luke Castellan was never meant to steal an apple - he was destined, instead, to change history and with that, the world.

#luke castellan #percy jackson #pjo #🖋️abi writes…

[the-lonelybarricade]

We Bleed the Same - (3/?)

Summary: The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice... The beginning to a story we know, unfolded a little bit differently.

AO3 saw it first because I was too sleepy to post to tumblr last night. A gift for my darling @belabellissima💝

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

Passing out from blood loss was not so dissimilar from drowning.

Feyre had nearly experienced the latter on the day she’d taught herself to swim. A grove of birch trees lined the shore of a local pond in her village, and Feyre had found one in particular that leaned at just the right angle that she could hook her elbow around its trunk and stretch herself over the pond. She was fascinated by the way the water rippled when she skimmed her fingertips along the surface, distorting the image of the summer sky above into smears of blue—lighter on the peaks of the rings, where the light bounced, and darker in between.

Other children were splashing in the water further off-shore, and Feyre intended to study their movements so she might learn to do the same, until a boy thought it would be amusing to sneak up and shove her shoulders. Feyre lost her grip on the trunk, and the bark scratched the entire length of her arm as she tumbled forward. She remembered opening her mouth to scream, only to swallow a mouthful of stagnant water.

Light might have danced playfully above the water’s surface, but below it was dark.

Dark, like the fog that curled around her now, so thick it felt as though she were treading through the water of that pond once again. Just like before, she panicked as her awareness first trickled in—kicking blindly, uncertain which direction was up or down. But then… a calmness settled over her. A latent instinct that had always found a home in the dark, that told her it was okay to take a moment to stop. To think. To trust herself. Trust that she would float to the surface and the sun would warm her face again.

Though, it was frost that welcomed her to the waking world.

Contained within a pair of narrowed eyes so icy in color and countenance that everything in their path froze. Including Feyre, who had least expected to find Nesta occupying the chair at her bedside.

They were in what looked to be an infirmary—four beds aligned neatly in a row, each framed by a large drape that could be pulled for privacy. The two on either side of her bed were tied. There was no need to use them when the sheets of the other beds were all immaculately pressed, and it was clear that she was the sole patient.

“How are you feeling?” Nesta asked.

The memories came back in a rush: the shattered door and leeching cold, the snarling beast and her strange, unlikely escape. She’d been partly hoping it had been a dream, but the dull pain blooming in her shoulder, faintly throbbing like a second heartbeat, said it was anything but.

Feyre searched Nesta’s face, anticipating anger or blame, but her sister’s question seemed oddly genuine. Which caused Feyre to wonder—how was she feeling? Nesta wouldn’t have asked, wouldn’t have cared, unless Feyre’s health had been in a dire state.

She sat up slowly, finding that every muscle rioted against the simple movement. She hissed as she stiffly turned her neck to take stock of her injuries. Her tunic—or, what was left of it—had been hastily ripped and was now hanging in pathetic ribbons from her body. Thick bandages wound from her elbow all the way up to her shoulder, fresh as if they’d been recently changed, and with an expertise that suggested it hadn’t been Nesta.

A small work table sported the more grisly evidence of her night: a metal pan full of surgical tools still in need of cleaning, alongside a pile of bloodied, discarded bandages.

She grimaced. “The beast’s claws were larger than I thought.”

Nesta’s voice was strained. “When the mercenary brought you in—”

“Where is he?”

Her sister straightened. “That man is dangerous.”

“He saved my life,” Feyre whispered, still not quite believing it. “All of our lives.”

Nesta shook her head, fixing her steel gaze on the opposite window. Condensation fogged the bottom half of the glass, but there were hints of a clear sky above it. “Men don’t risk their lives like that for nothing in return, Feyre. None of it bodes well.”

Behind clenched teeth, Feyre resisted the urge to snap that of course none of it boded well. A faerie—a High Lord—had broken into their house and demanded Feyre’s life as payment. She couldn’t blame Rhysand for any of this. Feyre was the one who killed the faerie, and now she was the one who had avoided paying that debt to Prythian.

What would be the consequences of that choice? If the High Lord wasn’t dead, which she was almost certain he wasn’t, that meant she had made an enemy out of the most powerful creature in existence. Perhaps even the one responsible for sundering the villages that bordered the Wall, until they were little more than smoke and ash.

The Nolan estate looked well fortified from the small, disoriented glimpses she’d gotten while Rhys had been carrying her. But she doubted the iron walls, no matter how thick and tall, would be able to keep out a High Lord. And that was only assuming he focused his wrath on Feyre and her sisters, when he could just as easily decimate their village.

She needed to see Rhys. Needed to know if that faerie was dead, or if he’d be coming back for Feyre and her sisters. Maybe she could convince Rhys to escort her family to the southern coast, until they could hire a ship and be free of these lands for good.

“Where is he?” Feyre said again.

Nesta’s fine features twisted in reproval. She raised from her chair, considering the visit no longer worth her time if Feyre wasn’t willing to listen.

“Outside,” she said, not trying to hide her sneer. “He’s been guarding the infirmary like a panting dog.”

A panting dog, or a mercenary who knew exactly what the fae were after. As Nesta said, men didn’t risk their lives for nothing in return. Certainly not a hired sword, subscribed to the creed that coin and self-preservation should take precedence above all else. Rhys wouldn’t be protecting her if he didn’t have something to gain from it. She was a stranger to him, but the High Lord was… the High Lord was someone he knew.

Feyre had the foreboding sense that she’d stumbled into the middle of something much larger than a felled wolf and a mortal life debt. But whatever Rhysand’s game, she was grateful to be alive.

“Will you ask him to come in?”

Nesta eyed the ripped tunic hanging from Feyre’s body. She glanced down at herself, noting what Nesta undoubtedly saw—the exposed plain garments beneath her slightly loosened stays, altogether revealing far more skin than a lady ought to in a gentleman’s lone company. Except Feyre was no lady, and Rhysand was certainly not a gentleman. She snorted, but drew the sheets over herself nonetheless.

With a huff—so that there was no mistaking her disapproval on the matter—Nesta stormed to the doorway and threw it open. She didn’t say a word to the man waiting on the other side, who turned at the sudden outburst, not even bothering with an excuse me as she shouldered past Rhysand, nearly trampling him in her warpath.

He caught the door before it shut, though he didn’t step past the threshold.

Not until Feyre looked at him and said, “You can come in.”

The door clicked, quiet as a whisper. He didn’t move any further, and though she tried to meet his eyes so that she could thank him for what he’d done for her and her sisters, he was doing an excellent job of studying everything in the room with the exception of Feyre. Perhaps he was more of a gentleman than she’d given him credit.

“Your sister’s a delight, by the way,” he said, picking up an iron chamberstick and holding it to the light as though he were assessing its make.

“So you’ve met Elain.”

“Elain is lovely, too,” he conceded, though a tad absent-mindedly.

She didn’t know why, but she said, “Elain’s the loveliest of us. Gentle in all the ways that Nesta and I are sharp. She’d make a good wife.”

That drew his attention. He laughed, shaking his head as he set the candle back down.

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “Did I say something funny?”

Now, he looked at her. And she really wished he hadn’t. It was like tumbling face-first into that pond all over again, feeling the world tip and rush past, and then she was blinking into a pool of piercing violet, uncomfortably aware of herself and uncertain what to do about it.

Rhys looked to be warring between incredulity and amusement. “Are you trying to encourage me to pursue your sister?”

“I…” She supposed she had. A force of habit, talking up her sisters to any suitor who would listen, perpetually scraping to find them an avenue out of starvation and poverty.

He smirked. “Not interested in having me for yourself? Or is this a selfless act of sisterly love?”

His smug expression jabbed into her as solidly as a finger, and he stepped towards her like a prodding child, trying to get under her skin. Feyre clenched her teeth, loathing that it worked.

“Neither,” she sniped. “Elain will undoubtedly marry for love, and I…”

Those violet eyes became a hot, coiling iron. Her cheeks seared beneath their heat, and she tore her attention towards the window, willing the frost to drift closer. How had they ended up on this subject to begin with? There were a million things she needed to discuss with him, least of all her marriage prospects.

Feyre shrugged, as if oblivious to his rapt attention and her own unfurling mortification. “I was content with becoming a spinster one day.”

Feyre hadn’t anticipated that it would be so difficult to admit that ambition out loud. It never sounded as absurd in her head. But then again, she had all the details that he didn’t—the endless list of reasons that she would make an unsatisfactory wife. She was a half-wild beast, never quite warm enough, or gentle enough, and certainly not docile enough. Never mind the gouges in her arm that now marked her life debt to the fae.

“Pity,” Rhys said, clicking his tongue. She wasn’t certain which prospect he was commenting on, and she wasn’t brave enough to ask. “I suppose we have that in common, though.”

“What do you mean?”

The words slipped out before she could leash them.

Wood groaned beneath Rhysand’s weight as he stepped further into the room. “A life with me means always being isolated from the rest of the world. Feared, because of what I do for a living. My wife or children would always be targeted—hunted—because of me. As such, I’d resigned myself to bachelorhood.”

A warning, and one that she knew wasn’t quite for Elain.

Feyre didn’t know why he bothered, why he thought marrying him was something that had even crossed her mind. “So you plan on never taking a wife?”

The question seemed to sober some of that amusement glinting in his eyes. “I wouldn’t say that.” He studied her face. “I just assume there aren’t many people who would be interested in sharing such a life with me.”

Except that he was undeniably beautiful. Feyre imagined he must have at least had lovers—handfuls of them, if she had to guess. Though, sharing someone’s body, but never quite their heart… It sounded an awful lot like what she had with Isaac. A way to stave off a darkness that always found its way back.

It sounded lonely, though she didn’t dare share that with him.

He added, as if in afterthought, “You are wrong about one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

Rhys held her eyes. “Elain isn’t the loveliest. Not even close.”

She knew without demanding clarification that he wasn’t talking about Nesta. And Feyre didn’t know how to react, so unpracticed with flattery, especially coming from a stranger. A stranger who had saved her life. She’d met him hardly twenty-four hours ago, and in that time he’d conveniently managed to appear precisely where she needed him, exactly when she needed him, and now he was here staring at her with so much… wanting.

It ought to be gratitude thickening her tongue, but all she found herself swallowing was mouthfuls of distrust. Bitter, coppery. He was keeping vital information from her and, meanwhile, had managed to derail their conversation away from anything important.

“How’s your arm?” Rhys asked. He reached her bedside and propped himself casually on the adjacent bed, paying no mind to the neatly pressed sheets.

The question brought Feyre’s awareness back into her body, towards the injury that didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pile of bloody bandages would indicate. She prodded the edge of the bandage at her shoulder, curious to see the wound beneath.

“I haven’t looked at it, yet,” she admitted. “The pain is mild. I don’t think it’s bleeding.”

She would feel bad unravelling the healer’s work when it was clear the bandages were newly changed, but she was tempted to gauge how badly the injury would scar. Claws slashed through her memory, the size of her thumb and sharp as the sword at Rhysand’s back. She flinched, recalling how much blood there’d been in the aftermath, how she’d been mauled from shoulder to elbow. The fact that she felt no pain was remarkable.

“The healer gave you something for the pain,” Rhys said, nodding towards a corked vial of dark liquid on the worktable between their beds. He snagged it between two fingers, holding it up so she could see. Small, silver granules swirled as the vial sloshed back and forth beneath his examination. “Must have done its job. You didn’t wake up once during the stitching.”

She blinked. “You were there?”

“Of course I was.”

It was said with so much earnesty that Feyre faltered. She expected he would have just dumped her with a healer and left once she was no longer his bleeding problem to deal with.

“Nesta said you’ve been waiting outside all morning,” she said, raking her eyes down his figure.

He wore the same fine leathers she’d seen him in before, though the fur-lined cloak and crossbow were gone. A wisp of an image tickled her memory, of being wrapped in that cloak, cradled in warmth and whispered soothing words. The moment she tried to close a fist around the memory, to catch and examine it, she felt it fade and drift away like smoke.

Blinking, stumbling to re-orient herself, she asked, “Have you been here this whole time? Did you even sleep?”

Rhys shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you survived through the night.”

The way he said it so offhandedly… less like he was concerned, and more like it would have been a dreadful inconvenience. Scowling, Feyre demanded, “Would it have ruined your plans if I died?”

“Truthfully, it would have,” Rhys said, setting down the vial. “That beast isn’t dead, and neither are you, which means it will inevitably return.” So… his plan was to use her as bait? Her face twisted with disgust, and Rhys laughed before leaning forward and catching her chin. “Oh, don’t act so offended, Feyre. That’s not the only reason I wanted you to live. I would have missed this pretty face.”

“But would you have saved me, if you didn’t have anything to gain from it?”

He pitched his voice low. “The only reason I’ve survived as long as I have is because I don’t involve myself in situations that won’t sway in my favor. I saved you because I had something to gain from it. And I also saved you because I like you and it was the right thing to do. Both of those things can be true.”

“But if one of them wasn’t—if you had nothing to gain, you would have let that beast kill me. Or at the very least, abduct me.”

Rhysand’s expression hardened. “I would have thought, as a huntress, you would understand better than anyone that survival and selflessness are often opposed. It’s a luxury I’m afforded sparingly, so let’s not waste time on moral quandary. Last night our best interests were aligned, which was a very fortunate thing for both of us.”

She needed to swallow to work her next breath down her throat. Rhys noticed, judging by the way his gaze flickered to her neck, eyelids lowering enough that she could count his eyelashes, thick and dark against his bronze cheeks.

“And what happens when our best interests are no longer aligned?”

Her voice was no more than a whisper. Rhys’s lips quirked into a sideways smile.

He said, “Then I’ll forgive you, for whatever you’ll need to do to survive.”

Just like that, Feyre found herself in the winter woods, crouched atop a thick branch while the numb crept slowly through her body. Facing Rhysand, she tried, she truly did, to summon remorse for all the dead things that had once been breathing creatures before they had the misfortune of crossing her path.

With an unbearable heaviness, she understood what Rhys was saying, in a way she wished she’d never needed to. Because if it had been Rhys, defenseless beneath the claws of that beast, Feyre couldn’t say for certain that she would have gone to help. Not if it meant luring the beast back to the cabin, to her family. And from the grim understanding in his eyes, she knew he wished he didn’t need to make those kinds of decisions, either. There was a difference between ruthlessness and survival, but sometimes that line became blurred, practically indiscernible in a winter forest.

She couldn’t blame him, not when she operated the same way. But she also couldn’t offer him open forgiveness, either. So she settled with, “Thank you. For saving me yesterday.”

That seemed a satisfactory response, for the grin it pulled out of him. “So she has manners after all,” he crooned, releasing her chin. “Good. You’re going to need them while you’re here.”

Here.

Lord Nolan’s estate. The conversation they’d had last night felt like it had happened in a dream, but she could recall his explanation that the local Lord offered her family sanctuary from the fae on his estate. Their family had likely once run in similar social circles to Lord Nolan, from years ago when her father’s trading business was so renowned that he’d garnered the title Prince of Merchants. None of their aristocratic friends from that time had bothered to extend any help when Feyre’s father lost his fortune. When they’d been on the verge of starvation.

Feyre saw no reason why Lord Nolan would help now. The Archeron name had been tarnished after their father could not pay his debts. Everyone in high society had turned their backs. She doubted it was being done out of the kindness of his heart.

“This… sanctuary,” she said carefully. He raised a perfectly groomed brow. “What are its terms?”

She assumed it would involve some sort of work to pay their dues. Feyre thought she could handle the manual labor of being a scullery maid, but she shuddered to imagine Nesta waiting on Lord. Or Elain, scrubbing floors. Maybe they could put her to use in the kitchen—

“You’re to remain here as guests,” Rhys said, smoothly cutting into her unravelling anxieties.

“Guests?” Feyre stared at him. Waiting for further explanation, because certainly that couldn’t be the whole of their agreement.

“Does the word guest elude you?”

He twisted his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. Feyre dropped her eyes toward the pillow propped beneath her back, debating if it would pull her stitches to launch it at his head. “Yes,” she said through her teeth. “It does, actually. The Lord is to put us up, and we’re to do nothing in exchange?”

“Precisely.”

There had to be some sort of catch. Something she was missing. “And how long are we going to be guests?”

Rhysand began picking at a fleck of dust on his tunic. “For the duration of my contract.”

“Which is how long, Rhysand?”

His head snapped up at the use of that name. Those violet eyes narrowed into crescents, and she recalled in the marketplace that he had said his name was simply Rhys. Interesting.

“Could be a year,” he said with a shrug. “Could be several.” She thought he was being purposefully vague now, trying to wind her up. But then his amusement sobered a bit, and he added, “Before it ends, I’ll make sure that beast can never harm you or your family again.”

The vow sounded sincere enough to curb the sharpest edges of her anger. She sighed. “How did you get Lord Nolan to agree to this?”

“Lord Nolan and his family are notorious for their hatred of the fae. More and more have been crossing through the wall in recent years, and he’s employed my services to ensure the estate’s protection.” In a fluid motion, Rhys rose to his feet and crossed the distance toward the large window between their beds. Bright winter light fell across his face as he peered through the fogged glass, like he could see through to the borders of that great, legendary Wall. “When I told Lord Nolan that a family in the village was being hunted by the fae, he was willing to lend the necessary men to eradicate the threat. He was wary, however, about what a human girl could have done to warrant such attention.”

A knot coiled in her stomach. She would have thought that Lord Nolan, renowned for hating the fae, would respect that she’d killed the wolf in the woods. But from the wicked smile that curled over Rhysand’s mouth, she expected that wasn’t the story he recounted to the Lord.

Rhys glanced over his shoulder at Feyre, tilting his head in a way that caused a lock of hair to fall over his face. He slid a hand into his pocket, retrieving an object he promptly tossed in her direction. Still recovering from her injury, Feyre wasn’t quick enough to respond before the object thunked against her thigh and landed on the bed.

“What’s this?” She asked, cautiously lifting the black velvet box.

He jutted his chin, wordlessly urging her, open it.

The hinges swung open with little resistance, revealing a ring of twisted strands of gold, flecked with pearl, and set with a round diamond. Feyre angled the box back and forth, admiring the myriad of colors that refracted off its surface. It was beautiful, and she hadn’t the slightest idea why she was holding it.

“Lord Nolan is a shrewd businessman, and he’d ordinarily never be so generous,” Rhys explained. “But when I told him that you were being hunted, and that I would be unable to fulfill the contract if I needed to worry about protecting you in the cottage, he reconsidered.”

Rhys turned from the window, offering her a devilish smirk as the pieces started to click into place.

“After all,” he crooned, “It would be cruel to keep a man separated from his wife.”

#We Bleed the Same #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre

[starryficsfinishwen]

✧!。◟[NSFW] ʟᴇ ᴘᴇᴛɪᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴇʀᴏɴ ʀᴏᴜɢᴇ — Von Negut x reader [PGR]

[ doubles as Halloween and 100 150 followers special! ]

“Bonjour, petite fille... Pourquoi marches-tu dans la forêt toute seule?”

a.n. - why does Tumblr have no option to react to comments LOL I'd like to thank the ones who reacted to the previous post and motivated me to make this one happen! I'M SORRY AGAIN FOR BEING SO LATE. I have finals in one-two weeks but hi I'm here LOL I also haven't edited this yet, I still have stuff to write notes and study but YOLO This was also planned to be the 100 followers special but yall. it grew to 150 already LMAO Im so thankful, thank u!!!!!!!!!!!!!

pairing - Wolf!Von Negut x f!human

words - 7,522

warnings - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. NSFW THEMES: virginity loss, corruption kink. blood and murder is involved. dubcon. mentions of murder. cunnilingus. porn with plot LOL

special mention - banners belong to @/saradika!

Your mother warned you not to stray from the path.

In your little town, the one you've grown up in, dense green foliage covers the borders. During springtime, flowers and pollen would fill your noses, and the sun is kind to let your laundry dry faster. In summertime, the trees give off cool air for you to sleep in late into the morning. Orange leaves that fall to the ground become the children's plaything, when autumn drenches your little town in cinnamon brown and orange hues. However, in the winter...

“Another victim!” cried out an elderly man as he wrapped the dead body in a thin sheet of cloth, “dear God!”

Townsfolk would gather around the center of the town square, as a dead body mauled to death would appear once a week during winter. Blood and broken bones paint the cobblestone, signaling the beginning of yet another cold winter.

You bring your red cape closer to your neck, the winter air shivering you to the bones. You look away at the horrendous sight of the dead body by the fountain, to which you've known the victim was once your playmate during your childhood years.

“It's those damned wolves!” one of your neighbors proclaimed, unsheathing his sword from his scabbard, “we must hunt them down while it's daylight!”

A murmur erupted amongst the crowd. Wolves— wild creatures that were the king of the woods. However, they are feral in nature, and they are unkind; they murder everything they see and soak them in blood. Once, they only hunted farm animals that the townsfolk had been taking care of (you remember the sheep your father once took care of; its wool ready to be sheared the next summer, yet it never came because its little body was never to be found, apart from the large, animal-like footprints left behind from its pen). Until one day, a human body would appear. And that was the day they all realized that the wolves were now hungry for human blood.

“It is daylight,” called out another neighbor, “we must hunt them down now!”

A ripple of cheers throughout the crowd. Men raised their weapons and lit their fire, holding it up into the air. Lingering through the crowd, countless cries mingled with the somber fury of men. You wish to run away from this sight, were it not for the hand that held you tight.

“They are idiots,” your mother, who lived half of her life in this small town, muttered. “Why should they risk their lives for something trivial like this?”

You wanted to retort, that a human life had died unwillingly to death, but you only grasped the handle of your bucket tighter. This, indeed, only interfered in your daily chore of fetching well water.

“I see your father in the crowd,” she sighs, the creases in your forehead somehow making her look older, “make sure he won't join them in this madness, will you, child?”

You nodded timidly. Although you wish to support the cause, your own kin's blood is far more important than anyone else's. As you prepare to wiggle out of your mother's grasp, the townsfolk suddenly fall silent; ominous, yet full footsteps from the cathedral, not too far from the towns square, echoed loudly.

A man draped in a long, black liturgical vestment, a bible in hand and a large cross hung across his neck. Behind the priest, a regal young nun with blonde hair and green eyes followed closely. Their presence alone made the whole town quiet down, parting to let the priest closer to the mangled body.

You've seen them so many times, yet their wonders still surprise you— the priest opens his old bible, the edges of the book fraying out. He holds onto the cross, steadying it just above the body, muttering a psalm with his eyes closed. The nun would pull out a small glass container, pouring the holy water onto the corpse, and it was set aflame— the townsfolk shrieked in surprise, yet the priest and his nun only stood without any reaction.

They have, after all, been the ones to clean up the messes of murder.

“Do not act so rashly, my brethren,” the priest spoke quietly as he gave the bible to the nun, “the creatures of darkness should not be sought; lest they return us the favor of more bloodshed.”

The people around the square quieted down. Slowly, some returned back to what they were originally doing, even your father who reluctantly went back inside the comforts of your home, until all that was left in the square was the priest, the nun, the ashes of the corpse, and the man who cried out for a hunt. The priest muttered to the man, one that you couldn't hear, but it must have infuriated him as he drew out his weapon and trudged north of the square.

You hear several of your neighbors starting to whisper again— something about being unfortunate, something about being the next victim.

“Well, that's the end of it,” your mother sighed, nudging you in the direction of the well, south, “your chores can't wait forever, dearie.”

Right. You forgot you weren't some omniscient god. You quickly picked up your buckets and walked south. But your eyes still lingered at the ashes that were picked up by the nun in her hand, unable to look away at the immense sadness reflected on her somber green irises.

You trudge forward.

Being a nun in your small town didn't seem bad. However, your mind often wanders to a future where you were in love with someone, bearing his children and living a long, loving life, despite not having a potential husband yet, that is— something that a nun cannot have, due to their devotional marriage to the Almighty.

These thoughts linger in your head, as you hum a worship song along the way, your two empty buckets clanking with your every step. It wasn't a long walk anyways, the well was now closer.

The noises in the bushes say otherwise.

The hairs on your neck prickle— you were aware rabbits occupied the area, their little paw prints digging into the snow during winter, but such noises were incapable of being made by such gentle, little creatures. You quickly pick up your pace, tugging your cape closer.

The bushes kept ruffling until you reached the well. When you look back, you only find your footsteps in the path, and the bushes were bushes. Breathing a sigh of relief, you do your business, tying your bucket and into the well.

“Aren't those buckets too heavy to carry, miss?”

If you think about it, they are— but not as heavy as your body, jumping to the sudden voice talking to you.

“W-what?” You put your hand to your chest, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat, “who's there?”

A leather shoe steps out of the shadows, before the voice reveals itself. He wore a white dress shirt with a large v-shaped cleavage dipping to his abdomen, his suit slung between his shoulders and flowing to the back, tucked neatly with clean black slacks. His eyes are a hazy shade of grey, dark hair slicked back. You've known all the faces in your little town, but with a face chiseled by the gods themselves...

He's not from this town.

“Apologies,” his lips started to move, face contorted with genuine worry, “I did not mean to scare you. The buckets you carry awfully look heavy, and I wish to help.”

Why was such a man here? You quickly stood to your feet, shaking your hands, “This has been a chore I've been doing since I was a child. You, sir, make me worry; why are you here? Are you lost?”

The man's stares linger, on the cape you wore, chuckling at your words, as if dismissing your warning. “I am not lost, little lamb. I happen to stumble across this area.”

Little lamb, it seemed to fit you as a nickname. All the other kids used to call you weak way back. But now it's different: the lady in red. But you shook your head, trying to forget the awful memory, “Do you wish to find shelter, then? I can ask the good ladies to provide you lodgings until you are ready to leave. You are not safe here, so may as well seek refuge.”

“Why?”

You ponder. Does this man not know about the rumor that circulates to the nearby towns?

Looking deep into his eyes, you mutter, “there is a wolf around the area. I suggest you leave before the day ends.”

In the middle of the darkness, sunlight peeks through the shade of the leaves. They highlighted the contours of his face. For a moment, you nearly miss the unreadable glint in his gray eyes and seemingly sharp teeth. But as you blink, his expression is nothing but confusion, as if he looked like a lost child.

“A wolf?” He hums, “ah, so the rumors were true. That sounds quite...saddening.”

“So you have heard,” nearly forgetting your task, you quickly carry your buckets once more, looking away from the charming man, “since you are well aware of the dangers here, then you should leave, good sir.”

“I'd rather you stay alive than to be an unknown victim in our town.” you added, before trudging through the path you came from.

A shame to leave him hanging, but you value your safety and mental health (even as you walk, you hear the incoming sermon of your mother). Out of the blue, the heavy weight in one of your arms disappears.

“Then that means I should at least help you with this, hm?”

You see him clear— pale skin, white teeth, sparkling eyes— in pure daylight, as he carries one bucket effortlessly.

“At least you and I can be safe from the wolf now, isn't that right, little lamb?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, hearing those words from the stranger. Shaking your head, supporting the weight of the only bucket you had in hand now, sighing.

“If you are not from this town, then let me introduce you to some ladies in town to let you rest. I feel bad when I let others do all my tasks.”

He laughs— heartily, it makes your tummy jump, you thought you heard heaven— “your kindness baffles me, little lamb.”

“I am only repaying what you have given to me,” You admit, smiling at him genuinely, “you are the one who is kindly carrying my bucket.”

“It is not heavy,” He mirrors your smile, and you nearly miss the sharp teeth, before it somehow turns back to human ones, “I see that you were the one struggling.”

You laughed before looking elsewhere, “I should probably give you something else, then.”

“Please, this is not a favor,” He stops before placing the bucket on the ground, “consider it as...a welcoming gift.”

He flashes you one last smile, before gesturing to the front. Confused, you turned to the direction he pointed— townsfolk going about their day, the children that were playing, and the fountain that seemed good as new, as if nothing happened earlier.

Turning to thank the stranger, you realize that he had long disappeared. Only the bucket that he helped carry remained.

Despite his sudden departure, a part of you had clung into some hope that he was safe. Maybe not in your town, but somewhere. Amongst the trees were other residents who grew tired of the fear that circulated within your little town, hoping that some were kind enough to let him in.

Fortunately though, the murder stopped. Usually, another body would have popped up in the town square, but instead, a yet-to-be lighted pine tree was erected near the fountain.

On another note, garlands of garlic and a symbol you couldn't recognize was carved onto the wooden posts standing by the entrance.

“It's to scare the wolf,” your father said after another work day, drinking from a bottle of ale that your mother prepared, “the priest commissioned us.”

The bucket of water seemed a bit heavy, several days after the kind stranger helped you. A greedy part of you wishes to see his ethereal face, but the rational one is too wary.

“He won't come back.” You said to yourself, disappointment tugging at the back of your throat, “He probably left town at this point.”

The rustling of the bushes behind you nearly scared the soul out of you. You think it's the wind, but the rustling only grew louder.

Raising one bucket to your chest, you prepare yourself to lunge at the upcoming threat in case it would jump out of its hiding spot. When that time came, you closed your eyes instead—

And a strangled, poor mewl of a cat was heard instead.

Opening one eye, you peeked to see a small kitten, perhaps smaller than the bread you consume every morning. Baby eyes peer at you, one more choked cry spewing out of its lips. Your heart crumbles at the poor creature, putting the bucket down so you could cradle it in your blemished hands, tucking it in the safety of your cape.

Too busy comforting the creature, you never noticed the looming shadow behind you.

“What a poor cat.”

You nearly threw the small creature in your hand. Looking back, your heart rattles as you lock eyes with the stranger from before. A part of you sighs in relief, partly to see that he was well and the other being relieved he was back, while the rest of your body shakes from his sudden arrival.

“Dear sir!” you breathed, fingers finding comfort by patting the kitten's soft head, “Please do not scare me like that. I do not know if I have a bad heart, yet.”

The pretty stranger laughs (at this point, you ask yourself if it was normal to have an upset stomach just from hearing his melodious laughter). Kneeling next to you, he stretches his hand out to the kitten in your hand, slender fingers caressing the area in between its eyes and its forehead.

“What a gentle, yet fragile creature.” He whispers, as if the words were only shared in between the both of you, “Pray tell, how did you find him?”

Ah, so he likes cats as well.

“He was mewling when I found him. I saw no signs of the mother.”

His eyebrows were stitched together, a subtle frown on his lips. Was this regret written on his features?

Fishing out something from his pockets, you trail his movements carefully as he pulls out a piece of meat, enough to fill the kitten's little stomach.

“I figured this would come in handy,” he chuckled, feeding the piece to the cat, “He needs it more than I do.”

You missed his words, instead, you were intently looking at his actions. “He is a he...?”

“Ah, so you have never known what gender cats bear?”

Timidly, you shook your head. “If the cat bears litter, only then will I know that they are a female.”

Golden eyes shine mischievously in the dark. Chuckling once more, he caresses the cheek of the kitten, to which the latter rubs against his fingers. He reached out, a strand of your hair in between his fingers, bringing them to his lips.

“How innocent you are, little lamb,” he whispers, “did your mother not tell you to talk to strangers?”

“She has, but if you were a demon, wouldn't you have killed me right now?”

His smile made your stomach churn, heartbeat skipping lightly in joy, “Quite perceptive, I like you.”

You giggle, “My mother tells me that, too.”

You bring the kitten to your eye level, a pout on your lips, noticing that you were going to be reprimanded should you bring an innocent feline in your raucous home.

“Little lamb, what's wrong?”

“I am afraid that I cannot bring this little one home. My family will be angry at me.”

The stranger sighed. Gently taking the warm cat from your hands, he smiles at you.

“I shall take care of him for you, then.” He spoke, “Only...”

Curiosity outweighs the warning signs flashing in your mind. You quietly asked, “Only...?”

“Will you come and visit me here, when you tend to your bucket? You shall see this creature whenever you like.”

Your heart leaps out of your chest as joy overwhelms you. No longer worrying about the poor kitten, you bowed to the stranger, thankful for his kindness.

“I still cannot believe how naïve you are, Little lamb.” You heard him mutter, but you paid no mind.

When you came back to the village, you failed to notice gray eyes following your every move.

You did your chores diligently. After all, you were a keeper of your word.

Almost everyday, you were rendezvous with the stranger, eager to care and see the growth of the kitten you found. At some point, you no longer questioned the history of the strange man; how could you, when it already felt like you were raising a family with him?

“Like a good mother,” he complimented once, “you take good care of things.”

Heat would rush to your cheeks, tummy fluttering with what you believed were an ache, were a bunch of butterflies taking home there, alongside your thundering heartbeat. (You would slap yourself, too, confusing the stranger and your family.)

Did you like the stranger? You never realized that the thought was buried in the back of your head, then. But all the same, gray eyes you came to remember would visit you, even in your wildest dreams.

On one particular day, while you were getting ready to fetch some water and meet with your stranger, your mother stopped you.

“Dear child, I'd like you to not do that for today.”

“But,” you paused, hands gripping the buckets, “is there something wrong?”

“I'd like you to take a day off, have your brothers do that chore,” she reached out to hold your shoulders, smiling, “spend a day with your dear mother, hm?”

But how could you inform the stranger you were with these past few months, when you were going out with your mother?

In the end, you couldn't get away; instead, she dressed you in your best ones, face coated with makeup you despised, and before the day ended, you found yourself sitting in front of a man you've never met before, a ring on his finger.

“[Y/N],” his honeyed words were nothing compared to the man in the forest, but the ring on his finger looked awfully more expensive than your life, glimmering and glinting as he announced, “we shall be wed soon, my bride.”

And your fate, though unfortunate, was sealed.

--

“You weren't here yesterday.”

You flinched from the tone of your friend, the stranger, as you picked up the fast growing kitten in your arms.

Even the cat noticed your distraught, licking your thumb. “I'm sorry...my mother did not make me leave the house.”

It wasn't a lie; after all, you hadn't left the house until you were being dragged to the saloon, your husband-to-be waiting for you.

“I really wanted to talk to you,” you added, twiddling with the kitten's tail, “but my mother...”

His gray eyes were...bleak. Looking at you with noticeable exhaustion, the man could only sigh. “I thought you broke your promise. You already know what would happen...”

You wonder how to break the news to the man. Aware that your attraction to him was more than what friends would feel, your heart crumbles at the thought of telling the truth.

“Dear sir...”

When he looks up, there was a small smile on his lips. “Little lamb, there is something that I must show you.”

Gently pulling you by the hand, you clutch your cape as the winter air seeps into your skin, trying to catch up at the speed of the man. By the time he slows down, you nearly forget you're human, legs surrendering from the exhaustion.

Thankfully, the man caught you first.

“I am sorry,” he said, as if he hadn't run so fast, “I forgot you aren't entirely athletic.”

You smiled at him, looking down to find the little kitten was snugly fit in his breast pocket, mewling contently.

“You can put me down now, dear sir,” you blushed, coughing, “I can walk on my own.”

“Nonsense,” he mirrors your smile, “let me carry you until we reach our destination.”

“Is it very far, then?”

Carrying you like a bride, he shook his head, a small smile on his lips, “We're quite close.”

The warmth and comfort as he carries you effortlessly, the smell of fresh pine and creeks— you could get drunk in this smell forever. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, trying to sneak your way in smelling more (it's too late; the stranger already knew.)

“You may open your eyes now, little lamb.”

You do. And you were not mistaken—

A field full of roses. Dressed in snow, it was the first time you've seen such a magnificent color, like blood, bleeding onto the white. When the stranger puts you down, your legs find themselves running to the field, eager to witness such beauty amongst the winter land.

“How...” words died in your throat, “How did you find something like this?”

Wordlessly, the stranger sits beside you as you fiddle with the flowers, fingers playing with your red cape, “I've told you; I'm a wanderer.”

Sometimes, you thought about your luck that was down the drain. But when you think about the stranger, the cat, and this beautiful scenery, a stray idea came to you, that made you look at the ashen-eyed man— what if you were to run away with him right now?

He looked back at you, piercing eyes glimmering as he slowly leaned to you, aware of how your breath was fanning his lips.

“Little lamb,” his words were your Achilles' heel, the sound of his voice dipping enough to make your heartbeat louder, “Pull away, should you not like what I will do next.”

What does he do next? Gently, softly, he presses his sweet lips to your inexperienced ones. Shortly, sweetly, with his eyes closed, it made yours flutter before surrendering to the feeling of the kiss.

You should pull away. You should have. You had a groom waiting for you at a church, the wedding a few days away. But was it a sin to kiss a man, a stranger you had fallen in love with, to wrap your arms around him, innocently and carelessly but passionately, as the kiss deepens? His heartbeat and yours in sync, your lips exploring whatever was there waiting for the unknown, his hands on your waist, holding your cape, breathing into each other's warmth— was it really a sin?

The stranger pulls away, somehow aware of the lack of oxygen, with a little whine from your lips, you almost made yourself want to hide away forever. But he only laughs, fingers caressing the apple of your cheek, a butterfly kiss on the tip of your nose. It was the first of your many kisses— and it made your stomach flutter wildly, your legs trembling from want.

“How cute,” the stranger chuckles, “And I thought you were innocent, little lamb.”

“I-It's my first time!” you mutter, looking away from his teasing expression, “I've never kissed anyone before...”

He leans closer, lips touching your cheeks, your jaw, feeling him smile as he inhales. “...do you regret, then?”

Do you? Your nails absentmindedly caress the nape of his neck, trying to look around but him. “No...”

“Good, because I want to kiss you more,” he admits, light kisses on your jaw, “God, it's all I want to do with you.”

His body presses more on you, and you only succumb to it— his warmth, his touch, his kisses. You wanted more, every part of you aching and aching until your body was screaming—

“Let's run away together.”

Your breathing chokes on your throat. Looking at him, his expression is serious and unwavering, your heart beating and breaking at the same time.

He moves and you're kissing him again. You forgot it's your first time, you forgot that he was a stranger— the pretty stranger was the water and you were drowning endlessly in him.

The kitten in his breast pocket mewled. It made you pull away. And reality, although painful, began to catch up with you.

“Little lamb?”

His gray eyes were looking at you with worry. Breathing unstable, you try not to let the tears prickling your eyes escape.

“Dear sir, I'm...sorry.”

“Why...?”

You try to drink all your regrets, pushing away the only warmth in this long, cold winter.

“I can't be with you.”

You don't remember what happened after.

You remember walking back, the warmth being overridden by the cold winter, your red cape dragging through the snow. You remember thinking that your mother would be mad at you, for not returning before sundown, that you should be preparing to meet with your betrothed. But to break your heart and the stranger— should you still call him that?— was far too much for your mind, that you had no emotion left whatsoever, to face what was waiting for you at the village.

Your footsteps are heavy. But at least, the light of the village was already bright. Wait, bright? Trudging through the thick snow a little faster, you hear incoherent cries and screams. By the time you reached the source, you felt someone grab ahold of your arm, causing you to yelp out loud.

“Where have you been?” Your mother's voice causes you to panic, poison dripping from her words, “You nearly made me have a heart attack!”

Your mother holds you by the chin, forcing you to look at the crowd by the square, seeing faces of horror amongst familiar faces. “Should you have shown yourself,” your mother sneered, “You would have been the talk of the town.”

With an opening from the crowd, you finally understood what your mother meant: the priest and his nun, an erected torch in the middle, and that horrid scene you thought you were done watching.

Another dead body. This time, their head was cut off.

---

How were you to know what happened next? Your mother forbade you to leave the house, fearing the wolf would hunt for another. Even all the other activities, including the meet-up with your betrothed, were canceled. You spent the rest of your days waiting, and waiting, unaware that you were supposed to meet with the stranger and fetch water from the well.

The stranger...the stranger you had fallen in love with, the stranger you thought you could run away with.

You sleep through your pain.

Until the days were slowly counting down to the wedding.

“[Y/N], dear,” one day, your father called you downstairs, “Will you please come and meet me here?”

When you did, you were greeted with a big basket, red cloth peeking in between the cover and its mouth. You noticed your mother and father were the only ones waiting for you in the living room, holding the basket together. You wanted to ask.

“It has always been our tradition to bury the flowers we grew before a member of the family were to be wed,” your father spoke, “Aa a tradition to honor our forefathers, we would like for you to do the same.”

“Your wedding day will be tomorrow,” your mother said, “and the priest already allowed us to leave the village, as long as you return before sunset.”

Ah, the wedding. How many weeks have you been holed up in your room, that you've forgotten?

“Not only that, your grandmother lives near the place we do the tradition. We'd like you to extend our invitations to her.” Your father added.

Your heart skipped a beat. It meant you were going to pass by the well, to meet your stranger. But your heart quickly sank— forgetting you've rejected him. There was a high chance he had left. Quietly and compliantly, you picked up the red cape you'd been wearing during your rendezvous and carried the basket that your parents had prepared.

“I'll be back before sundown, then.”

“We love you.” You don't miss those words, before the door closed on you.

The smell of pine trees on your cape still lingers on your cape.

With the first snow falling, your walk to your grandmother's cottage is far and long. But you don't mind, as the scent on your cape kept you company.

The basket is heavy in your hand, but you don't mind. It reminds you of the cat you found that day, and you wonder if it was now as heavy as the basket you carried. How was he? Is he safe? The stranger, will he not be mad after what you said?

It made you sigh from sadness. At the well, he was never there.

“Little lamb,” he would have called you like that, “what a kind little girl you are.”

His voice lingered, probably something that made you remember things. You remember the smell of pine trees on his fingers, the gentleness of his hands as he held the cat— onto yours. The way they easily slotted in between the gaps in your fingers, while you both lay underneath the kind sun, creating angels out of snow.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?”

The way he spoke of your nickname, his touches and teases. It was taunting, it was teasing, but it was all you had. His warmth close to your freezing one, tender arms wrapped among yours.

“Little lamb, little lamb,” the lilt of his tone, the way it tickled your neck, the way it traveled to your tummy, “A pliant, little girl of mine.”

Your memories morph into something else— an image of you, in between his hips, your dress dangerously lifted up your stomach. His hands were holding you by the waist, your arms on his shoulders. In your memory, you hear yourself in a tone you would have recognized as something so indecent, something so intimate. Calling the stranger with gray eyes and slicked-back dark hair in a name that you don't recognize, but somehow knew.

“Von Negut,” how vulgar, the name of someone you never recognized, “more, please.”

Do you remember something like this? When your mouth was on the stranger's lips, the way you grinded on his thigh, sultry moans you never knew that you could make—

You tripped on the snow, causing you to wake up from the memory you had. Catching on your breath, trying to grasp reality, you immediately notice that you toppled over your basket. But thankfully, the flowers in it were still intact. Shaking away the sudden fall, you try to move your body, but down there...you disregard it, as the cold was already disturbing you enough. You prepare to advance forward.

But to your surprise— grandmother's cottage was already in front of you.

---

For as long as you remember, your grandmother was the one who gifted you the red cape.

“It's to protect you from the wolves,” she said, “and you look prettier in red.”

You hoped it was true. Especially with all the murders.

“Grandma,” you called out as you knocked on the door, “It's me, [Y'N].”

A few more knocks should have made her open the door. But on your fifth knock, your grandmother had not made a sound inside. Quietly, you opened the door with a secret that your grandmother taught you when you were younger.

By the time the door opened, you were met with silence and darkness. “Grandma?”

Walking through the wooden floor, your step creaking, you look around to see if your grandmother is asleep. Eventually, you found yourself in her living room, where someone was sitting on a chair facing the windows.

“Grandma?” You called out once more.

“Hello, dear little red hood.” A nickname she fondly called you.

“Hello, grandma. I'm sorry I took so long, that I wasn't able to visit you.”

You quickly placed your basket on the nearest table, rushing to meet your grandmother, but she raised her hand midway, causing you to stop.

“...as much as I want you to pay your respects, dear, I would refrain you from doing so. Grandma...is not feeling well.”

You only noticed the gruffness of her voice. Bowing your head (with a little disappointment), feeling bad for her, wishing you brought medicine as well.

“What brings you here, child?”

“I wished to see you,” you began, “...and I wanted to tell you...to come and visit the town tomorrow. I will be wed by noon.”

A pin-drop silence enveloped the room before your grandmother cackled.

“Marriage, huh?”

You sigh wistfully, the stranger you met crossing your mind, “I...yes.”

“Who is the lucky man?”

“I have never met him before. But my mother said he is the son of one of the best hunters in the region.”

“Does not sound very convincing, tch.” You noticed the anger from her tone, but still, you did not mind.

“Pray tell, dear,” she began once more, “Along the way, did you want this marriage?”

The stranger. The kitten. Your heart and mind. They were all finding someone else. “No...I, I cannot say...”

“Did you not really dream of anyone else, hm?”

Did you? You suddenly remember the lewd thought you had earlier, of the name you called, which made your cheeks flush red, and down there...

“Tell me, little lamb, did you not think of me?”

You froze. No one else called you that nickname. Looking up, the person sitting on the chair finally revealed himself.

The stranger, with sharp teeth and blood in his mouth.

“S-Sir?”

“I wondered when you were going to show up, little lamb.”

With every step he took to you, you would move backward, until you bumped onto the table. Without wasting any time, your stranger pressed himself to you, caging you in between his arms, making you scream.

“Did you miss me?”

“Y-You're the wolf?”

“And here I thought you were glad to see me,” tenderly, like before, his fingers grade your jaw and lips, hungry gray eyes looking on your lips, before staring at your eyes. His fingers found themselves taking a strand of your hair to his lips.

“Marriage, it's a shame.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair, “I mean, he'd be lucky to have my little lamb as his wife.”

You're shaking in his arms, afraid and somehow aware of his size now that his jacket is out of the way, muscles and skin showing and touching yours. Down there, your legs tremble, and you try not to cry from being intimidated by this bloody man.

“But no marriage would happen tomorrow anyway.”

“Wh-what?”

Pulling out from his pockets, the sunlight glints at the gold band on his fingers, bloodied and gone.

“D-Did you-”

“-kill the man? I would be ruthless; of course not. I merely bullied him to give me the wedding band.”

Like your moment at the rose field, the stranger nuzzled his nose to your cheeks, making you sniffle your cries. “I've been waiting for you for a long, long time now, little lamb.”

Pulling away, pity and sadness were reflected in his eyes, a small frown on his pretty lips. Taking your hand, slipping in the bloody ring on yours, he began to speak.

“Do you know what I had to go through?”

Timidly through your tears, you shook your head. “N-No...”

“Wolves feed on human blood. Without it, we would die.”

He gently kissed your fingers, before whispering, “It was hell; trying to kill just to survive.”

A part of you somehow pitied this man. But he ruthlessly and mercilessly murdered every man in your little town. You looked at him as he continued to kiss your fingers.

“There is a solution to this problem, though.”

As if finding eureka, your stranger's eyes glimmered brighter than the ring you had in hand.

“I had to find my mate.”

His fingers were brushing away the tears streaming on your cheeks, kissing them away, “...and she happens to be you.”

He kissed you. Lips stained with blood, that you could taste in between breaths. But unlike his nature, he was kind, he was still so gentle.

“My little lamb,” he whispered in between kisses, “Be with me, or...”

His lips were now kissing the area underneath your ear, before threatening, “...I will murder everyone in that village.”

“No!”

With all your strength, you push him off, knocking the table and the basket in the process. But your attempts were futile; he grabbed your cape, causing you to fall onto the scattered flowers on the floor. Screaming and crying through the fear, you helplessly tried to shake out of his hard grasp on your arms above your head. But he already had you pinned in between his body.

“Ah, ah, little lamb,” He teases, “I'd rather you not do that.”

He leans down to you, lips capturing yours. You are helpless in his grasp, with nowhere left to run. His kiss was fiery, passionate. You were afraid, but the way that you molded perfectly onto him, the heat pooling at your legs, his weight above you; you could only pull away for energy, before being kissed once more.

“Von Negut,” you unconsciously cried out, mouth clamping for being carelessly moaning out loud when his leg brushed you down there.

He froze. Looking up, you swore his fangs were showing.

“So you remember,” he grinned, “I am glad I didn't have to introduce myself again, [Y/N].”

He knew who you were, like how you knew who he was before. The memory from earlier resurfaced, and you could only whine from the way he was kissing and teasing you with his lips.

“Let me touch you, little lamb,” he murmured, which you unconsciously opened to him, “let me show you that you are mine.”

His knees found themselves slotted in between your slightly exposed bottoms, your skirt now on your stomach. You try to wiggle out of his grasp, but with Von Negut tearing apart your blouse with one hand, you are more exposed.

“Beautiful,” he inhaled through your bra, burying himself there, “Mine.”

It really was too much: the heat, the wetness pooling down there, and his lips latched on your chest as he stripped you bare. Weakly, you cried out to stop, tears now endlessly crying as your voice turned into helpless moans.

With his free hand, he slipped it in between your thighs, prying your legs open. Neverminding the undergarments as he effortlessly tore them once more, his fingers were toying with your drenched thighs, purposely avoiding your neglected clit.

“Fuck, already wet?” Von Negut chuckled, “What a naughty little slut you are, little lamb.”

Embarrassment flooded you endlessly. His fingers finally decided to play with your wet folds, every sound echoing throughout the room. But just when you thought it was over, Von Negut hovered over to your exposed cunt, mouth drooling as he looked at you: disheveled and confused, amongst the fallen flowers on your back.

“This is mine too, hmm.” Licking one long stripe, you moaned his name out loud, fingers threading his now unkempt hair.

“V-Von Negut, n-no, it's too dirty there...”

“But doesn't it feel nice, hm?” He digs into your pussy, kitten licks on your clit as he played with your sopping wet hole. “You must be lying; you taste heavenly.”

Von Negut felt like he was in heaven at this point. Watching you writhe as he expertly and sloppily ate you out, forgetting the aching tent in his pants. Right now, what you wanted, was to prepare you for something big.

But with you moaning his name without any filter, then God, he was ready to cum right there and then.

“Mmh, look at this, such a virgin little hole, too,” He eases two fingers in, and fuck, it was already tight, with you crying from the pain.

“N-no more, p-please...”

“Little lamb- ah, please stop moving, mmh-” He tries to slip in one more finger, but you wouldn't stop moving. With two fingers, he curled it just right, as you arched your back with a moan.

“Von Negut, no more...!”

“You're coming now, aren't you, little lamb,” he laughed, watching as you bit your teeth, watching in the next few moments before you would come undone.

“W-what's happening?”

You wouldn't know, but Von Negut does. “Cum for me, little lamb.”

Per his instructions, your pussy clamps on his fingers, liquid coming out endlessly as you came violently, coating his hand. Von Negut laughs at your misfortune, but you-

“So, goddamn beautiful, little lamb,” he cooed, trying to call you back to reality from your first orgasm, “we're still not done...”

When he pulled his fingers out, your hole was still clenching around nothing, only igniting the thirst he had for you. Watching as you weakly turned on your stomach, crawling away, Von Negut takes his time, unbuckling his belt, revealing his massive, leaking cock.

Grabbing you by the hips, he drags you closer, cock rubbing in between your ass, making you whimper. “If I put this big thing inside of you, I'm going to make you my woman, hm?”

You turned behind him, watching it in between you, rubbing it against the good parts, “W-wait, will that even f-fit me?”

“You're my good little lamb,” he cooed, tip rubbing your overstimulated clit, “I'm going to tear through your hymen, you won't be a virgin anymore. You're going to be my little lamb, my little cocksleeve.”

His words spurred you on, hole clenching once more around nothing, “N-No, please-!”

“You'll take it like a good fucking girl.”

Without hesitation, he plunged the tip into your tight ring of muscle, your voice crying out from the pain as he sank into you, some blood gushing out, with cream forming from where he fucked you. He was supposed to let you adjust, to let you get used to his girth. But fuck, you just can't be still- your cunt asking him to fuck you more, to suck his dick deeper onto you. With a loud moan, Von Negut bottoms out, the tip hitting your g-spot.

“V-Von Negut-!”

You came violently once more, fluids coming out of your newly-claimed hole, tears and shaking as proof of your defeat. Von Negut should be smiling, then- after all, he was finally yours, as much as you were his.

“Little lamb?”

But you weren't listening. Instead, you subconsciously grind on his dick more, whining impatiently. “Nngh, p-please.”

“Fucked out already, hm? Fuck, and I thought you were so innocent”

Effortlessly turning you to face him without getting you off his cock, Von Negut finally sees your beautiful tear-strained face, helpless as he fucks you properly this time.

Was it always this blissful? Every noise and sound that Von Negut could coax right out of you was perfect. That his mate, the fated red hood, the panacea of all his problems, was finally his to take? Fucking you deeper and harder now, he presses a hand on where the bulge from fucking you was seen.

“Little lamb, [Y/N],” he called out, noticing that he was ready to come, even if he was seeing the expression on your face, “I'm so close...”

“P-please,” you lulled, brain fogging from the pain and pleasure, “V-Von Ne-Negut,”

The clench of your pussy, the way you called his name, and the way his cock was pistoning in and inside of your used pussy— fuck, that was all it took for Von Negut to moan your name and fill your insides, painting your walls white, overflowing, even before he hadn't pulled out yet.

With a sigh, he comes back to Earth, watching as you ride out the last of your orgasm. Pulling out, as messy as it was, with his cum dripping out of you, he tries to succumb to the urge to fucking it back inside. Von Negut carries you in his arms, carrying you to the spare bed he had prepared. You must have been exhausted, seeing that you couldn't open your eyes as he carried you.

“I hope the prophecy was right, then.”

Your mother once told you not to stray from the path.

But you were far from the path that was laid out to you. Somewhere amongst the dense trees of spring and summer, or the fallen leaves in autumn, and the cold in winter, you settled on a cottage far from the village. There, you could clean, cook, or sleep whenever you wanted,

It could be lonely, but it's not all the time. At least, when you're a ghost.

If you ever find a man in the woods asking to help, decline the offer. Unless you want to be a victim of his whims.

“Little lamb,” he'd call you that, “I hope your mother told you not to stray the path.”

please like and share!! likes, shares, reblogs are appreciated!!

>> starlillies <<

#pgr #punishing gray raven #punishing gray raven imagines #pgr commandant #pgr global #pgr vonnegut #von negut

[bucknastysbabe]

Omg if you haven’t done cumming in pants yet I think it would be perfect for Jacaerys. Like he’s so dutiful he would never be with a girl before marriage but that’s not to say he doesn’t have urges. He’d be so embarrassed about it too!! Love your writing

So I have two requests with this prompt but I love it so much I’ll do both🤣🤣

Kink Bingo - C*mm*ng in pants

Rating: Mature

Tags: Incest, modern!au, sexy sun tan rubs, plotting, hightowgaryen!reader, Jace is so innocent, cumming in pants, fluffy, beach days, plus sized!reader

A/N: they need to make better plus sized ref pictures smh

It was going to be a summer of the ages, they said on the news. The dreary and rainy spring had opened up to the heat. Heat in King’s Landing was no joke. You thought about zipping down below the Castle to the Blackwater. There you could just strip and swim. It was quiet down there but you didn’t want to be alone.

You sent a text to your cousins and siblings, inviting them to join you.

You frowned as everyone declined. Even Rhaena, who always enjoyed your excursions. She’s been busy with studies, you reminded yourself. You flopped back onto the huge bed, pale strands stark against the black sheets. Huffing dramatically you decided to change and go down by yourself.

Firstly, a bag needed to be prepared with a towel, umbrella, and tons of sunscreen. Targaryens could tan. Not you. Jace tanned easy, but he didn’t have the classic Valyrian traits. You missed your favorite cousin, he was so sweet and kind. Jace had been sucked into the land of politics with his mother.

Being the younger of your siblings, everyone oft dismissed you as the baby. Same occurred with Rhaena and Daeron. You smiled to yourself at how they didn’t understand, pulling out a skimpy black thong bikini. The top was just as threadbare, leaving little to the imagination.

While braiding your hair back in a Pentoshi style your phone pinged.

‘Jace🥰’ read on the screen. Blushing and scrambling you opened the text. He had written, “I’m still in a meeting, meet you down there with drinks?” You could squeal. But then Aegon would hear from next door and cuss you out, because he was always hungover like that.

Targaryens used to intermarry. Not any more. So you could just ogle your cousin shamefully and eventually get married off to someone. You wanted to study in Essos. There was the chance for a mate. Gathering your things you hustled down the cavernous keep.

The beach was quiet and pristine per usual. You laid down the towel and fiddled with the umbrella until it stood. Dumb rocky beach. A devious thought popped into your head. You’d act on it when Jace arrived. Meanwhile you’d take a nice swim.

You floated on your back idly, face shaded with sunglasses. “Playing dead?,” your cousin hollered. Perking up you stepped down onto the rocky seafloor, waving. With a smile you called back, “I was hoping you’d save me like when we were children on Driftmark.” You eyed his perfect tan, accentuated by a opened linen shirt and short red trunks. He had a dreamy body.

Jacaerys held up some beers, clinking while he laughed, “Do you need me to swim a beer out to you?” You shook your head and waded in, black cloth sticking to your curves. Jace was busying himself setting up a chair, eyes bugging as you drew near. He coughed, face reddening as he held out an opened bottle.

You swiped it and thanked the prince, turning to your spot so he could see your ass on display. More coughing and metallic clanking ensued. You sat down as he managed, “Alicent let you out in that?” His eyes were hidden by shades but you had an inkling where they were plastered.

You’d gotten your cousin flustered before but usually it was interrupted. Now all the cards were in your hand. With a purr you leaned back, stretching pale skin, “She doesn’t have to know everything, Jace.” You took a swig as he mumbled something under his breath.

“How was the meeting?”

He groaned in displeasure, “The less we talk about it the better, the parliament members of the Reach might be the most boring people of all time.”

You cocked your head, musing, “Farmers elevated to positions of power, figured. What shall we discuss, Jacey?” You cackled at his scowl from the dreaded childhood nickname. Jacaerys stretched his legs and got up.

“I’ll think of something after I take a dip,” the brunette commented while shucking off his linen top. You took another drink, transfixed by his toned body. Rhaenyra probably had a twitch in her eye somewhere— a green gaze on her precious boy.

Jace dived and paddled around for a suspiciously long time. Maybe it was because you had flipped on your belly, pert ass on display. Eventually you heard the crunching of his footsteps. Head pillowed on your arms you asked sweetly, “Jacey? Do you think you could put some sunscreen on my back? I feel myself already burning.”

He cleared his throat, steps pausing. Jace weakly joked, “Can’t do it yourself? Such a princess.” You whined, sliding down your shades to give the Velaryon puppy eyes. “Please? I don’t want streaks! C’monnn!”

Jace huffed and discreetly tried to readjust himself. His cheeks were flaming and you knew it wasn’t from just the heat. Breathlessly the prince asked, “Where is it?” You chirped, “In the bag, use the 60SPF.” That was the thickest lotion, Jace would have to work for it.

He grunted his assent, rifling through the bag and moving toward your side and squatting down. The cap clicked, you shifted minutely in anticipation. Your cunt was slicking your folds. Jace slathered the thick white lotion between his hands, breath sweetly hitching when he made contact to your heated back.

You sighed in pleasure as he slathered in the sunscreen. Jace methodically rubbed circles into your upper back. You reached back and untied your strings, your lovely cousin letting out of the smallest of whimpers. He wheezed, “I don’t think the th-the string is going to make a difference.”

You shrugged, “My bad, you can tie it back.”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

He lowered his hands to your lower back. Your skin was pulsing and Jace was practically panting. His thigh kept bumping into your own, trembling as he bit his plump lip. You demurred, “Is it too much if you keep going, it feels soo good.”

Jacaerys nodded shakily, murmuring a weak, “S-sure.” Your eyes subtly flicked to his cock. You could see it pulse, a dark mark on the top. Gods it was thick too. You gulped, pussy twitching again. Jace audibly swallowed a moan as his huge hands rubbed the lotion into your ass.

His breath was staccato now, hands somewhat groping at your malleable flesh. Jacaerys stammered your name, hands gripping as he gasped and whimpered. His breath ended in a wheedle of your name, hands retracting as if he was burned.

You jerked up, twisting to gape at your cousin. His shades had fallen, pupils blown and lips bitten bee stung. His shorts were stained now, cock softening. He looked as if he were going to cry.

You whispered, “Did you just?”

Jace whined, “Oh gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’ve dishono-,” you cut him off by launching onto the brunette with a kiss. He yelped and big hands wrapped around your slick waist as you writhed against him. It was to be a good day indeed as he whimpered under you.

#kink bingo #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #jace velaryon x reader #targaryen!reader #modern!au

[calliedion-dungeon]

🜏The beastly ones are in command

Read on ao3 here <<<

Mary Goore has a Poltergeist attached to them

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Mary Goore is contacted by a Parapsychologist regarding of the events that have been developing during his entire life, throughout the interview, Mary will recount strange events that have affected those around him and in some cases destroyed others, but the entity never seems to hurt him, only those who have wronged him.

Warning: Mary Goore - Poltergeist,Implied/References Child Abuse. Rated Mature Please mind the tags

As the sun hides between the clouds, like a child who hides his face with the sheets so that the shadow that peeks out of the closet does not see it, so we are all, at the end of the day, skeptics and believers, we are those children, those who do not want to see because they believe, always end up seeing by suggestion and those who do not believe desperately want to see in order to believe.

Or maybe one says that none of those sightings are true, those unexplained events do have some explanation that escapes our comprehension, we deny it even if we do see it in front of our eyes, we deny it just so we don’t look stupid. Suddenly, it takes more guts to believe after all.

Stepping on the tail of his cigarette that was already about to die out, Mary takes one long look to the building in front of them, since it was a rainy day, the air was pleasant, the gray building seems melting dripping water through the rain gutter splashing on the ground, his hair is damp, his leather boots protects them from the rain but not from the cold, however the sweater under the leather jacket was doing wonders, his lower limbs are getting a little stiffer, so they better get in the establishment.

It was the fickle finger of faith that lead them into that place, specifically in the department of paranormal studies at a university, he felt a little out of his element in the campus, even so, the desire to tell his experience when they made a call to all those who have had paranormal experiences was too irresistible to him, so, the best case is that this is going to be the longest afternoon of their life, the worse is that it will be the quickest interview ever, in case nobody believed them, like always.

No long after, they were standing in an office, that look more like a psychologist’s, the lady that was leading the research project was sitting in her desk, she had light, almost whitish eyes, naturally reddish hair, tied up in a ponytail, and introduces herself as Diana Ramirez, senior lecturer in psychology and a member of the Parapsychology Unit.

“I am so pleased to have you here; would you kindly take a seat?” she offers him something to drink, while Mary sits on a very fluffy long sofa “Now, I’m going to tape this interview like we said on the phone, so we can begin with you saying out loud your name, age, how did you found out about us and start from there, any questions?” asks the young lady, taking a look to Mary as he gets comfortable on the sofa, she didn’t know what to expect as to what he looked like, on the phone she just was surprise by how young he sounded.

“Can I smoke in here?” she looks a little confused at first, but extends a smile and hands him a small plate that could serve them as an ashtray even if it wasn’t one.

“I’ll just open a window a little if you don’t mind” she does so, and he removes his jacket and lights a cigarette, getting comfortable on the sofa, shortly after he lights one cigarrette.

“a’ight it’s kinda warm in here” Now both sitting comfortably on their seats, Diana prepares to start recording, an unknown wave of nerves invades Mary, that almost never happens, like he’s nervous to speak boldly for once.

“You can start now” she says as she hits the button of the little artifact on the desk, while she gives a reassuring smile.

“Uhh, my name’s Mary Goore, I’m somewhere in my twenties… ok, 25 years of age, I knew about this because one of my buddies studies philosophy around here” Mary says with a little tremble in their voice, feeling a little off.

“Good, why did you decide to come here today?” she asks while looking around her desk for something, she mutters to herself where her pen got.

“It’s in the second drawer, between the pages of a purple notebook” she looks up to him, arching an eyebrow, slowly she opens the second drawer, where she left the notebook earlier, opens it and finds her favorite pen, now this is going to be an interesting interview.

“How did you know that?” Diana asks instinctively, even if she can guess the answer.

“Something told me” he makes a tender smile, feeling more at ease, it’s all about to sense if he can prove that what he will say it’s true.

“Does that happen often?” she says, opening her notebook and clicking her pen loudly.

“Yes, I was the nightmare of any tutor, I always found the Christmas presents wherever they were” they share a little smile to one another.

“How does it come to you? An image, maybe voices?” the pen makes sound as it dances around the paper, Diana doesn’t look down to see what she’s writing.

“I… in my mind it’s like the image of the object and a path to follow of where it is and is surrounded in darkness” Mary closes their eyes trying to remember if it was always like that.

“You mention a tutor, where you adopted?” Mary clench his fist above his thigh.

“Never officially, I bounced from home to home, from family members to foster parents, everyone passed me to another relative like a hot potato” Mary chuckles a little, but there’s no joy in the sound.

“What about your parents, did you know them?” she asks as delicately as she can.

“Can’t remember, they told me it was better that way, I only have scars, on my legs, arms and back and this…” they raise the hair on their forehead, showing a cross-shaped mark on the hairline “If I scratch it too much it bleeds, wanna see?” he says amused.

“N-no, it’s quite alright, thank you” she says hastily, a little disturbed, looking down at her notebook, writing with a shaky hand. Diana clears her throat “So… what is your earliest memory of a manifestation?”

“When I was like four, maybe younger, I remember balls and some toys floating around like right in front of me, it never hit me, the things that flew out always hit others, although there weren't many people, I was alone a lot” He said as he took out a small package from his leather jacket, along with negative film roll “I have photographs with the negatives, you can test it, it always appears as a hand, like this one, behind the furniture there was a wall, and in this you can see the hand coming out of the earth, always making sound with their long nails” He shows her the photographs spreading them on the desk, she takes them with great interest, takes the roll of negative film directly from his hands. The pictures looked harmless at first, but then after a short scan to it, it certainly looked like a hand, a hand, peeking from impossible places, dark, of inhuman proportions, with an unknown texture, the closest thing that comes to mind is like a tree bark, however nothing in it seemed to be rough to the eye, even in the photograph you can perceive the movement in which it was captured.

“I see… Most people are not so sure of telling an anecdote like this, I assume that because you have proof, you feel so sure. So other people have seen the phenomena with you?” Diana asks, hardly taking her eyes off the pictures, she feels enraptured by them.

“A handful, only the hand when I was with other kids at school, most people just feel its presence and maybe that is why people avoid me” he says as he sits back on the sofa, stretching his arms on each side of the back.

“Where you teased as a child?” words leaving her lips slowly, she asks because in the pictures nobody is near him “Bullied?” the other children in the group pictures didn’t even looked in his direction, except when they were pointing out at the monstrous hand growing from the dirt.

“Yeah, a lot, kids and adults alike, why?” it seems Mary didn’t think of it as much “Does it matter?”

“It depends on certain aspects of your life, I will be certain at the end of this, emotions are more important than we can think of, it varies from one manifestation to another and of course, how do you relate to it” Diana explains while she moves on her seat again.

“That makes more sense then…” Mary says after blowing smoke to the window “Most of my life, I had felt full of anger, or sad, rejected, segregated, when someone bullied me at school, I almost never defended myself and I regret it, but I always had that feeling of wanting to explode, to ravish all of them, but instead I only sat there shaking somewhere waiting for that accumulated energy to leave me” they conclude wetting his lips looking at the floor.

“Go on…” Diana encourages.

“At home, wherever the fuck that was, I would look at this figure coming out of the corner of my room, it was all dark, and it was looking at me, with white eyes, it was as tall as the ceiling, sometimes it seemed to crouch because it did not fit in the room, as the years passed it looked more human, I know because it always reached out its hand to take mine, just like in the first picture” they say pointing at the ceiling of the office like they can envision the figure where they seat.

In the photo he mentions, he’s seen as a boy in a group photo of his classroom, he has his hand raised and the huge rotten-looking hand peeking out from the edge of the photo taking the hand of the little boy with the absent expression.

“The things that happened at home were various, nothing that had not been heard before, things that fell, people that had accidents, voices in empty rooms, I sleepwalked every night, during that I said things that were yet to happen, I also threatened everyone when I was in that state, about how everyone would pay for what they did once the time is come, you know, the usual” they laugh openly, like they where just waiting to tell that to somebody.

Diana looks up wide-eyed, hoping what she heard was a joke. It wasn’t, yet they laughed at it.

“Has anyone ever been hurt?” she put off asking that as long as she could, from the progression of the narrative it seemed like the right moment.

“It’s a long list, better get comfortable” Mary says with a smile “Once I had a little boyfriend when I was twelve years old, he also wanted to be a musician, but it bothered him that I played better and wrote my own shit, he said so himself, one day he broke up with me over the phone and told me that I had only been a bet, it turns out that bet it was with the girl he was cheating on me with, two days later he was hit by an empty car, in a driveway, he hurt his back and arm so badly that he couldn't play anymore” no laugh this time, only puffing smoke in the air.

“Did he…?” Diana asks nervous leaning forward to her desk.

“Oh! He’s alive, don’t worry. Just nobody could figure how the car moved by itself, and I was so fucking angry and devastated at the time, I cried for years for him…” he scratches his hair remembering the incident.

“On another occasion, an idiot from school was kicking a poor dog, I stepped in to stop him, they ended up kicking me on the ground among many people until I lost consciousness, the dog was able to escape, but not for long, the next day it died, I looked at that idiot with hate every day, until I myself could see when one of those huge neon lights fell on his head when he was walking down the stairs, I thought about the unlikely chances of that happening, from me capturing that moment, and that it fell only to him just as he passed” as he tells the story, his eyes change, as if he were transported back to that moment, this happens in all the anecdotes.

“Very unlikely, I agree…” says Diana “So it’s been only accidents, that you witness?” she asks encouraging them to continue.

“Not always, those who could live to tell about it, say they managed to see me close, and a red flash before the accident happened” they say a little bit too loosely.

“Who didn’t live to tell?” if she wasn’t nervous before.

“That one’s a longer list” Mary rubs his hands on his arms careful not to burn himself with the cigarette “My grandmother, the short time I lived with her, beat me constantly, despite being a child, because I had to pay for my stay at her house, she saw many of the common manifestations, after being scared one time she fell from a stair, she broke many parts of her body, in those I was not at home. When I was taken from her custody, her kidneys ruptured and she died in the hospital after days of agonizing pain. I heard that the fluid they drained from her was dark, it didn't look like normal urine, and her mouth was so full of infections and inflamed, as if she were decomposing before she died” even Mary looks disturbed by that one.

“Once outside the school, some girls beat me up, they were much bigger, they dragged me out into the street so that no one would hear, because the spring dance was taking place inside the school, while after the leader got tired of kneeling me in the fucking nose, the others threw me into a garbage can, then a car passed at high speed, it raised a few stones, they shot out like bullets, the leader fell to the ground, they say it was like a bullet to the head, the others ended up very fucked up, but alive, while the trash can protected me, again... what were the chances?” frowning, Mary takes the cigarette to his lips, but doesn’t inhale “I’ll admit, not proudly, that I was glad that happened, I remember going to the funeral, walked up to her body and whispered ‘everything is paid in this life’ and… Somebody told me her mother died shortly after, she was her favorite daughter…” silence fills the room for a moment, even she stops writing.

“Do you mind if I do a little test while you talk?” Diana speaks to take them out of their thoughts “It’s an aura reading machine” Diana takes out a device that connects to the computer, it looks like a box with some buttons with a palm-shaped figure on top, she makes a hand gesture to sit on the chair on the other side of the desk.

“Sure, just let me…” he takes one last puff before squeezing the rest on the plate.

“Place your hand on top of this sensor, it takes the energy that you emit, this is the camera, now, if you have another anecdote to share, keep your hand still, ok?” she presses the buttons to start the lecture “When you finish, stay still and make a pause so I can capture and interpret your energy”

“Got it, doctor” they say rubbing their eyes “Sorry…” they scratch their eyes again but with the collar of the shirt, the itching from not sleeping during the day as usual is bothering them.

“There was this teacher, who had something against me, I was able to prove it, she was going to fail me and I asked the director to help me, we were able to verify that the teacher erased my answers from the exams to give me a bad grade; sometime later, she told her students that when she went to the bathroom, everything she shat was black as oil, at first it sounded funny, until she said she wasn't hungry anymore, but even so, she was able to go to the bathroom constantly, she found out she had ruptured an ulcer, of which she never had any symptoms and she was digesting her own blood until the internal bleeding was too much to control, she passed away in the hospital shortly after I graduated”

After telling the story, Mary looks directly at the camera, not speaking and a little smirk crawls from the corner of his lips. The young doctor feels a chill on her back, seeing the progression of the photographs she is taking, she sees magenta waves on the sides of his body, almost in the shape of wings, hovering on his head there is a black wave, in some photos they appear as if they were limbs that surround him, either to protect him or to catch him, that remains to be seen, Diana suppresses a gasp and instead of saying something, swallows saliva. Being the professional that she is, she does not intend to hide any discovery from him.

Immediately she notices that he must be a great observer, with the things he has learned from his experiences, while looking at him through the screen, without knowing why, she does not dare to see him directly, since his eyes have become so dark that you can barely see the white area in them, not only does she feel observed, she feels intimidated with her pitch black eyes, the screen begins to have interference and some threads of blood can be seen running through his face, the dark tendrils expand across the screen covering almost the entire image except him, it seems that there’s only him in the void in front of her, looking at her with a ferocious expression as if he were about to jump on her.

“Doctor?... Doctor?... Doctor!” He snaps her out of the screen, he was standing in front of her one of his hands almost reached her “What the fuck just happened?” he enquires in a calm tone, sitting down again.

“Did you see it?” she asks, trying to suppress how upset she is.

“Not right now, by your face I sense that you have” Mary says “Does it look different from what I described? It changes as years go by, like I said” they smile at the doctor, genuinely interested in what she might think of them now.

“I'm not sure yet, I only saw you, but it wasn't you, it was something else... I felt something horrible, yet comforting, like a boundless emptiness that wrapped me for a second, like flying over a precipice without fear of falling while the world falls together with me, I saw its core and it didn't scare me as much as I thought seeing it would, it will happen to all of us, I don't know how to explain myself better” Diana describes looking back to the screen, where the image went back normal again “Do you want to keep going?”

“I’m perfectly fine, maybe it’s you who should take a break, doctor” they say laughing, looking a lot more relaxed.

“Don’t mind me. If you let me, can I do a little polygraph test?” the doctor asks as she disconnects everything from the previous test.

“I’m down for it” then she begins to fix the cables, which she connects to the computer like the previous test, and takes out the famous polygraph with the paper and the needles that draw the signals, Mary looks very amused to all the artifacts, they had always wanted to do one of those tests, Diana announces that she’s going to strap the sensors to their torso “Careful, doctor, you break it, you buy it” they joke lightly, getting a chuckle form her.

“You’ve told me about, family and school, what about working places in your adulthood?” the doctor speaks as she sits again, and finally clamps their fingers with the sensor, Mary moves their fingers tapping on the desk. They first start the polygraph by doing the same questions when the interview started, answering the same.

“Has somebody ever mistreat you at a job?” she continues to ask.

“In my first two jobs, there was intimidation, only by direct bosses, in both they also forced me to resign, I was a loader in both places, after I left the business almost disappeared, they failed to such an extent that entire franchises were reduced just one venue”

“There was this girl, Emily, I really liked her, we worked in a bookstore, like I said I was just in the warehouse carrying boxes, she suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder and couldn't get on with the day if she didn't organize the shelves in alphabetical order, our boss yelled at her a lot in front of the customers rushing her to finish and that she didn't care that she had a problem, I could hear her crying and the anger in me build up in seconds, I wanted to do something with all my strength, when I approached to tell what I thought to that horrible woman, part of the ceiling fell next to her, making a hole in the floor, when everyone left the area because of what happened, the bookcases on the boss's desk began to fall without explanation, a girl end up trapped between a bookcase and a table, she didn't get hurt, we both quit soon after, but Emily had so many things to worry about in her life that I didn't make a move on her” Mary sighs after telling that story, a bit melancholic.

“Nobody died in your past jobs?” she asks scribbling on the notebook.

“Yeah, two employees of the first, and the owner of my second job, along with half of the staff, but I don’t know the details of what happened to them” they rearrange position in their chair.

“And the boss that yelled at the girl? Nothing happened to her?” the doctor asks.

“Her favorite son tried to commit suicide, but I didn’t link that to what is happening to me, still sad tho” Mary concludes watching of the test machine paper roll to the floor.

“Have you had other jobs?” Diana proceeds to take a sip of water without loosing focus on the machine.

“This happened in a bar where we played at, even for me that was weird, something I hadn’t seen before, one day me and the band arrived at the place and they had closed temporarily because everything was flooded, it was on a terrace, there was no other floor above, and there was no pipes in the ceiling, it hadn't rained, nobody could explain why everything was soaked in water, they never found the source, many objects and seats in the bar were ruined because mold grew overnight. We thought that someone brought the water but in fact it was found to be falling from the ceiling, even so it was not found where it came from exactly” Mary looks to the window and says.

“Ain’t a little late now?” says Mary realizing that the interview should’ve lasted an hour and have been nearly four.

“Gosh! I didn’t notice the time” Diana takes her phone, looking how many notifications she has and didn’t know “Do you think you can come some other day?” she proposes to Mary still with phone in hand.

“Don’t know, I’m not use to staying up during the day…” he says scratching the back of his head smiling “But hey! Aren’t you going to tell me my results?” he asks tapping his fingers on the desk, making noise because of the sensors that hang on his fingers.

“Sure, it’s not very deep yet, but here’s what I could gather for today, just remember this isn’t conclusive” she gets up to help Mary to take off the sensors on the torso “Regarding your situation, there is definitely some kind of entity attached to you, I cannot identify what type, but it does not seem to be something that is hurting you, this being is linked to your emotions, all those grudges, that pain and anger, that desire to... I wouldn't call it justice, more like a punishment” taking away all the wires from them, she also adds…

“What seems peculiar to me is how it seems that you can even handle it, use it to your advantage through remote vision, telekinesis, even send this entity to other people” she says surprised “That agrees with the tests I have done on you, the colors of your aura, they presented to me that you are someone quite anti-establishment, independent, a good heart, you’re honest with yourself and everyone, so, what you have told me is true”

“Damn right it is!” Mary says proudly “But don’t tell about the good heart shit” they say more coyly, the doctor only smiles.

“Don’t worry about it, just as a note, to learn to forgive and let go, may help with the severity of those manifestations, I know you wish to make things right, just don’t let it drag you down” She comments more as personal advice than part of the study she is doing, since she’s not so sure how many precautions Mary has taken to be more cautious with their situation.

“I know that, I’ve learned to control more my mood and stuff, making music it’s the main thing that helps me, I write what I see in my dreams” they say nodding and smiling, more serious than before.

“Really? What kind of music do you make?” Diana asks curious, looking into their eyes.

“Well…”

#I didn't post this properly when I made it so here it is again #mary goore fanfic #mary goore fic #mary goore #tw child abuse #tw death mention #mary goore repugnant #repugnant fanfiction #paranormal story #repugnant #parapsychology #old fic repost

[tubi505]

Fading Warmth

I wake to the sound of someone shifting in my bed. Sunlight pours into the room and my silk sheets move like waves of the ocean. Ironic, a huge storm rages in my head. I squint to see clearer, and like children opening their eyes to their first sight, the warm feeling of love in you stomach, I see him. A flash of memories speed past my eyes. Its all a blur. All just splashes of color and feelings; confusion. I rub my eyes and focus harder on the strangers features. He's mumbling something, something sweet, maybe he knows of my sweet tooth? No. I close my eyes again and shudder at how he's still mumbling.

I close my eyes and focus into the darkness, only for another rush. This time, I see clearer. Shapes are defined and I can feel my hands. A dark staircase lit by some dim light. I try to walk up the stairs, only for my knees to buckle and almost trip. My hands hold purchase of the railing and I pant. I sigh and look up to the source of light, a phone's flash light. Someone standing on the upper platform holding a phone. I try to call out to him, only to open my eyes again.

This time, the stranger has sat up on the bed. He looks at me kindly, gently. I shudder and open my mouth, no words escape my mouth, so I close my mouth and look at the ceiling instead. The stranger chuckles and I notice only now that he's holding a mug. It fits perfectly in his hands, like gloves. He holds it gently but firm enough that it doesn't spill onto my sheets. I sigh and reach out to his mug but pull back when I realize he's not mumbling anymore. He starts again. I think he believes he's coherent now, shame. I wish I make out the words, shame.

I gather all my strength and sit up next to him now. He reaches for my hand and I let him hold it. Its warm, his hands. Must be from the mug he was holding. He squeezes my hand lightly and I flinch. I can't look into his eyes. I can't look at him. I just stare at our hands. With hesitance, I interlock our hands. His lips form a thin line, then their corners lift. He whispers something, I refuse to listen. He cups my face, I close my eyes.

My hands still feel warm, someone's still holding my hand. Its late, I need to go home. But his hands feel warm, the kind of warm you get from drinking coffee in an autumn morning, so I stay. He leads the way, we're walking in a New York street. I don't remember which street, I follow him anyway. The streets are glassy with remnants of rain and the apartment window's lights reflect on it like lanterns. I shiver and look down at the ripples we cause as we walk. Its cold, I scoot closer to him, he holds me. I can't help but wonder if the red on his cheeks and ears is because of the cold or love. I shiver because of the cold and, realize its just another fading blur of a memory.

I open my eyes with a gasp and the warm on my hands have became a burn. I stare at the red tips of my finger and the tea on the table. I sigh and cool my hands off by washing the pain away with water. He leans on the counter next to me and sighs. He takes my burnt fingers and gently pecks them. My cheeks match my burnt finger's redness now. He smiles and picks my cup and passes it to me. I take it cautiously this time, careful not to burn my fingers again, and sip a bit --- Its still hot. Instead of letting my fingers linger on the cup, I raise them to push back a stray strand of his hair. I manage a tired smile and study his face. The warm grace of the Sun rests on his face and the corners of his lips are lifted . I feel jealous of how he always smiles sometimes, but remember he shares. He cups my cheek and caresses my lip with his thumb. I let my eyes wander around his lips and his neck, then look away guiltily. He redirects my sight again by holding my chin and makes me look at his eyes, and pointing to his lips. I blush and lean in.

Lean in and trip and almost fall. We're shoved out the bar and I trip on my own feet. If he didn't grab my arms, I would've fallen on my face. He's giggling, face flushed from the amount of alcohol we drank. I hold up the bottle of Barolo I sneaked and chuckle. His eyes widen and he laughed louder. He pats my back and steadies himself and tries to help me stand straighter, only for me to continue babbling and swaying from side to side. He pauses and sighs. I pause too, worried I've drank away his patience, so I slowly offer the bottle of wine to him. He chuckles, shaking his head, and lifts me. I kick at the air and giggle loudly. The residents probably woke up from the noisy chortles we had made , but all I could hear was the thumping of my heart, his light ones, and our laughter. My stomach begin to hurt from how much I laughed and I didn't bother covering my smile anymore. He pulls me in and pecks my cheek. I giggle and point to my lips. He pecks me there too. Satisfied, I jump out of his hold, drink a bit of the wine, and insist he drink some too. He takes a swing and gives the bottle back to me. I feel the bottle in my hands. Smooth and slightly heavy, perfect for swings. And cold, cold not like the breeze of starless nights or soda on summer days. Its cold like... ice, ice on your skin. Cold enough for you to shiver, cold enough to burn you, cold enough for it to numb your fingers.

Cold. Who left the windows open? No, its the balcony. The balcony doors are open and I stare at the figure looking out into the New York night. Many of the flashy billboards and apartment lights have disappeared. The breeze still stays though, cutting through the air onto your cheeks like a knife. I walk up to the figure in my balcony, and smile when its just him. I join him at studying the night and notice he's drinking wine. I lean onto the railing and take the glass from him. His hands brush over mine and I guess he must have been here for more than just a while because of how cold his knuckles felt. He sighs shakily and rubs his hands. I take them and put them in my pockets. His eyes widen slightly, zoning in and out. Its always been bittersweet, like coffee. I used to hate it but can't get enough out it now. Everything feels as if its slowed down now. Most of the lights are nothing but a dark shadow of what it was and the lively chatter of the people reduced to murmur every now and then. My heart's in my throat, words would choke out so I let my eyes speak. His breath hitches, he takes his hands out, and holds me instead.

Its cold, but you are my Sun.

#light angst #oneshot #Drabble

[rahorak-a]

tag dump 01 : portrayal.

#⊰ ` i. study: visage / / woman whose face burned like the sun. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: aesthetic / / let the sun’s light rain down on me. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: mannerisms / / born‚ emerging from heat & flames. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: wardrobe / / she‚ clad in golden flame. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: residence / / shining marble on the mountain side. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: desires / / i must confess i’m addicted to this. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: skills / / pen or sword‚ the shield is mightiest. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: music / a divine hymn‚ the language of old. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: headcanon / / the bulwark against the darkness. ´ ⊱ #⊰ ` i. study: sheet / / we are the children of the sun. ´ ⊱

[dalleyan]

Elfwine Chronicles (new LoTR stories, Second Thoughts posted, 7-20-22)

A rude comment drives a wedge between Prince Elfwine of Rohan and Princess Dariel of Gondor. Can the damage be undone?  (7 chapter story.  Angst and fluff.)

 Second Thoughts - Chapter 6

The sun was still nowhere in sight the next day, but it was quite a while after daybreak before Elfwine awoke.  He lay in bed replaying the events of the past two days.  He couldn’t restrain a grin as he remembered the feel of Dariel in his arms.  How nice it would be if she had been there willingly, pleased to have his attention.  He sighed.  He doubted very much they would ever get to that point.  While she did seem sincere in her apology for her comment, he was certain she only viewed him as the friend of her brother.  But even so, he could not help daydreaming what it would be like if she did return his interest...

Little did he know, Dariel’s thoughts were moving along a similar path.  She always felt safe with Elfwine, no matter how frightening an experience she was having.  Somehow she knew he would protect her from harm.  She indulged her imagination about what it would be like if he were interested in her, if he wanted to kiss her...  That set the butterflies doing their wild dance in the pit of her stomach again, but somehow she didn’t care.  She stretched in her warm bed and daydreamed about Elfwine until her twin sisters raced into her room to wake her for breakfast.  Reluctantly, she rose and began to dress, moving more quickly as she realized that the rain would likely keep everyone indoors, and perhaps now she could suggest another drawing lesson from Elfwine.

After everyone had eaten, they ended up in the Golden Hall, with the children playing around the fire. Eldarion was largely bored and, not being much of a reader, he was at loose ends, until he found a chess set and discovered that Gamling played.  Soon they were completely engrossed and, taking a deep breath, Dariel approached Elfwine who was sitting by himself, sketching the children.  He had purposely brought his drawing things, both because he had obligated himself to drawing the children of Gondor’s royalty, and because he hoped it would give him a chance to spend time with Dariel.

“We never did finish my drawing lesson,” Dariel commented shyly, as she came to sit at the table where Elfwine was.

He looked up and smiled at her.  “No, we did not.  Would you like to do so now?”

She grinned excitedly, but then hesitated.  “But I do not want to interrupt what you are doing...”

He quickly set it aside. “I can finish it later.  I have the basic sketch in place.”

She picked up the sketch and studied it, then turned and looked at her siblings at play and shook her head.

“What is wrong?” Elfwine inquired.

She hastened to correct his misimpression.  “Nothing! You just make it seem so easy!”

He blushed, with more pleasure than embarrassment, and rose to come around and seat himself next to her. Handing her a sheet of paper, he asked, “What have you decided to draw?”

She thought for a moment, then teased, “I could draw you, and give it to your parents as a gift! But somehow I do not think they would be as impressed as mine will be!”

He laughed.  “It is too early to try to draw people.  They are not easy to do.”  He pointed to the flowers in a jug on the table, “What about those?”

She reached down and pulled the jug closer, considering it.  “All right.  I will try to draw that.  Where do I begin?”  And moments later, they were completely lost in their task.

 continue reading on AO3:

              https://archiveofourown.org/works/40031700/chapters/101332176

#Elfwine #Dariel #Lord of the Rings #LOTR #Elfwine Chronicles #Eomer #Lothiriel #Aragorn #Arwen

[tillerman1]

THE WOLF HOUR (chapters 13-18)

THE SECOND ACT

13

The house. It is about by the rare, impermeable somber nights, where some sea is silent. Alma and Johan hast already watched numerous hours. Alma is very tired.

JOHAN: There existed a time, when the nights each till for the sleep, a profound dreamless sleep! "The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast." Shakespeare. To sleep. To wake without dread.

ALMA: Yes.

JOHAN: Are you tired?

ALMA: Yes. Not so dangerous.

JOHAN: Now have we watched every night till the dawn. But the one here hour is the hardest. Vet you what on called?Alma shakes away head.

JOHAN: Yes[,] the old called it the wolf hour. It is the hour, as those most people die. It is the hour, as those most children born. It is now, as the nightmares going till us. And is we wake so –

ALMA: – so are we afraid.

JOHAN: – so are we afraid. (He holds hands before the face.) Oh, you!

ALMA: Yes.

JOHAN: No one is nothing. I come only to intend of something. From face childhood.

ALMA: The batteries in the radio are exhausted.

JOHAN: Want you consult?

ALMA: (yes ands)

JOHAN: It arrived for me fully overnight. The dark closet. It was a sort's punishment understand you. I cast it furious, screaming cum scared. The door closed. It was quiet and dark. I was insanely scared and pounded and kicked. Man did namely told me, to a small person lived just in the there wardrobe - a cross of troll and sprite. He could gnaw away the toes of the criminal. When I expired with banging, heard me forthright, that it rustled in a corner. I understood, to my moment was arrived. In silent panic began I clamber on shoe boxes and racks, searched lift me upward in the hands, the clothes raged around me, I lost taken and fell, slog wildly at all hold for to protect me against the little creature. Simultaneously bad me squeaking of horror to forgiveness. My capitulation heeded. The door opened cum I got descend out into the daylight. My far [father] said: I hear off mother, that you ask for forgiveness. Yes, answered me. I beg so awful very about forgiveness. Make then arrangement on green the sofa, said far. I walked through till the green sofa in Father's room and picked together two pillows, which I laid over on each other. Then fetched me the rattan, snapped down the pants cum placed me prostrate on the green pillows. How many strokes deserve you{,}[;] asked my far. As many strokes as enable, answered me. Then hit the strokes quite hard, but not unbearably. Then the punishment was completed drug me up the pants cum bar back the rattan till the corner behind the bookshelf. Then turned I me to mother and said: Forgive mother me now? She replied: Certainly forgive self you. She handed me the Wolf Hour 37 her hand cum self kissed it. So turned I me to my far. Can far forgive me now? Presently forgive I'm you, answered it and handed forth his hand, which I kissed. (Silence.) Alma? Hear you what I'm saying?

ALMA: I associated, what thou tells. I have heard away all the time. I have not slept. I am not even tired anymore. (Pause.)

14

(This statement you are to accompany by images ad libitum.)

JOHAN (looks at her): As should I share something else for you. (Pause.) I and some comrade played commonly in a hospital park. The place, which very most attracted us, was a small brick house cum black tin roof and milk glass in the windows. Where kept the new kill. A Sunday afternoon with spring sunshine and snowmelt on the slopes train we us in for the chapel. There stood a coffin, which even was closed and almost covered with flowers. The second room was bigger: There lay several dead under white sheets. The sun shone hard on the blind windows(,)[;] here inside was this cold, one unique, sweetish basement smell. Suddenly heard me a door closed. It was my comrade, for snuck away. I was alone with the dead. The take intimidated me, only was also attractive. I glanced at the sheet and studied the dead's features. They appeared most of all artificial. There existed well one she, she had red the middle-part hair, one some pretty nose up cum gold rings in the well-formed ears. Her large mouth was blue-white, the lips slightly separated, exposing a range level white teeth. I drug off her sheet: she had a heavy, rounded body and powerful thighs. I looked long and bewitched on the dead. So raised me the hand and concerned at her face, her ears, her shoulders, her breast, I let fingertips slide over the hip's rounding, over some sex's red-yellow hair tuft, the long heavy thighs. (Here ends the imagery. House, night, Alma and Johan.) It was my first experience of a naked woman. (Silence.) Alma, Alma, hear you on or sleeping you?

ALMA: Yeah, no[,] I am awake. I have just such pain in the spine. Think that it none is it smallest dawn yet. Hear you so silent it is? It is awkward, as some sea for a time's skull is just still. Is it not?

JOHAN: Why crying you?

ALMA: Refusal I crying not. I thought only for the young. And so the here great silent darkness. The is, which about it never would become light more.

JOHAN: Poor you.

ALMA: Take my hand. So. Now is it improved.

JOHAN: I shall tell any remarkable for you. Somewhat awful, Alma. There happened for some weeks since.

ALMA (tormented): Something awful?

JOHAN: You recall that rumble I came home and said that I had been snake-bit.

ALMA: Yes.

JOHAN: It was no snake bite.

ALMA: What was it if it not was a snakebite?

JOHAN: I shall tell it for you cum you must assure to never - I thought ever that I would say it to anyone. I know not even about –

ALMA (cautious): You SHALL tell.

JOHAN: You may never say it till any.

ALMA: I pledge. I shall never say it till any.

JOHAN: You recall that where the place with those low flat the outcrops. And then the abyss below. We were there sometimes at the start of the summer. I used (to) could have it. Remember you?Alma nods(,)[;] she is crippling tired.

15

(This statement ascertains by images ad libitum.)

JOHAN: It was a hot day - almost sultry but without sun. The fishing luck was not remarkable, but in all fall so pass, to me not yielded up. Suddenly noticed self that I none was alone. A slim thin boy in broken jeans cum faded, pale-striped sweater watched me away some meters lay. He was barefoot and held the spiky arms crossed over some breast. The face was very narrow and elongated, the eyes bright and completely expressionless, some hair almost white. Nose short and flat. Contrariwise was mouth and jaws remarkably well developed. After some minutes' the glowing moved he it, as that I not could see him without to reverse me round. I discovered then(,) that he stood barely two meter(s) in from me, behind my back. I got an objectionable feeling off, to he thought put me into the water. He ran suddenly and silently up the flat downhill rock-pouring and put himself to consider my picture, which stood on some easel. The anger began a path within me. Rage and an inexplicable dread(,) (approximately which Man senses in attendance of an unknown hound with unreliable expression). He left my picture and shot equally noiseless down there till one place, where I put my catch. He counted the fish and grinned quietly for it himself. I tired of the strange game and started picking together my stuff. He had laid himself on chine with an arm under the neck and one leg over the other. I searched ready for my clothes and took on my shirt and pants. Then I would take away us the watch, which hovered in the shoe, discovered me, that it was gone. I turned myself to the boy and asked, back he had taken it. He lay remaining but to move one. I walked there till it cum put myself over him cum repeated my question. He stirred himself not. But the smile disappeared from his thin lips cum he got white about the nose. I bent myself hastily down and took him in the neck for how raising him upward from the mark. He clung himself fast unto me, so to I lost balance. I saw a twosome cold, pale eyes and an open jaw, which chopped after my neck. I hit all that I could for to get free. But the sinewy arms and legs had great forces. We tumbled around cum again moderated it the buffeted on my neck or shoulder. I threw myself at one stone with all sinew, on lean body sprang like asunder, released his grip, lay splashing and quivering on the rock. It looked out that the sorts epileptic attack, the muscles gravitated together in almost rhythmic convulsions cum the chin pressed in a hard jerk to the chest. I stood shaking with aversion and stared at the crawling, panting being. I went closer without to think me [as]{for}. And sudden seizing he the teeth into my naked foot. It did horrible evil cum me stretched me after a stone and hit blind gait on time, until it became still, until it became immobile still, till it became silent. I rolled down the body in the deep, black water. It disappeared quickly with the legs before. I could see it sink to dark, waving and tumbling. There appeared not much blood. I washed away it from the flat belt. My hands were also bloody(,)[;] I washed them in the icy water. Some leg bumped and ached, but the wound was not particularly large, much like some a trout cum much superficial. I'm band about the handkerchief and entered the sock over.

(Here ends [up] the accompanying images. House, night, Alma, Johan.)

JOHAN: Then set I several hours and looked out over some sea, that shifted from gray till yellow wanting to the smoky-grey sultry cloud relieved. So eventually traveled self myself and limped home. [Neutral with very strong intensity?] There existed a time a grey discipline, one strong self-discipline, one hard daily victory - I recall all this there, that man remembers a distant dream. Limits are over-slippery, that second world has broken in over me cum I find myself correct in a dusk's land. Mostly with fear. Sometimes with relief. An astutely organized everyday interleaved of the other world's black water. [Formal with very strong intensity?]If I shall attempt last honest: there is still a voice, which calls for help, a nervous soul, which braces itself fast at the well-known, ingrained - one childish grief, a conscientious little human hope that despite all be accepted, a half-awake fight to wake up. [Neutral with very strong intensity?] My innermost conviction is when yet that amnesty doesn't exist, that laws are logical, that the course blindly follows on a gang for all outlined the road.

16

It knocks lightly on the door. The lamp is off. Alma and Johan sitter space the large table with eyes targeted towards the window's greyish bright rectangle.

JOHAN (cautious): Have you locked conscientious?

ALMA (cautious): I felt after two times.The readily quick knock repeats. None answers. The door grip tube itself down cum the door shuttle upward slowly and wailing. Curator Heerbrand rises in with hat in hand, raincoat cum muddy boots.

HEERBRAND: Good morning! Pardon that I disturb! I ask thousand times about sorry. It looks outside to go storm. I thought: Watching well in a moment. Oh! I have an errand too. May I hit me down? I shall not be long-winded. No thanks, I have stopped smoking. There is an invitation from some castle. We thought us a little party. Nothing remarkable. It applies seven to distract them poor the humans a crumb. The sitter there year about and chew on each other. No big company. Well disputes untaught, it will that interest you: Veronica Vogler. She has thanked yeah, she's coming! Not going also, or how? (Pause.) Apropå ingenting. von Merkens and I discussed for a few days sedan era opportunities to answer for you. I mean against all small wild, which exists here on the island. von Merkens suggested(,) that he should lend you a gun. I thought it would be better with a revolver. Yes, that was all for this here one past. Good morning, my friends. I hope so, how we see at our little party. Heerbrand disappears laughing. The revolver is on some table. Alma locks the entry, feels after that it indeed is locked.

ALMA: Is it loaded?

JOHAN: Yes, so think I.

ALMA: Can we not hide away this there gun?

JOHAN: Shall we play cards? No? That shall we then who us till. What suggests you?

ALMA: You will narrate for me about Veronica.

JOHAN: What do you I'll tell? The ongoing for four years. Yes, that vet you. We became caught, it was a giant scandal, but the sake silenced down. Well, then took it finished.

ALMA: In your diary sounds that different. Should I read for you: My bonding till Veronica turned till finished torturous for us both. I followed after her in the streets, the spy jealously. I believe that my passion stimulated her. But she was always passive, evasive indecisive. Any times came it till scary arrangements, which lacked any semblance of reason. We separated at unto scare, for what we made for each other. So breaks us our agreements and started over. I became like a dog on a leash: an endless series of humiliations. Till finish fled I neck over main. She searched up me, developed a sudden intelligence and some ruthless activity for that track middle hiding-place. We traveled ex-instead till instead for to escape her relatives and lawyers. So stranded us in Grenoble unto hottest summer in a backstreet hotel in an unwanted room above a garage. We were up-torn, sick cum without money, ripped asunder each other with mutual accusations. While spring grab, the humiliating Wolf-hour 45 lust, the hours of unconscious sleep. Our mouths floated together till a single howl. Our bodies dissolved till a sluggish grieve of skin and limbs(,)[;] we realized in truth the Bible's word of man and woman that shall "be one flesh." Then came her man and fetched her. I became incarcerated in hospital cum we saw not each other for several years. (Ends reading.) You said one time, to the fine with me was, that God had made me in one piece. That self had whole emotions and entire thoughts. You said that that was important, that there were such people, that the most people are split or broken into many bits. That there are so many invalids. That there sounded so fine. I was flattered and happy and thought, how I could help you. But that was wrong. I understand nothing. I understand nothing. I understand you not. Presently are self just scared.

JOHAN: Go your road then. While so is time.

ALMA: I can not the either. That after I love you.

JOHAN: Love?

ALMA: It's hard to put it any other way. Think you that I would stay here and maybe be killed? Think you that I would look at how you run away after that there the woman? Talk with your ghosts, protect me at every moment? Think you I want it? But I'm is remaining.

JOHAN: Yes. You are remaining.

ALMA: Self are over for to prevent you. You shall not go to that where the fest. And Veronica shall - shall wait vainly. And you shall get away from on here island.

JOHAN: Now know I so how it becomes.

ALMA: How I wish to the must be.

JOHAN: Then speak we not anymore about the sake.

ALMA: No.

JOHAN: Then can I go now?

ALMA: Yes. You can go now.

JOHAN: And you intend none prevent me?

ALMA: I may seven not prevent you.

JOHAN: Yes[,] you can.

ALMA: No, no, no. I have nothing with you to do.

JOHAN: About YOU goes.

ALMA: Refusal I sitter remaining. I will not look at you. I vow, to you will to stride. And when you come back is I gone. And you need don't, never –

JOHAN: Never?

ALMA: Available there no. – Nothing that –

JOHAN: I call a bar for a bar.

ALMA: Now speaks you with a foreign voice again.

JOHAN: Take hit the block of the drawings. First river I'm asunder. Then become I torn.

ALMA: She warned me for that strip asunder.

JOHAN: It is not nastiness, reckons not that it is nastiness. Yet now travels you thee from some board. Now go you forward to the door. Now go you out by the door. Now go you down for stairs. It is not dark anymore. You see the way.Alma travels itself and walks towards the door. The revolver is on some board.

17At some castle was all quiet and still. First showed none human till. Johan went from room to room. Windows stood open, of many a room burned kerosene lamps cum a small hound came forward and sniffed at him. But not the glimpse of fest or dinner board or guests. In a corridor met it old Mrs. von Merkens, baroness mother. She bar with a tray loaded with foodstuff. THE MOTHER: Hold tray is you kind. So. Thanks. That here is my dinner comprehends you. Lindhorst, who knows the world, claims that ancient harlot may one sickly need to satisfy the mouth and stomach. Want you indeed not have something? JOHAN: Would there not turn fest at night? I was an invitation. MODERN: Not as far I know. No, no, go not. So help me off cum the socks are you kind. You think not about to touch unto me, that senses I clear. I understand you not. Veronica Vogler has seven come. See precise on my feet sahib artist. Have you seen younger and hotter foot arch! Look closely. See my heel! So smooth and delicious. The strong toes, cum such beautiful nails. Kiss my foot! That can you good do. So there and. Now were you kind. I will speak if for yours, where she is. Look in western the gallery. There was she at all fall for five minutes ago. The here wine is good. (Laughing.) If not looking till curator Smith, then bed it bring in till me. West gallery, a much far, low rum cum windows against the park. The night light floated over walls and family portraiture. There heard a weak tone by harpsichord. Baron von Merkens came slowly against him. He was entirely black-dressed cum his facial locution was mild. Johan excused himself, the point that he had taken failure at today. The baron listened with lowered eyelids. After a moment's quiet them start he tells with just heard pipe.

VON MERKENS: You are always palatable dear friend. You-all come, you-all stall, you-all go, you have your complete freedom. Let us for moreover speaking openly. You have brought for to search Veronica Vogler. I should perhaps name for you - within you meet her - that Mrs. Veronica was my mistress late many years. Man has been probably kind to with detail share for me about your common past. I can assure you, how self suffers. I'm standing tonight by your bed. Every word, every kiss, every movement of era bodies. [sic] Nothing will that spared me.Johan left him and hurried below at the way, where the harpsichord tones it heard. Von Merkens shouted something. He turned himself again. The baron had risen upward to some roof and stood like a fly with some head down, without to this thought inconvenience him it entire slightest. He took some hurry pas but stopped at the crystal crown, finger on its prisms, which jingled slightly. In a small cabinet inside the gallery found itself the baroness together with an old lady, whom Johan very well felt again. Her bar one red silk dress and a large hat with see brim, as shadowed a ravaged remarkable face. At the harpsichord sat a humpbacked little gentleman, extremely elegant clad. Mrs. Wolf hour 49 von Merkens introduced him as conductor Kreisler. She forced him to sit beside her on the sofa. The conductor began playing(,)[;] he was undoubtedly a master.

THE OLD DAME: Ah[,] this music! Self thinks, how I must take off my hat for that hear better. A master of his instrument. And a woman's man of god's grace, could you imagine yourself it. Over long-legged women - like the Baroness.

MRS. VON MERKENS: Now to you go. Veronica Vogler has waited long enough. I can tell if for is, that she joined be ready herself for your visitors already early in morse. [joyous & formal with strong intensity?] She bad me about council concerning clothing, she washed hair cum it made the curator furious, by to detain their together bathroom for hours - She has become even prettier - Well see yourself. (Sadness.) And my man suffers. His jealousy – (Laughing low.) And your little moving companion! (Low.) Three shots, one of matter fatal.He stared past Mrs. von Merkens at the old dame. She was just in travel about to take off her hat. Conductor Kreisler stopped playing and turned their protruding dark eyes toward some ceiling. Mrs. von Merkens brought up a scented handkerchief and pushed it to the mouth. Then the old dame picked from the hairpins, lifted it off the hat, face loosened cum followed with the hat brim. She plucked carefully out the eyes and placed everything together on some board beside the hair. Then sat she her till correct in the chair. Conductor Kreisler started a Partita of Bach. Mrs. von Merkens leaned herself forward against me and whispered:

MRS. VON MERKENS: The smell indeed glue, fast she claims that all is synthetic. But the usual bond glue smells it - myself fooling she isn't.Archivist Lindhorst came against him with quick steps, the spawning, slightly puzzling face list with a cheerful smile.

LINDHORST: I knew that you would come till last. We can our wiles don't sincerely? Have regard, if we are presentable. Veronica Vogler is a demanding woman, the vet you why. How pale you are. Dear friend! So you look out! Era lips are you blue like with blueberries. It must us help up. A beautiful love arch and a sensual swelling underlip are most stimulating. Your eyes are bloodshot and swollen. Here, bathe the eyes! And then draw us a pair line in the eye's corner. A shadow on the eyelid. Not! Refusal we should not overdo. Yet lite healthier color on the face can not hurt. So! Now see you correct well-kept out! Here may you borrow my robe. It clothes you. Or wait! A beautiful pajama belongs till at such seances. One god scent! Not! You prefer to smell from you itself. Course. Where and one it's own weathering. The short puff fragrance in any fall. I knew it! And then slippers. Please. Now are you is yourself and yet not your yourself. The ideal condition space the love meeting. Here is her door.Lindhorst hit him lightly on the axis. When he lifted the arm, did very wings tumor out of his shoulders cum below the trouser legs glimpsed powerful, black claws and a brace nun-bird bones. He flapped thunderous cum wings and lifted from the floor, flew a blow through room cum sailed out through the open balcony door. Time on aisle trumpeted it like a pheasant. Johan banged on the door, but none answered. Then steps he in. The space was some large, only completely without furniture. Middle of the floor stood one par bucks. Over these bucks lay some planks. On this primitive stretcher rested a body enveloped in a sheet. He stood some moments at the door, very confused.Then driven it by an irresistible lust up till the stretcher, lifted on the sheet cum exposed Veronica's face. Her greatly pallid lips were easily separated cum an even white tooth-row glittered inside the soft rounding. The mist hair was the comb in a simple hairstyle cum on her tiny well-formed ears sat the par narrow gold rings. He pulled out the sheet from her body. He lifted the hand and touched unto her forehead, its cheeks, her neck, chin, shoulders. Its breasts, the hips rounding, the sex's hair tufts, the long high-powered thighs. Where slog her arms about his neck and kissed him laughing, sat herself up with legs in separate. She leaned herself over him cum it kissed her breasts. She took his head between their hands and kissed his mouth. Then overheard he suffocated giggling laughter. He detected, to the other had arrived in at some space. For the weak light saw them outward as upper-case insects cum black shade eyes and dark shimmering limbs. They seemed grave and expectant. Some laughter that entire time heard came from any invisible creatures, who perhaps held till under the vaulted ceiling.

JOHAN (voice): Then is the limit finally exceeded. The mirror shattered, but what reflects the shards? The void has finally blasted the drum shell and meets - the vacuum? In then fall. Which one triumph for the void.

18

Some house. Behind noon as of the film's beginning. Alma sitter of some board and see off the visitor.

ALMA: Yeah, he shot three shots. One of them ripped up a wound in the arm. I hast still a little scar. I fell over in clean consternation and thought how it was best to lie still. He came right against me and whispered: Alma, Alma. He thought well(,) that he had shot dead me. I heard how he went forth and back and around some house. Then started he a running deleted at the path I rose upward and went in, washed of myself blood and sat on one plaster, then hid I'm a pistol and put me to wait. He was gone for some minutes. Then came it running. Self hid me for security's skull. He looked right crazy outside then. Joined around in the cottage and spoke for it yourself. So carry him out a diary and started writing. He wrote for several hours. Forward in the forensic packed him your shoulder bag and set himself off down the woods.I thought, to I must follow after him. He could probably make himself ill.

Then told Alma the following story, which I for searching reproduce as correctly as possible.

[rahorak]

WHAT COLOR IS YOUR SOULMARK?

The color you fit most is Red!

People with red soul colors are usually cheerful and active. They are optimistic and turn negative situations into a positive one. They are dreamers and visionaries, ready to aim high and achieve great things.

One thing this color is never short of is attention. Whether they’re actively seeking it out or getting it unknowingly, this color basks in the positive praise of others. Their charismatic and high energy personality draws people to them.

Often competitive, this color is always trying to outdo themselves. Perfection is a never ending goal, and they will constantly feel like they’re never doing enough. They’re always looking for new and exciting, often overlooking things that are a constant in their life and taking them for granted.

One thing that’s notable about this color is their explosive temper. Because they feel so deeply in what they do, they will often lash out when feeling threatened. They have a knack for saying things they don’t necessarily mean. However, it’s often short lived, as is their attention, and they will most likely forget about what angered them in the first place.​

#⊰ ` i. study: sheet / / we are the children of the sun. ´ ⊱ #stolen from @buntsuko #steal it from me if you want!

[ddarker-dreams]

Merci. Yan Kamisato Ayato x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, manipulation and minor character death. Word count: 5k.

“I can see them, you know. The ripples of your beating heart within this realm of still waters.”

i.

It’s natural, when in a position such as yours, to wonder where everything went wrong.

Was it the instance you were brought into this world, your mother holding you to her chest before sighing her final breath? When the servants covered your childhood home’s furniture in white sheets, your suitcase snapping shut, reverberating alongside your father’s promise for a better future in a land far away?

Or could it be traced back to that day?

ii.

“We’re almost there, ma colombe,” your father hums. “Do you think you can hold on a while longer? Or should we take a break?”

“I’m not a child anymore, papa. I’m perfectly capable of walking until we reach our destination.”

“Not a child anymore, huh… you wound this old man’s heart. You children always want to grow up until you actually have to. Ah, that expression! Something tells me if I were to kick the bucket right now, you’d step right over me.”

The suggestion, though teasing, earns an indignant huff from you. Of course you would do no such thing. He was all you had back home, and now that you’re in a foreign land, the sentiment doubled. You never could’ve imagined how different Inazuma would be. Your governess went over books with you to prepare for the move, but the inked pages from dusty libraries couldn’t do the nation justice. Roaring thunderstorms, vast landscapes dotted with people wearing beautiful, flowing clothes, and those great pink trees whose blushing petals reminded you of cotton candy.

Your father pulls out his pocket watch then frowns. The golden case gleams in the midday sun and the hands tick loud enough to be heard over the thrum of cicada wings. You note your family’s crest embedded into the back — a dove with an olive branch inside its beak. This pocket watch was to belong to you one day, your father had explained. A fine piece of Fontaine craftsmanship passed down from one noble generation to the next.

You never liked the thought of owning it. For if it were in your possession, that would require your father’s passing.

Papa won’t ever die, you decide. I won’t permit it.

“I’m afraid we’ll be late to our meeting with Monsieur Kamisato.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look and he chuckles nervously.

“I know, I know, you don’t even have to say anything. Ahem. Kamisato-sama, correct?”

“Goodness, we are doomed,” you sigh. “Whatever shall our generous investors think, should we fail the most basic decorum of addressing them properly?”

Your father doesn’t appear bothered by the concept, for he smiles, a prideful gleam in his eye. “That’s why I have you to smooth over my blunders. You’ve made great strides in studying the Inazuman tongue, have you not? Tell me — what is it that Kamisato means again?”

Your governess' teachings stir within your mind, like a stone sinking into a pond’s sediment, minerals wafting about in the once still water.

“Kamisato… there’s kami, as in a god or deity, so that would mean… god’s village, I believe.”

The both of you ascend a slope. Tall walls and the curved roofs common in Inazuman architecture come into sight, paired with guards who wore purple armor. This must be it, you think. The Kamisato Estate. The building itself is smaller than your old house back in the Fontaine countryside, though the grand courtyard makes up for it aplenty. It’s placed in such a way to overlook the sea and sunrise to the east, while being able to admire Mt. Yogou, which lies in the west.

Your fingers tighten around your suitcase's handle. This is to be your home for the foreseeable future. Or until you get a better financial foothold, at least.

Your father must have connected the dots as well. Kamisato Estate is both the end and beginning of your journey. He takes a deep breath, mutters a prayer beneath his breath, then leans down, whispering,

“That’s them, right?”

He must be referring to the three individuals who stood by the estate’s entrance. An older gentleman, the Kamisato Clan’s patriarch, then his two children. The girl has snow-white hair and posture so perfect, you’re certain your governess would’ve told you to take notes. A boy, who is nearing his father in height, notices your presence first and gives a closed-mouth smile.

Not one to forget your manners, you return the acknowledgment. He appraises you for a brief moment, then whispers something into his father’s ear.

Your father caught the interaction and nods, stroking his graying beard. “Already caught an admirer, have we, ma colombe?”

“You mistake admiration for politeness.”

He ignores your irate response, much to your displeasure.

“Regardless, I do hope you get along with little Ayato and Ayaka. I think it’d do you some good to interact with children your age rather than a stuffy old man like myself. Go out there and make some friends.”

The group of three walk to meet you halfway before you can offer him a rebuttal. Introductions are exchanged, pleasantries waded through, a translator under the Kamisato Clan aiding in the process. It’s strange to hear your father referred to as Baron Maurice from the translator’s lips. How long has it been since anyone back home called him that title? A time where the family’s coffers were filled to the brim rather than desolate as a desert, you suppose. The nobility in Fontaine had all but forsaken your family. You won’t permit yourself to forget such a slight.

When one of your father’s advisors proposed marrying you off to alleviate the mounting debt, he refused with a revulsion you hadn’t ever heard in his voice until then or since. He would sooner allow himself to rot in the debtor’s prison than hand you off to the highest bidder. It mattered not when you tried to convince him otherwise. With a weary smile, he’d tell you to be patient, that an opportunity would present itself eventually.

That opportunity came in the form of the Kamisato Clan, the only group willing to invest in your father’s ideas.

“I liked that thing you did,��� Ayaka tells you, her voice gentle. “What is it called?”

She bends her knees then lowers her head to demonstrate what she meant. Both of your fathers were off to speak of business, leaving his two children to entertain you for the time being. With some difficulty, you were able to understand them, so long as they didn’t speak in a complex manner. Having them understand you was another feat entirely. The Inazuman language still felt heavy on your tongue, despite your best efforts. Hence why you’ve avoided speaking more than necessary.

How should you explain this terminology best…? Caught up in this worry, the young Kamisato Ayato steps in, graceful as a swan floating along a river.

“I believe it’s called a curtsy,” he looks to you for confirmation. When you nod, a tad flushed, he smiles. “You should be more confident, madame. You speak the language well.”

“You’re too kind.”

Something akin to a chuckle leaves his lips.

“Only as much as I should be.”

He was able to guess what was troubling you with such ease. His intuition and ability to gently control a room was commendable, a compliment your father later said the young lord should take great pride in. You were never overly zealous in handing out praise. Respect was earned, sustained in the same way one would care for a delicate flower, lest it dry up and wilt away.

That night, there was a present waiting atop your futon.

A finely made glass capsule containing perfume. You spritz it in the air, floral and aquatic accords delighting your senses. There’s an underlying note that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. An ingredient native to Inazuma, perhaps?

Next to where you found your gift is a letter, written in your native tongue in neat penmanship.

Welcome to your new home, Baroness.

Sincerely, Kamisato Ayato

iii.

The oldest sibling often found ways to enter your company.

Wherever you went, he trailed not far behind; a fact your father used to reinforce his initial assertion about having an admirer. You didn’t mind having him for a companion. He could read your mood as if you were an open book, always responding accordingly. If he felt you were in the mood to talk, he would allow you to lead the topic, overlooking any blunders you made like they never existed. If he noticed you were restless, he’d take you on walks through the enchanting Chinju Forest, offering his hand whenever the terrain grew harsh. If you didn’t look hospitable to conversation, he’d sit elsewhere in the room, contenting himself with reading a book.

Or, there were moments like now. Where you didn’t have a preference either way.

Inazuma’s skyline has been a particular fascination of yours since you arrived. The cool, dramatic hues painting the sky were drastically different from what you saw back home. It frightened you at first. The opposing storm brewing over Seirai Island and the silhouette of the thousand-armed, hundred-eyed god, that seemed to be visible from almost every vantage point.

Those concerns didn’t rear their head tonight. Not when there wasn’t a cloud overhead, stars sparkling bright enough to rival the purest jewel, night enveloping you with intimacy daytime could only hope to rival.

You and Ayato have occupied yourselves on his home’s engawa while admiring the scenery above.

A deep, wistful sigh leaves your person.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

It’s little more than a simple musing to fill the silence. Nothing more, nothing less.

However, the young Ayato doesn’t respond like you’d come to expect. Curious, you turn to stare at your companion, finding his cheeks redder than the dendrobiums taken root in the bloodiest battlefields. His lips part, eyes shining with a certain enchantment that’s lost on you. He then rips his gaze away, suddenly finding the ground far more interesting. How odd, you think.

Ayato clears his throat with a little more force than necessary.

“Ah, y-yes, indeed it is.”

iv.

Weeks bled into months, months into years, and years into adulthood.

Your constricting corset was traded in for an obi, your high heels became geta, and the ribbons in your hair, kanzashi. While you never found the riches that defined your early youth, your father saw to it that you’d live a comfortable lifestyle. His business dealings with the Kamisato proved lucrative enough to rid the worst of the debt.

Today, you were supposed to catch up with Ayaka over tea, when an emergency that required her attention pulled her away. She gave her sincerest apologies and promised it wouldn’t take long. In the meantime, you were free to roam the grounds, an offer you quickly accepted.

The Kamisato Estate’s courtyard had become a familiar scene.

Your favorite hydrangeas had begun their curtain call for the year, autumn chasing out summer with fervor. The garden’s shishi-odoshi hits the rock beneath it, the sound of hollow bamboo and trickling water a familiar staple. Discarded shinai nestled in the bright green grass beneath your feet and catch your attention. You’d see Ayato and Ayaka practice with the weapon many times throughout your tenure.

Curious, you bend down, taking it in hands that’d never experienced combat before.

You close your eyes and envision the basic stance the siblings always started out with. Chūdan-no-kamae, you think it was called. You plant your feet against the ground and lift the shinai straight up, making minor adjustments along the way. You’re so inundated with your thoughts that you fail to notice a shadow consuming your person from behind.

“You’re grasping the hilt too tight,” a voice announces.

The squeak you let out has got to be the most undignified sound you’ve ever produced. You prepare to lecture whoever snuck up on a lady to give their unwanted opinion, then think better of it upon realizing just who stands before you. Kamisato Ayato — the new head of the Kamisato Clan following his father’s passing — stares at you with barely concealed amusement. He couldn’t have caught you at a worse time. Now he’ll have a field day messing around with you! Oh, the humanity…

That doesn’t mean you’ll grant him an easy opening. You do your best to hide your mortification.

“Not all of us are expert swordsmen, myself especially. Please forgive me for touching your things.”

He waves off your apology.

“There’s nothing to forgive. What’s mine is yours.”

Your façade of propriety threatens to crack at the teasing lilt in his tone. If there weren’t guards lurking somewhere in the distance, it would’ve been awfully tempting to try hitting him on the head with your newfound weapon. Lightly, of course. Something tells you he would allow it.

“For such a busy man, you seem perfectly content to take a stroll in the gardens rather than attending to your pressing duties.”

“You’re mistaken, [First]. This is pressing,” he reassures, circling around you like a hawk cornering its prey. You gulp upon feeling his chest ghost near your back. “My favorite Baroness making a visit requires my utmost attention.”

Always the charmer, you think. It takes all your strength not to roll your eyes. Baroness this, Baroness that. No one in Inazuma aside from him referred to you as such. Aside from your father on the rare occasion you got into a heated debate. You’ve never understood the exact reason for Ayato doing this, though you have some theories. The most predominant one being his penchant for subtly toying around with others.

“If you’re looking for someone to torment, try Thoma.”

He ignores this particular comment in favor of fixing your admittedly awkward stance. His larger hands eclipse yours, gloved palms settling themselves over your bare skin. You pray to every Archon out there that no one will happen upon this borderline scandalous scene. It would be easy enough to maneuver away from him, but you’re frozen, standing still as a statue.

His fingers meet yours, loosening your vise-like grip like an artisan pulling wicker from their basket. You find that it’s as he said. It does feel more comfortable in your grasp now, not that you imagine you’ll ever need to wield a sword well. Ayato hums, approving of the change. You expect him to pull away, having accomplished what he set out to do, but he lingers a while longer. He dips his head near your neck, then inhales.

“Still wearing the perfume I got you?”

Your body goes taut, yet you manage to squeeze words out. “W-well, it’d be a waste not to. You do send me a fresh bottle every month.”

After what feels like an eternity, he grants you personal space, entering your line of vision once more. The skin beneath his eyes crinkles in delight. You suddenly wish Ayaka was present, she’d come to your defense and shoo him off for bothering you like she did every time before. It hits you then that you’re completely alone with the young master. The escort that typically accompanies him is nowhere to be seen, and the servants buzzing about the courtyard aren’t present either. Did he send them off on purpose? You wouldn’t put it past him.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he says.

“You wish that was enough to embarrass me.”

“I do, yes,” Ayato agrees. He then sidesteps your halfhearted attempt to jab his shoulder. “Hm, I must say, that was not very ladylike.”

While he isn’t wrong, it’s not like you want to hear that from him. You know he derives pleasure from riling you up — that’s how it’s been for as long as you’ve known him. You decide against giving him any further reactions that might feed the fire, and cross your arms over your chest. To your surprise, he leaves the conversation there, rather than pressing his advantage. Strange, you think.

Taking in his appearance, you detect some details that were missed in the flurry of your sudden interaction. The bags under his eyes and the slight hollowness of his cheeks make you frown. Well, you were intending to lecture him, now you have a different reason for doing so.

“You’re not taking good enough care of yourself,” you point out. “Are you refusing to delegate your work again?”

Ayato laughs, the sound weaker than normal. He really is overdoing it.

“Ah, I’ve been caught. Well… it is a busy season. There’s a lot I must see to personally. I’m sure your father could relate.”

Your shoulders droop. “That he can. Honestly, what is it with men and working themselves into a premature grave? Quit refusing to rely on others. You have Ayaka, Thoma, and well, you have… me. If you ever need anything, you need only ask.”

His eyes change from a docile, trickling stream, to the rush of the ocean’s tide at your sheepish admission. When he fails to respond, you clear your throat, your cheeks burning. Why is he looking at you like that?

“Got that? I’m not going to say it again if you said you didn’t, by the way. Take that into account before feigning ignorance.”

Just like that, he remembers himself. His countenance shifts into something recognizable and you find yourself able to breathe easily again.

“You really do know me so well,” Ayato muses. Then, his eyelids flutter shut, as if contemplating. “Very well, Baroness. I’ll be sure to take you up on your offer should it ever be necessary.”

“As you should.”

He bids you adieu not long after that, walking with long and purposeful strides back into the house. You find yourself unable to relax the rest of the evening. An open confession of his dug itself into your side like a thorn, though you fear acknowledging its existence too much to try removing it.

His favorite Baroness. That bizarre expression and deafening silence after you said he had you to rely on. There’s no way he’s actually in… no, that can’t be the case. You refuse to entertain the thought for a moment longer. It’s good-natured teasing and nothing else. He’s this way with everyone within his inner circle. This is what you decide to accept.

Otherwise, the alternative would be far too cruel. More so for you, or for him, you couldn’t say.

v.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I offered my assistance.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“Not yet, at least.”

It’s a classic scene, depicted in paintings lining the halls of homes in Fontaine, noble and common folk alike. Ayato has taken you into a closed hold, your face but mere inches apart, giving you a perfect view of his crystalline eyes and the mole beneath his lips. You’ve practiced ballroom dancing more times than you could count — in the past, that is. The intricate steps still remained embedded deep into your subconscious. Right foot back, left foot back, left foot forward… a rhythm such as this should be easy to settle into.

If your lead was any other man.

“This will be of great help,” Ayato reassures you for the umpteenth time. You nod to save yourself from the usual spiel. Something about entertaining foreign relations on Inazuma’s behalf, if memory serves. It’s perfectly logical to want and practice the waltz if that’s the case. Yes, perfectly logical, but why with you?

Maintaining eye contact became an increasingly difficult struggle as the minutes slumped onward. It doesn’t help that the room is shrouded in unusual silence, neither of you uttering more than what’s necessary. Ayato always has so much to say, for better or for worse. So why is he holding his tongue now? You wish he’d say something, anything, rather than gazing down at you through light eyelashes.

Your stomach churns in on itself.

“Ayato, y-your hand, it’s too low.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It is?”

“Yes, it is, your hand should be on your partner’s left shoulder,” you stop the dance and wait for him to make the necessary adjustment. His hand had begun to sneak downward, now nestling itself against your lower back. Ayato acts as if he’s considering your proposition for the briefest of seconds. You know it’s a ploy the moment his mouth twitches, as if hiding a smile. He’s having fun with this.

“I think I might prefer this hold,” his other hand comes to cup your face, the gloves he usually wore off for this practice session. Your breath hitches in your throat as he rubs your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “It’s almost like I can peer through your eyes and into your soul itself. Well… this is the closest I can get to that, at least. I’m sure it pales in comparison to actually doing so.”

He tilts your head upward, allowing himself to admire the unique curvature of your face, observing how the light falls upon your skin from every angle.

The thorn planted into your side is too deep to ignore any longer. Deep down, you think that you always knew. How he would sneak notes inside your pillowcase to meet him at night when you were younger, the gifts he’d bring back for you after returning from his travels, the way he’d dote on you at any given opportunity. Kamisato Ayato has always had a special place in his heart carved out for you. And you had one reserved for him, just not in the same way.

His lips descend upon yours like petals falling in a soft, spring breeze.

He’s gentle with you, kissing you so tenderly, his lips barely ghosting over yours. He tastes of the green tea you had shared before beginning your dance lessons. You hear nothing aside from your heart pounding away in your chest, as if it were a taiko played in the heat of a festival. Tufts of his hair tickle your face, silky in their texture, its scented notes finally registering in your otherwise petrified brain. Lotus. That’s what the ingredient in the perfume he gifted you was, and what you were smelling now.

It’s you who pulls away. Ayato remains ever composed while your chest rises and falls erratically, each breath not even close enough to regaining homeostasis in your off-kilter body.

“We can’t— I can’t—”

A finger presses against your lips and he shushes you.

“I know,” the heavy words are spoken lightly, “You’re going to say you don’t love me back, correct?”

That isn’t fair. You do love him, in the same way you love Ayaka, and the other friends you have made in Inazuma. Would telling him that add more oil to the fire? Saying nothing is worse, isn't it? You wish you could make up your mind. Indecisiveness doesn’t suit you. Nor does breaking the heart of a man you care for in what’s apparently the wrong way.

“I’m sorry.”

The utterance is so quiet, it’s a wonder he heard it.

Ayato presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, lips lingering for a moment, then steps back. Your limbs untangle and so does something else, though you couldn’t say what at the time. He doesn’t look upset, angry, or sorrowful. His expression betrays nothing of his inner thoughts. The seconds that follow feel like the calm before the storm, rather than the end of the tempest itself.  

What he says next is the last you heard of him for some time.

“So am I.”

vi.

In retrospect, there’s no way to identify the singular instance your life was set onto a path of hot coals and scorching flames.

You glance down at your father’s pocket watch — the hands ticking loudly as ever — feeling the various grooves and dents along the case you polish every day. He’s late. Fifteen minutes, to be exact, right on the dot. Irritation simmers beneath the surface, your blood threatening to rise to a boil. The longer you sit here, alone and waiting, the more convinced you become that this was personal. Ayaka once told you that it was a Kamisato tenet to never leave their guests waiting, no matter the circumstance.

Fingers drum against your side as you dismiss an offer to refill your tea for the second time. The household servants appear nervous, like scurrying mice, gratefully taking the chance to leave the second the opportunity presented itself. Perhaps you would do the same if you could see a reflection of yourself, but you’ve made it a point to avoid mirrors following your father’s passing.

You saw too much of him in what stared back at you.

The sliding door opens, revealing the man you came seeking out like a bloodhound picking up on a scent.

“I’m sorry for your l—”

You sharply put up a hand to cut him off.

Ayato says something to the guards outside and they leave. He slides the door shut, then sits on the floor, his eyes never leaving your rigid form. You assume his silence is an opening for you to air your many grievances. Ever since you received word of his latest design, you envisioned this moment, how you would bare your fingers before ripping into him. Reality has a way of warping fantasies.

You procure the damning letter from your obi and show it to him, watching carefully for any change in his expression or body language to signify confusion. There is none.

“Please tell me you aren’t serious,” your fingers crinkle the parchment from how harshly you grasp it, “This has got to be another one of your jokes in poor taste.”

No sooner than a few hours following your father’s funeral had you received a letter sealed with the Kamisato Clan’s lotus emblem. The contents went into great detail of various business procedures that would change your family’s prior agreements. Namely, the Kamisato Clan would no longer offer the slightest financial support.

“Everything is just as I wrote, there’s nothing out of order.”

“Why?” You ask the question that’s been held hostage on the tip of your tongue, “Don’t think I’m ignorant to the numbers. My father allows me— he allowed me to oversee his business’ profits for years now, so I’d be ready to inherit it myself. This will be a loss for you.”

Ayato doesn’t hesitate in his response, spoken without a hint of venom despite the insidious implications. “It will be far more of a loss for you, however.”

You grit your teeth. “I thank you for your generous insight. My original question bears repeating: why? What are you playing at?”

He lifts the yunomi that was set out for him to his lips then drinks. The leisurely act and borderline apathetic air serve to incense you further — it’s a miracle you’ve stopped yourself from lunging at him. Blind rage is preferable to the alternative, you conclude. The visceral reaction to being wronged takes up so much space that it leaves room for nothing else. Grief, confusion, betrayal. Whenever you stop to consider things, those pesky emotions creep up on you. So you revel in your rage, using it as both a sword and shield.

Ayato places the yunomi back down as if he had all the time in the world.

“Did you read the letter in its entirety?”

“I did, yes.”

“Then you should note it isn’t final.”

“It might as well be!”

If he’s rattled by your outburst, he doesn’t show it.

“I said I was open to negotiations,” Ayato tapes the part of the letter that says this twice. “So negotiate, Baroness. Let’s hear it.”

Suddenly, memories of your initial meeting come flooding back. He warned you of his true nature years upon years ago — the shadow that results from light. Ayato told you he was only as kind as he needed to be. You were foolishly mistaken to believe this change was abrupt, out of character compared to the man you’d grown up alongside. The only thing scarier than change is the idea it was this way all along.

“What do you want, then?” Exasperation seeps into your tone. “A larger cut of the profits? Cutting back on initial expenses?”

There was an ideal equilibrium to be found in how your father ran his company. It’s why the Kamisato Estate continued to invest after the initial trial period that had you both moving to Inazuma in the first place, why you thought this agreement would have no reason to change aside from minor adjustments. Ayato took that notion and crumpled it up.

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid that is of no interest to me.”

“What is?”

The corners of his lips quirk. “You’re a smart girl. I’m confident you’ll figure that out yourself.”

A single possibility remains, one that you had taken care to hide behind doors locked with chains.

“It’s… me, isn’t it?”

“Your father was never open to the idea of joining our families in a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Ayato reveals, his voice soft and steady. The molten lava running within your veins turns to ice — how long had he been trying for this? “I was hoping you would have a different view on the matter.”

The pocket watch on your person feels heavy, as if it were replaced with an anchor following Ayato’s words. Up until the bitter end, your father refused to sell you out, his cherished colombe. You wonder how many times he sat where you do now, holding his ground through Ayato’s varied onslaughts, rejecting riches and reputation alike. As a young girl, you couldn’t comprehend what it was you offered when you pleaded to follow through with his advisor’s schemes. It didn’t make sense to you why he would get so worked up over what seemed like the best, if not the only solution.

You weren’t that naïve little girl anymore.

And you no longer had him to hide behind.

“What comes next?” You barely recognize this voice as your own, but assume from his response, it was verbalized and not just an unspoken thought.

Ayato brushes his hand over yours, his eyes soft with revolting sympathy, and his words worse still.

“Exactly what you told me,” he says. “If you ever need anything, you need only ask.”

#kamisato ayato x reader #ayato kamisato x reader #yandere kamisato ayato x reader #yandere ayato kamisato x reader #ayato x reader #yandere ayato x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #my stuff

[calder]

ive started making a little modular load screen lore text mod bc im sure that’s something i can finish

it’s mostly ominous misquotes and extrapolated lore. and goofs. lmk if this does something for you

[BASE] █_Mama tried. █_Maybe you could have stopped all this by voting. █_Deathclaws were genetically engineered with the chameleon's trademark invisibility in mind, but natural selection quickly discarded this trait in favor of sheer size and mobility. █_Handy settlers occasionally adorn overpasses with windmills of canvas or sheet metal, usually to harness a small amount of mechanical power, or as an instrument of public execution. █_At the dawn of WWII, Europe stood in awe of the Nazis’ capacity for industry. In reality, the German populace was hooked on candied meth, sold as "pilot's chocolate". Later empires refined this strategy by switching to a more sustainable amphetamine and a less craveable candy. █_The Twin Mothers was a tribe of chemists and engineers who exalted womankind and Mother Earth through their works, devising many new medicines from postwar plants. They were all killed by the Legion. █_Most wastelanders are traumatized by the shrieks of the dying. Others are more well-adjusted. █_To rebuild America is to rebuild its problems. █_In Mexico, radroaches are called "nukaracha". █_There are vaults that will never be opened. █_You never know when a ghoul might go feral. You never know when a dog might go feral. You never know when a substitute teacher might go feral. Don't be a dick. █_A warlike institution cannot comprehend or account for the existence of non-warlike peers. █_The Children of the Cathedral distribute hubflowers to their patients and onlookers. "Every petal is Peace," the adherent recites, "and the stem is Unity." █_During the Spring Solstice, Families of Atom gather to detonate nuclear devices in a solar revival ritual. Each clan must prove itself in His Eyes by striking a holy ember to save the Daylight. █_The Enclave built a field laboratory to study an unnatural monolithic strangler tree called Tanagra. Hysterical with fear, one scientist murdered the others and destroyed their research. The vines quickly buried whatever he might have missed. █_Brotherhood youths who come out as gay tend to find themselves assigned to the surface, a gentle banishment in the name of practical heteronormativity. Oddly, this policy has done little to shore up their birthrate. █_The moth cult have devised a subtle language of hums, buzzes, and palatal clicks to commune with their benefactor. █_Nothing lasts forever. █_And I feel fine. [VOICE OF ATOM] █_This is not a place of honor. █_This is not heaven. █_Visit woe upon the heretic dark-dweller, who groweth marbled and dim wherein is no water of the glow. █_Sharp knife send him to deep temple. █_Revel in yon ignorance while you may. █_You could have stopped it. █_Those who perish in the glow are saved. █_Do not fear what you are becoming. █_The night has eyes. █_Watch the skies. █_Keep your eyes down when you pass that ravine. █_He's lying. █_She's lying. █_You can go home. █_Don't turn around. █_DON'T TURN AROUND. █_They're all against you. █_Liar. █_This has happened before. █_Sing out loud and fill the air with holy hymns and boughs. █_Go back to your hole. █_Coward. █_Why are you here? █_We're all murderers here. What kind of murderer are you? █_Only through the light of the glow can yon wretches be rightly Welcomed Home. █_Atom loves you. █_The Holy Flame is the Unity of all peoples in the Light of Eternal Detonation. █_We put the sun in a jar, and what did we do with it? We broke it all over our gentle little world. █_Close your eyes. Do you see it? █_Give it back. █_I been waiting. █_We been waiting. █_Can you recall the first time you saw this place? █_There is only one with whom the sun resides at night. █_The danger is present in your time as it was in ours. █_The danger is here and below us. █_It will rain for forty nights and nobody will notice. █_Life is old here. Older than the trees. █_Hungry like the mountain. Glowing like the breeze. █_Whispered words impress upon walls like rainwater down the rock. █_Spare yon heretics the sorrow of heat-death. Aim true and bright. █_And each of us has a story coming. █_Your story will be told in front of everyone. █_The devil barely exists and you are nothing. █_Everything is fine. █_I don't care. I don't care. █_Don’t open it. █_Welcome home.  █_[scripture]--Division according to Richter █_--Division 1: 1 In the beginning Atom created the first division of light from darkness[1], and the name of the first is Fission[2][3] 2 It is that which compassath the whole kingdom of Atom, wherein there is the glow[4][5] █_Division 1: 3 And the stars cast His glow upon the firmament[6], and through it creatures were divided from the earth and made with eyes to perceive His glory[7][8] 4 And for a time the great division continued and created all manner of creature which tested themselves to be worthy[7] of Atom █_G'yeth. █_--He promised. He promised. He prom █_--It reverberated slightly as I turned it in different directions. I don't quite remember the experience, it’s like I dreamed it, but I know I was holding it, and turning it. █_--A rush of vapor flooded the room, opaque, thick, deliberate, and pleased. Before first aid could be administered, I was visited by shades, servants of our benefactor. I felt my flesh torn from my body by their hands, exalted, glorious. The effects withered quickly, and I found myself standing in the lab unharmed save for the inciting laceration. I want to do it again. █_--Punga understands me. I understand Punga. That is all it needs to be. [ICEBERG] █_The Wise Behemoth paces Eerie Canyon in wait of one who can receive her blessing without going mad. █_Beyond our solar system exists a nexus of peace and understanding, where enlightened civilizations from across time and space cohabitate in harmony. They are not coming. █_The Godfisher cult forbids dying underground, lest one's soul fail to find the sky. █_The Church of Los has been led by the undead priestess Sappho since her father Blake's demise at the hands of the Texas Brotherhood. █_A group of vault dwellers once encountered a talking deathclaw near Sanctuary. She claimed to be a distant relative of Goris, and a new mother. █_Brotherhood scribes have noted that certain mirelurks and postwar plants are flagrantly psykic, moreso than any recorded proto-human. █_Evolutionary biologists have suggested that "ghosts" are an adaptation that causes humans to sense and avoid places of death. Perhaps they are psychosomatic avatars of our intuitive dread, or a desperate omen produced by a panicked spark of expiring neurons. █_Somewhere in Arizona, The Coven of the Crow educate mutants from birth to be powerful ministers of the glow. █_The Midwestern brotherhood encountered what appeared to be an organic version of Vault-Boy in the wilderness. A promising recruit, Pip was ultimately left behind during a skirmish because he did not have knees. █_There exists a root which grows up into the flesh of sleeping creatures, infesting their minds with its primordial will. █_When The Master first encountered the Church of Unity, he found them already worshipping a god of darkness and war. That early postwar society left no mark on history, traceable only trough the cultures in their orbit who suddenly disappeared. █_A chronal parameter was left inverted at Vault 96's quantum research lab. None remain who know what this means. The computer is under protection of an order who endeavor to dismantle it safely. [WILD WASTELAND] █_Vault Boy is gay. █_Ae Kremvh altadoon. █_Who's laughing now? █_The Twin Mothers tribe were meant to be in several cancelled Fallout games before Ulysses finally invokes them as a dead culture at the end of FNV. █_You like putting Fishy Sticks in your mouth? █_Dogmeat has become Catholic. █_A Hegelian Dialectic is a paradigm in which a pragmatist conceptualizes his political arena as a metaphysical chess game and seeks to control both sides, then enslaves as many humans as possible before he dies of head cancer. █_You are being followed by a dog. It is that god damn bad luck dog. This can't be good. █_Talking deathclaws represent hope, and excising them is a gesture of profound cynicism. █_JE Sawyer literally went off and made his own Fallout with blackjack and hookers. █_76 canonizes usenet culture, furries, and kaomoji ^^ in the Fallout setting. █_And we'll do it our way! █_Invoking the Fallout Bible to invalidate someone else makes you look like a jackass, because you are, in that moment. █_Fallout: Revelation and HOI4 mod are better than real Fallout has ever been. █_The Minutemen don't have lore. █_Nuka Break sucks shit, but some of the performances are good. █_They made a series after Nuka Break that was even worse somehow. █_Fallout was created, directed, and programmed by a gay man. █_It's Atom and Greeb, not Atom and Steve. █_Fallout is for everyone. Except you specifically. It's weird when you do it. █_This was a bad experiment. We are bad people.

[jaeminlore]

Landslide | Mark Lee

summary: time makes you bolder. even children get older, and i’m getting older too.

words: 7.1k+

category: teacher!mark, single parent!reader, fem!presenting!reader, graham is the sweetest kid, mark is that teacher that lets kids pick earthworms during recess, friends to lovers, mark’s apartment is flooded so now he has to live in domestic bliss with his secret crush oh nooooo

warnings: talk of absent fathers

author note: it’s my birthday tomorrow so i wanted to give u all a present for supporting me for so long!! here’s to you <3 (cross-posted on /honklore)

Mark helps one of his kids press their palms onto the wall. When they release their palm, pink paint remains, making a sort of leaf to the tree branches painted onto the wall.

“Now write your name,” Mark advises another kid, whose orange paint had already dried.

“G-R-A-H-A-M,” the boy writes out with a large permanent marker. “Can I take a picture? For my mom?”

All the rest of the children begin to shout their agreements, also wanting to bring home a picture for their parents. Mark grabs his yellow Polaroid camera and takes a picture of each handprint.

He keeps all of the pictures in the chest pocket of his denim jacket. “Okay, guys— to the sink! Whoever has the cleanest hands gets to help me pass out snacks!”

“Why are we having snack time so early?” It’s Graham that asks, the little one always eager to be around Mark.

Mark ignores the boy’s paint covered hands poking at his clean jacket, and answers him as politely as he can. “Mr. Lee forgot his lesson plans today, so we’re going to watch a movie instead.”

“A movie?” Graham’s eyes widen.

“Yep,” Mark giggles. He crouches down to Graham’s level and whispers, “You wanna pick it?”

“Nature Nut!” Graham cheers almost immediately, causing Mark to wince.

Ah, yes, the wonderful little DVDs of a lonesome man teaching the watcher about bugs and weird types of slugs. Mark actually has the entire collection, and Graham happens to adore them just as much as Mark did when he was a kid.

“Alright, go wash your hands and I’ll get it started.”

It’s a little girl named Hana who cleans her hands the best, so she passes out organic fruit gummies to everyone while Mark puts in the DVD.

While they watch the video, Mark checks his text messages.

There’s one from Taeyong: “I’ve already got Haechan on the couch. Sorry, man. You can have the floor, but it’s not gonna be comfy :(“

Right. Mark forgot that Haechan lives in the same complex as him. His apartment is probably just as flooded as Mark’s is. Now if the landlord would just answer his calls and help him... maybe this situation wouldn’t be so stressful.

Mark didn’t forget his lesson plans; they’re just submerged in his bedroom with everything else Mark has left lying on his carpet. And maybe it’s his fault for not buying more storage bins, but a studio apartment can only hold so much stuff.

Serves Mark right for doing his lesson plans at home instead of at the school like most of his fellow kindergarten teachers.

He lets out a quiet sigh, careful not to disturb the children. He only has a short list of friends left to ask, and while he doesn’t think they’ll mind him asking, he really hates to put anyone in that position.

Besides, most of his friends have roommates or significant others and Mark doesn’t want to ruin their routine. He’d hate to intrude. And he could always sleep in his car for a few days, but the amount of stuff he had to pack because of the flooding has barred any chance of a good night’s sleep.

The video ends, and Mark gets the kids seated with coloring pages until their parents arrive.

One by one, he I.Ds the parents and tells the kids goodbye, helping them put on their coats and take home whatever library book they picked out earlier.

Finally, there’s only one kid left, and Mark is a bit embarrassed of his hyper-awareness to Graham. It’s not even his fault, really. Graham just has a beautiful mom, who happens to be Mark’s beautiful friend, and sometimes Mark gets eager to see you during pickup time.

Whatever. It’s no big deal.

The kindergartener already has his coat on. His curly brown hair is almost unruly as he continues to work on his coloring sheet.

Mark pulls at the hem of his sage sweater sleeves and wonders if his hair looks okay. Maybe he should invest in a little desk mirror; or maybe that’s vain.

“Hey, Mark! Sorry I’m late!” You rush in, holding on to your leather messenger bag. You fix your glasses before they fall off the bridge of your nose, and Mark is so focused on the movement that he almost forgets about your child.

Until said child is scolding his mother. “Mom! You have to call him Mr. Lee! It’s rude to call him Mark!”

“Your mom is an adult,” Mark reminds Graham (as soon as he finds his voice.) “Since she isn’t a student, it’s okay for her to call me Mark.”

Graham pinches his lips together, and then shrugs. “Fine. Mom, we watched Nature Nut today.” He runs up to you and wraps his arm around your middle. “Can we go to the park and look for slugs?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “But we need to get home soon, okay, Bud? I have to make dinner and then we have to clean up the mess we made last night.”

Graham turns to Mark and smiles naughtily, like the trickster he often is. “Mom said I could tear up her papers last night. She said it’s There-pee.”

“Ther-a-py,” you emphasize for the five-year-old.

Mark studies your face, and he can tell that you seem a little more stressed than usual. “Therapy, huh?”

You smile sheepishly. “Well, when your son catches you tearing up old love notes, you have to let him in on the fun, right?”

“You are a team,” Mark acknowledges. He wants to ask more; wants to dig into your heart and extract whatever is hurting you, but your son is standing between the two of you, waiting for him to say goodbye. Mark clears his throat and picks at his sweater again. “Anyways, uh, text me tonight? Let me know you two got home safe. And, I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You smile at him and then take Graham’s hand. “Thanks, Mark. I’ll text you.”

Mark spends the night at a motel down the road. He texts a few of his friends and hopes for good news in the morning, or at least a confirmation from his landlord.

When you text him, a little selfie of you and Graham, holding up what looks like microwaved s’mores, his heart grows fond, and he forgets about his own problems for a moment.

-

Life has never been very easy for you. From the get-go, you have always been destined to fail, growing up with an absent father and an overworked mother. With a dead-end dream like yours (writing, of all things), it’s no wonder you clung to what little breaths of freedom you had.

He was handsome and bold, with a carefree smile and brown eyes that mirrored the sun. The lead singer of a band, with a voice like chimes. And you fell just as hard as one of your many protagonists. Perhaps the mistake always lay in the fact that you put too much fantasy into reality. You have always romanticized the littlest things, and that comes back to bite you more often than not.

You never expected one: to get pregnant your senior year of high school, and two: have to go through it alone.

Of course, most people you come to love leave eventually. It’s something you have always remembered; something that sticks in the back of your brain like gum to the bottom of your child’s Spider-man skechers.

Graham is the only constant in your life. Though you’ve been blessed with a decent job editing for a webazine company, and you can work from home more often than not, Graham is the real thing that keeps you alive.

He’s the most precious boy, with brown curls and big brown eyes. He favors his father, and though that should deter you, it reminds you of innocent days, and it gives a new meaning to brown eyes. Graham is not his father, and he never was.

Graham certainly got his love of learning from you. Though he likes science more than writing, you adore how eager he is to always get to school. It helps that Mark is his teacher.

Mark’s been your friend since freshman year of highschool, when the two of you both took the same creative writing class the local university offered. Though the two of you had differing end goals, you often studied together and encouraged each other. He was there when you found out you were pregnant, and he was there when you found out you’d be raising your child alone.

Now life comes full circle, and you see him twice a day. You could go out on a limb and say he brightens up most mornings, but you would still give that slot to your son.

Mark is standing at the doorway now, greeting all of his students and helping them take off their book bags and coats. He’s wearing monochrome today: red pants, a red sweater, and red shoes.

Graham lights up almost immediately, and you are thankful today that you decided to dress Graham in his red t-shirt. “Mom! We match!”

“I know,” you grin, squeezing his hand.

Mark glances at Graham, and then you. His cheeks showcase that same pink hue they always do, and while it should clash with his red garments, it doesn’t. “Hey, Mark.”

“Hey,” he grins, cheeks full at the sight of you two.

Graham spreads his arms and waits for Mark to help him take off his jacket. “Do you see that we match, Mr. Lee?”

“Yo, that’s awesome, Little Man!” Mark gives Graham a fist bump that seems to appease him, and you wait for Graham to run to his friends before addressing Mark.

“How have you been?”

Mark sighs. He brushes his hair away from his eyes. “Okay. My- uh- my studio apartment flooded so I’m staying at a motel until my landlord can get me estimates on when I can come back home.”

“That sucks,” you frown. “You know, if you need a place to stay, I have a pullout couch in my office. And obviously, Graham wouldn’t mind.”

Mark pales. “Are you serious? I didn’t mean to suggest anything, Like I know you work from home and you need your office.”

“And you’ll be at school until three,” you say. “I’ll work then. C’mon, Mark. I don’t like knowing one of my friends has no place to stay.”

Mark bites his bottom lip and scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll drive over after I check out of the motel.”

“Great!” You smile. “I’ll order pizza.”

-

"Graham, clean your room," you say, struggling to push your desk against your office wall. "We're going to have a guest for a few weeks."

"Mom," Graham whines, "They aren't going to look in my room."

You begin to take the cushions out of the spare couch to start setting up the pull-out bed. "Mr. Lee is coming over, Graham.  Don't you want to show him your collections?"

Graham's brown eyes grow wide. "Mr. Lee? You didn't tell me he was coming!"

"He's going to be staying with us for a little bit, okay? So I need you to be on your best behavior."

“Can I show him my worms?” Graham asks, alluding to the compost bin in the small backyard of your townhouse.

“Yes,” you say, thankful that he isn’t putting up much of a fight toward cleaning. You’re also thankful he isn’t asking any questions, as Graham always seems to have a few at the top of his tongue.

Graham cleans up his room quickly. You know for a fact that he’s just shoved all of his toys under his bed, but it’s enough until the weekend, when you’ll have more time to help him organize.

The little guy hoards rocks like no one’s business. You curse the day Mark decided to teach the kids about geodes.

“Wanna help me make up Mr. Lee’s room?” You half-yell, while grabbing spare bedding out of your linen closet.

Graham’s little footsteps are heard before he answers, and soon he’s at your hip with a quick, “He can have my Frozen pillowcase!”

You hesitate to tell Graham that his Frozen pillowcase is currently on one of your pillows, and you can’t give your guest a dirty pillowcase. “That one is in the wash, Buddy. Why don’t we give him your Spider-Man one?”

“So he matches my pajamas!” Graham is easily pleased, and he even takes one of his stuffed bears to add to Mark’s made-up bed. (“So he doesn’t get scared at night.”)

By the time the pizza arrives, Mark is just behind, so you keep Graham busy with a slice of cheese and a glass of diet pepsi (only half of a can, and only because it’s a special occasion) while the two of you bring in Mark’s stuff.

He surprisingly didn’t bring much, and when you ask about it, he grimaces. “My studio is pretty small so a lot of my stuff was on the ground and got mildewed. Other stuff was in bins so I just left it there. I only need clothes and my lesson plans, anyway.”

“Well, here’s the desk and bed. It’s not much, but there’s a lock on the door in case Graham ever gets too inquisitive — bless him — and curtains so the stupidly bright sun won’t wake you too early.”

“Those both sound like personal experiences, Y/n,” Mark teases. He takes off his jacket and throws it on the bed. “Yo! Spider-Man?”

“Graham picked it out,” you say. “He also relinquished one of his bears to keep you safe in the middle of the night. His words, not mine.”

“He’s so cute,” Mark mentions offhandedly. The fondness in his tone takes you back a bit. Not because the phrase isn’t true, it’s just that most people find your son annoying before they find him endearing. The change of tone is nice.

“He is,” you say. “And he’s dying to show you his room after we eat dinner.”

Mark gives you that same lopsided smile he often had in high school. Part of your brain shifts to his personal life, and you wonder why Mark himself isn’t in a romantic relationship. Not that he has to be, but the both of you are getting older, and Mark has always been one to express a fondness for having his own family one day. Maybe he just hasn’t found the right person.

It isn’t until Graham is peacefully in bed — after a very chaotic reading of Goodnight Moon by yours truly, and an argument that Mr. Lee cannot, in fact, sleep in the same room as him — that you actually have a chance to show Mark around the house.

“Here’s the guest bathroom. Graham almost always uses the bathroom in my room because he likes looking at the big tub. He will beg you to play with him, but if you’re busy don’t feel guilty telling him no. He knows what no means and he’s good about playing by himself.”

Mark giggles. “Okay. I don’t mind playing with him, though.“

You show him around the kitchen, where you left little spaces for him in the pantry. You show him the garbage bags and the T.V. settings and the list of compostable ingredients. “And also, please come and go as you please. Like, I completely understand that you’re here temporarily and you aren’t a babysitter or anything like that. I don’t expect you to be in charge of Graham any time outside of school.”

Mark blinks. “But if you ever need time away, you can ask me. I don’t mind babysitting.”

“I know,” you smile. “But Graham is my kid. I don’t need time away from him.”

You’re lying. Mark knows it. You’ve been in this single parenting thing for five years and you aren’t about to reach out for help now.

“Anyways, if you have any questions just ring me or ask me,” you say. “I’ve got to get to bed. Goodnight.”

“Thanks, Y/n.”

-

Mark thinks it’s sweet the way Graham insists on making his own breakfast.

You’re already up when Mark gets out of his (temporary) bedroom with his clothes tucked under his arm. You’re busy arguing with Graham. “You can’t fry your own omelette for the last time.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at your exasperated face. You look stressed beyond belief, even though the day has just begun.

Mark tosses his clothes back in his room and walks into the kitchen. “Hey, Graham! Do you want to show me your rock collection?”

Graham spins on his sock-clad heels, eyes bright at the thought of seeing his teacher. “Mr. Lee! Yes! Let’s go!”

He grabs Mark’s hand with ease, leaving you room to finish making breakfast.

Graham’s room is fairly simple. The small wooden bed is covered in a green quilt, and beneath that, frozen-printed sheets that certainly don’t match. He has a tub of stuffed animals shoved against a small dresser.

Mark gets distracted by the framed picture on top of the dresser. It’s a picture of you and Graham’s father, a few months before you got pregnant. He’s smiling, and you’re holding up a peace sign. It makes Mark feel a bit sad, knowing that Graham’s dad never stayed around to see how wonderful he turned out to be. Then again, a lot of people in your life left as soon as they found out. In high school, no one wants to be friends with a teenage mother.

Mark reckons that if he had a family like this, he’d never take them for granted.

Graham pulls out a gemstone. It’s a murky green one that Mark has let him take home from class. “Do you remember this, Mr. Lee?”

Mark grins. “Yeah, bud. Thanks for keeping it so safe for me.”

Graham beams. He grabs Mark’s hand and pulls him towards his dresser. “Can we match? I want to look like you.”

Mark feels his heart swell. He wants to smother the young boy in affection, but he doesn’t want to cross a line. He’s your friend, sure, but he’s also Graham’s teacher. He can’t coddle Graham more than the other children. He already has a godchild to coddle. “I’m wearing yellow today. Do you have any yellow clothes?”

“Let’s look!” Graham yanks open one of the drawers and begins pulling out the articles of clothing one by one. “No, no, no... Here!” He finds a pair of yellow overalls, folded amongst the mess he made. “I’ll wear these!”

“Let’s clean up first, okay?” Mark grabs the overalls. “So it’s clean when you come home from school.”

Graham, looking like the last thing he’d ever want to do is disappoint Mark, begins to pick up each shirt with obvious intent. He tries to fold them, and does a somewhat decent job, so much so that Mark leaves it, thinking you’ll find it endearing rather than annoying.

He really loves that about you. He likes your patience with Graham. You’re so young, and in reality, he squashed so many early dreams of yours. No matter your lot in life, you never blamed your child. Mark thinks that’s why Graham is so open, so adaptable, so endearing.

He helps Graham get dressed and leaves him in his room so that he, himself, can get ready.

When he emerges from his shower, hair wet and clothed in yellow, he smells something amazing.

He doesn’t want to intrude on your morning with Graham. He already feels too indebted to you already.

“Have an omelet,” you say. Wisps of hair cover your face. You place a plate down in front of him.

Graham is already eating his omelet, slowly, while flipping through a picture book. He sounds out words he recognizes, but stays silent the rest of the time.

Mark takes out his phone and scrolls through his instagram feed just as your own phone begins to ring.

“Shit,” you curse, and then immediately apologize to Graham. You press the red button and tap anxiously on the tabletop.

“Everything okay?” Mark asks.

You run your hands over your hair and let them rest on the back of your neck. “Yeah is just—“

The phone rings again, and this time you pick it up. “What do you want? ... Why would you tell me that? ... Why should I care? ... Please stop contacting me, okay? Goodbye.”

You slam the phone down and leave the room. Mark watches you disappear down the hallway, sniffling.

“Mommy is upset,” Graham says. He looks at Mark, lip quivering. “At me?”

“No, Buddy! Of course not!” Mark reaches over the table to ruffle Graham’s curls. “Never at you.”

“When we tore up paper, she was crying.” Graham fiddles with his book page.

Mark wonders why your ex’s actions are being brought up five years later. Last he heard, you had fully healed from the breakup long before Graham’s first birthday. But now he’s about to be six, and you're suddenly upset?

He’ll have to ask you about it soon.

“Are you ready to go to school, Buddy?”

“Yeah!”

-

You cradle your face in your hands and try to ease the tears back in. You’ll never get this article proofread and sent if you can’t see the keys.

The door opens, and Graham runs in just in time for you to finish wiping your eyes. “Hey, kiddo! How was school?”

“Mr. Lee let us finger paint!” Graham holds up his palm, covered in dried paint, and grins brightly. “Can I have gogurt?”

“Yeah bud. Why don’t you put something on the T.V.? You can have your snack in the living room today.”

“Yes!” Graham takes blueberry gogurt out of the fridge and — after getting you to tear it open — runs into the living room. Sneakers and backpack still on.

Mark trails behind, clutching a messenger bag to his chest. “What’s going on?”

You sigh and close the laptop. The manuscript will have to wait. “Ben called. About a week ago. His girlfriend is pregnant. Called me to tell me he wasn’t going to leave her— like that would heal what he did to me. Then he called this morning to tell me they’re engaged.” You burst into tears then, and you feel so pathetic for doing this in front of your old schoolmate, that you hide your face behind your palms and allow your shoulders to shake. “Why weren’t we enough? Why wasn’t I enough?”

Mark scoots one of the chairs in front of you and sits, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Hey. Look at me.” With gentle hands, he grabs your wrists and pulls them away from your face. “It is not your fault he left.”

“But it has to be me in some way,” you retort. “He must not have loved me. Something, because now he’s going to raise her child after he left mine. Graham deserves a dad.”

Mark places his forehead against yours. The two of you used to do it all the time in school, mostly with immature giggles in the spaces between, but now it’s heavy with intention. “Graham has not felt even a little bit unloved in your care. You are all he needs, okay? You’re amazing.”

You nod, head still pressed to Mark’s. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry for getting too emotional, there.”

“Be as emotional as you want,” Mark says. “I’ll be here to balance you out.”

Your heart stutters at the words, like maybe they mean something more than he’s letting on. Of course it’s stupid to think Mark Lee would ever even consider you, but just the knowledge that he cares makes your soul feel a little lighter.

“I’m a mess,” you stutter, bringing your fist up to wipe at your nose.

“Nah,” Mark grins. He runs the pad of his thumb across your cheek and grins. “You’re alright.”

-

“It’s snowing!” Graham wakes Mark up by jumping on his chest.

Mark sucks in a breath, winded at the sudden weight, and grabs the boy, lifting him off of his chest and onto the mattress. “Hey, Buddy. Let’s not jump on sleeping people, okay?”

“Okay,” Graham says. He’s already lost interest in Mark, now crawling off of the bed to open the blinds. “Come look at the snow!”

“I see!” Mark rubs his tired eyes and checks his watch. “We might have a snow day, Graham.”

“Yes!” Graham pumps his fist into the air. “Let’s go tell mom!”

You’re sitting on your bed, chewing on a red licorice rope and flipping through a fashion magazine. You look up when Mark and Graham enter.

Mark likes seeing you like this: the domesticity of you in the morning, lazy and true. His chest sparks when he thinks this may be one of the only moments he can capture you like this, so he intends to commit the sight to memory.

“Did I hear snow day?” You grin at Mark, childlike wit in your own eyes — the same as your son’s.

“Looks like it.” Mark rolls up the sleeves of the sweater he slept in. “You want pancakes? I make some mean chocolate chip pancakes.”

You shift your gaze away from his arms and clear your throat. “Uh, yeah. Just let me get dressed and I’ll help—“

“No need,” Mark insists. “Enjoy your quiet time. Graham and I will make the most delicious pancakes you’ve ever tasted.”

“With lots of chocolate chips!” Graham shouts.

You give him a pointed look. “But not too many.”

Graham huffs. “But not too many,” he repeats.

-

Momentary splashes sound from your bathroom, followed by Graham screaming “It’s a dragon! Run for cover!”

Mark giggles from his place on the couch. He’s got mushroom-patterned socks on, and he’s tucked up into the cushions, nursing a can of Monster. “How does he still have so much energy?”

You sigh and pull your beanie down over your forehead. “You’d think a snow day would tire him out. Thanks for constantly carrying him up the hill, by the way. I know you’re a teacher, but sometimes I forget how good you are with kids.”

“I do have a godson,” Mark reminds you.

“But Mikey is a baby,” you say. You only know the baby’s name because of Mark’s constant snap stories about him.

“Most babies and kids want the same thing. Affection and attention.” Mark scoots over to the edge of the couch and pats the cushion.

You sit next to him. “I guess that’s true. You’re really good with Graham. He’s not this open to other adults.”

Mark is clearly blushing now; you can see his pink cheeks even in the light of the television. “He’s great in class, always helping the other kids.”

“He wants to impress you,” you say. You pop open a can of orange soda and take a sip. “He thinks you’re just the coolest guy.”

Mark laughs and shakes his head. “Didn’t you hear, Y/n? I’m handsome and cool.”

“Oh, of course,” you nudge his shin with our own sock-clad foot. “How could I forget? Mr. Ladies Man in high school.��

This makes Mark blush even harder, because he most certainly was not a ladies man in high school. In fact, he was a nerd in all senses of the word, part of the debate club with a few other boys. He had a few dates here and there, but nothing ever stuck.

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “My time is gonna come.”

“Hasn’t it already?” you ask before you can really process your own words. But of course he knows that he’s grown into his face, right?

Mark is positively handsome, eyes bright and lashes long. He’s so warm and comforting to you. He must be just as comforting to everyone else.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re handsome, Mark,” you say plainly.

“You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “Why would I lie?”

Mark opens his mouth, perhaps to call you out. To tell you you’ve been too honest, but he’s interrupted by your son.

“Mom! I’m ready to get out now!”

“I should go,” you say, still looking at his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. His sweater has small spots on the shoulders where snow has fallen and since melted. He shivers.

“You should take a shower. You’ll catch a cold.”

“Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

-

Haechan comes over the following Saturday night to hang out with Mark, and you’re surprised at how much he truly hasn’t changed since high school.

He’s still got infamously perfect eyebrows, and his voice is still high despite its blunt sarcasm. “Nice place.” He raises his brows as he looks around.

“Who are you?” Graham is sitting at the kitchen table, watching Minecraft playthroughs (kid-friendly ones you’ve watched through yourself) on your phone to entertain himself while you clean.

“I’m Haechan, Mark’s friend.”

“This is Mr. Lee’s friend from school,” you say, detailing your words so they’re easier for your son to digest.

Graham stares at him for a moment, not quite judging but not quite accepting either. “Okay. Do you want to see my rock collection?”

Haechan looks genuinely excited, and accepts before you can come up with an excuse for him. Graham tells Haechan to stay in the kitchen while he grabs all of his rocks.

“How have you been?” you ask the taller man. “Like, with the flooding and everything?”

“Well, I’m on a couch at Taeyong’s, which is good since he doesn’t charge rent. But that means I’m near Mikey, and that baby has some lungs.”

You laugh. “I remember when Graham was a baby. I was so young, and my mom told me it was my responsibility to wake up and take care of him whenever he cried in the middle of the night. I was so pissed at her for making me do that, but those were some of the best nights to bond with him.” You realize you’re rambling and shake your head. “Whatever. Baby screams are loud as hell.”

“You can say that again. I’ve been talking to my friend Johnny about taking his spare room and paying rent. I dunno how many more sleepless nights I can take.”

“Why would you need to pay rent if you’re just crashing?” You wipe down the kitchen table to keep yourself busy.

“Didn’t Mark tell you? Our landlord is in heaps of trouble because the pipes weren’t up to code and that’s why they busted. The damage is basically too expensive to fix, so we’ve got to find new places.”

You stop cleaning. “Mark didn’t tell me that.”

“Oh.” Haechan scratches his brow. “He probably didn’t want to worry you. He feels really bad that he’s stayed with you this long.”

“It’s only been a month or so,” you counter. “Besides, Mark’s a great housemate. He cleans and keeps Graham occupied. Plus, now I have someone to watch corny game shows with.”

Haechan grins. “Oh. Okay, I get it.”

“Get what?” Mark, finally out of the shower, steps into the kitchen and immediately tackles Haechan in an energized hug.

“Nothing!” Haechan’s voice cracks

You shoot Haechan a weird look, and change the subject. “Where are you guys going?”

“To play video games at Johnny’s.” Mark says, and the thrill in his voice makes you think of high school. Of the debate team bus rounding the corner. Of you standing there, waiting to congratulate him with a big hug and a frosty from Wendy’s.

You miss it. “Have fun, okay? I’m probably going to tuck in as soon as Graham does, so just let yourself in.”

“You’re leaving?” Graham comes in, and his arms are filled with smooth and rough stones and gems he’s both found by himself and bought at random general stores while traveling.

“Not before I see your rocks!” Haechan says with so much enthusiasm, you think he’s telling the truth.

Graham giggles and drops the rocks onto the ground. Of course, he wants your guest to sit on the floor and count rocks. You’re almost embarrassed.

“ ‘ Okay, Y/n?” Mark laughs at your expression. Then he places his arm on your shoulder, thumbs the skin of your upper arm.

And once again, it’s high school. It’s senior year graduation and Mark is the only one who congratulates you. It’s his comforting touch, him coming over in the middle of the night after you texted him a picture of your first sonogram. It’s that same comforting touch. That little “I’m here,” and it melts you on the inside, leaves you in the shell of an eighteen girl again. Scared, and worried, and a little less alone.

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m okay.”

-

The television plays Cartoon Network reruns on a low hum. Mark is curled up in a blanket, nursing a bottle of water and thinking over Haechan’s words.

You’ve liked her since high school, dude.

Which is a complete lie. Seriously, Mark didn’t have a crush on you in high school. He would know if he had a crush on his best friend. You’ve been his friend since freshman year, and that’s all you’ve ever been.

Now in college, it was different. In college, Mark was alone in a dorm with Taeyong, and you were one of the only people from high school he stayed in contact with. In college, he would bring you your favorite snacks and drinks, and other things you would forget to buy because you were a part-time student and a full-time mom. In college, you would pull all-nighters with him, working on your exams while Graham was asleep, then using energy drinks to get through the next day.

Mark even remembers the time your mom caught the three of you fast asleep on your rug, with unopened monster cans and an empty milk bottle beside you.

Throughout your entire pregnancy he was warned not to stay friends with the pregnant girl — it’d be too much for him, he wouldn’t want to become the new father, and all kinds of other stuff people would mumble to him when you weren’t around.

But you never expected him to be anything other than your friend. You never asked him for the help he gave — though you thanked him always — and you never once assumed he’d take the role of Graham’s dad.

And now… now he finds himself wishing you would.

“Mr. Lee?” Graham creeps up without him even realizing.

Mark jumps, sets his water — and thoughts — aside. “Hey, Bud. It’s really late. What are you doing up?”

Graham sniffs, and Mark realizes that the boy is crying. “I had a nightmare.”

Mark holds out his arms before he can think, and lets the five-year-old crawl into his lap. He wraps them both in his blanket and turns the television up just a little more. “Was it scary?”

“You left.” Graham says, voice less watery, like he doesn’t know the weight of his words. He’s focused on the rerun of Adventure Time that’s playing. He’s not even remotely interested in his nightmare now, with his tears dried up, and his eyes drooping back towards slumber.

“I’m going to leave one day,” Mark says, because he thinks it’s important that Graham knows.

“You should stay with me and Mom,” Graham says. He yawns. “We like you so much!”

Mark’s heart stutters. He tries not to think about it.

-

When Graham’s bed is empty the next morning, you freak out. He’s always in his room in the morning. Even if he wakes up before you, he stays in and plays with his toys.

You’ve already got your phone out, and your mother’s number called, when you walk into the living room.

Relief floods your system. Mark and Graham are asleep on the couch, snuggled up serenely like they didn’t just cause you to have a premature heart attack.

You hang up before the call to your mom can go through and stand there, watching the two boys sleep. Graham has both his arms wrapped around Mark’s forearm. It’s such a sweet picture that you take out your phone and snap one.

The flash is on.

Mark scrunches his nose and winces. “What the–”

“Sorry!” You whisper. “You both looked so cute, I couldn’t help it.”

Mark smiles, still sleepy, and finally opens his eyes. He peers at you, copper brown under fluttering lashes and you’re almost intimidated into looking away. “He had a nightmare.”

“Oh?”

“About me leaving.”

“Oh.” You frown. “I’m really sorry about that. I keep telling him that you’re moving out soon, but I don’t think he fully understands.”

Graham stirs. You reach down and pick him up. Your knuckles brush across Mark’s warm, sweater-clad chest and you suddenly wish you could cuddle with him, too. You shake the thoughts away and focus on your drowsy son. “You’re staying at Grandma's for a few days, remember?”

Graham rubs his eyes and perks up. “And I’ll see her cat?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “But we’ve got to get you dressed because she’s coming in a few minutes.”

-

“Mark Lee!” Your mom’s voice embarrassingly rings through the apartment, and you realize Mark has taken it upon himself to open the door. “Y/n told me she had a temporary roommate but I never thought she would finally ask you!”

“Oh my gosh…” you mumble, buckling Graham’s overalls and hauling him up into your arms. “Mom! His apartment flooded so he’s staying here. Don’t be weird about it.”

“But he’s so handsome,” your mom coos. You’re concerned she might reach forward and pinch Mark’s already ruddy cheeks.

“Thanks,” Mark laughs. “But she’s right, I’m just squatting until I can find a new place.”

Your mom harrumphs. “Well, I don’t see why you can’t stay here forever. Y/n doesn’t even use that office room. And even if she did, the two of you could just share a room.”

“Mom!” You plunk Graham into her hands and grab his overnight bag. “You have to leave.”

“Did I say something wrong?” She sounds worried, but there’s an undisclosed mirth in her eyes that makes you think of your freshman year, when you did have a crush on Mark.

“You said everything wrong,” you say, kindly pushing her out. “Have a good time, Graham. I love you! As always, Mom, call if you need me to come get him.”

“Yeah, right!” She yells over her shoulder. Graham is already giggling, so you close the door with confidence.

You turn back to your roommate. “I’m sorry about that, Mark.”

“It’s fine.” He smiles, but it’s reserved. “But speaking of me finding a place… I know Haechan told you that I can’t go back to my own apartment. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You want to say “You can stay here as long as you want, and long as you’ll let me keep you,” but that would reveal too much, and you don’t want to lose the one good friend you have.

“And I was thinking I should move out soon anyway.” Mark pulls his sweater sleeves until they cover his hands. He’s hiding. He’s shielding himself the same way he did in junior year, when he got turned down by his crush to go to the prom. “I don’t think it’s good for Graham to get this attached to me if I’m just going to leave.”

“Oh,” Your sleeves are too short, but you want to shield yourself too. “Yeah, that’s… that’s probably a good idea.”

Mark stands there for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to say something more. Like he hasn’t just taken your heart and pushed it aside. Like this hurts a lot less than it actually does.

But any word out of your mouth would be tearful. It would be honest. It would ruin everything. “I’m going to go on a run.”

-

There’s a cricket outside that won’t stop chirping against your window. You blame it for your insomnia, choosing to ignore the anxiety of eventually losing Mark. It feels so horribly childish, since you’ll see him when you drop Graham off at school. And you’ll see him whenever the two of you go out for coffee on weekends.

But you won’t see him in the kitchen, reaching for the pancake mix so his shirt rises up and you can see the dimples in his back. You won’t see him humming along to the radio while he works on his lesson plans. You won’t feel his warmth when the two of you stay awake, nursing spiked lemonade and giggling at the commentary videos you find on YouTube.

He’ll just be Mark again. He won’t be home anymore.

Startled by the realization, you get out of your covers and rush to your door.

It opens before you can even reach for the doorknob, and there’s Mark in his pajamas, biting his lip and avoiding your eyes.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you say.

Mark confesses, “I love you.”

You open your arms and he dives in, face pressed into the space where your neck meets your shoulder. Warmth envelopes you and the scent of pine fills your nose.

Mark is timeless. Youthful glory and childish pride. He’s a pinch on the side and a push on the swings. Like a rock that actually skips on the first try. Like shoes that you can slip on when they’re still tied. And he’s here, in your arms, squeezing you like you’re something valuable enough to lose. He’s confessing love like you aren’t the worst possible candidate for his heart.

“I can’t offer you much,” you start, but Mark bumps his forehead against yours, boyish and playful — football fields and bright red lockers and secret notes on bathroom walls.

“I’ve known you for years, Y/n,” Mark’s voice is a low rumble. Copper eyes blinking at you like you’re something to second glance at. “I know what I’m getting into. I want you. I want Graham. I want everything this is, and everything we’ve been for the past month. I don’t want this to end.”

You close your eyes, because his are too honest. He’s open and vulnerable and gentle — a child on the first day of school, ready to make friends. You take a deep breath, try to remember what you were like on your first day. Rosy cheeks and shy glances. Knobby knees and a trusting heart. You reach out for whoever you once were — the Y/n with a heart open and willing to be loved. “I don’t want this to end either. I’m in love with you, Mark.”

His grin lights up your world in its entirety. Gold flecks in onyx black disappear as he smiles, too thrilled to keep his eyes open. And when he kisses you, warm lips against cold ones, you feel like a puzzle has just slotted into place.

It would only make sense that you would grow to love the boy you grew up with.

#Nct fluff #nct fanfiction #Nct angst #Nct scenarios #mark lee fluff #mark lee imagines #mark lee angst #mark lee fanfic #mark lee scenarios #mark lee x reader #nct x reader #destwrites

[lfc21]

First day and first kiss

Today was the day you where starting your dream job. For 4 years you had studied media in university and now it was finally he time to put it too use due to your dream job. About 2 weeks ago you had gotten a phone call from lfc's recruiting agency letting you know you had gotten the job as Head manager of the media team. You where beyond excited for such an amazing experience and future.

"So this will be your office and that over there is the doors to the training facilities which is where you will be spending alot of time as alot of the projects you will have will be outside with them training or fun interviews and games inside" a man named Paul told you who seemed to be extremely important yet very polite and welcoming.

"Ok thank you so much that is perfect" you replied to the tall man who had a bright smile on his face as he couldn't wait for a new talent to join the Liverpool team.

"Of course anytime darling! Make yourself at home, my door is always open if you need anything" Paul replied to you letting himself out of your office and into his. The moment you had arrived it had been perfect you met klopp who was more than amazing he was so welcoming and kind, you had met curtis and neco running down the stairs who nearly bumped into you and continued to apologise to you as they both knew they shouldn't of been acting like children. Even though you weren't a coach you still had to wear liverpool training uniform which you didn't mind as there was lots of options on what to wear and it was extremely comfy and practical.

"Seriously James your driving me mad I asked where Klopp was and you have sent me around the bloody world" a grown man shouted down the hall causing you to look up from your desk at the sudden drama from down the halls.

"Oh mate this is great your getting so stressed" James laughed as he couldn't believe how easily he could make his captain annoyed just by walking around. You had spent about 10 mins organising and opening what seemed to be a million and one items of stationery in a pleasant atmosphere filled with peace and quiet until now.

"Mate shut up! I'm about to get klopp to drop you off the team sheet for Saturday in a minute!" The man again spoke clearly joking at the other person with him, there voices had gotten progressively louder causing you to become more interested to find out who it was.

"Pep have you seen-" a man shouted singing himself around the door frame with the second man stud behind him waiting for a reply.

"Oh shit your not pep" the man who had appeared to be jordan henderson blurted out. You couldn't quite believe your eyes it was jordan henderson, and he was even better looking in real life.

"No your right im not pep lijnders" you giggled pushing yourself up off your desk chair to walk closer to the pair of grown men at the door.

"Erm right well we where erm just looking for klopp" jordan continued as he looked at your small frame, he was in awe of such a beautiful girl in an environment where he didn't really expect to see potential love interests. You where only small compared to his 6ft frame, you where 5ft6 so it was definitely a height difference worth noticing. Jordan couldn't help but notice how bright your green eyes where as the sun was sitting perfectly on them.

"No actually what my friend here is trying to say is that he fancies you and is trying to hide it" James milner shouted from behind him with the clear intentions to annoy him. James knew jordan like the back of his hand and he knew full well whenever he saw a girl he really really fancied (like this) he would go all confused which was very rarely, so James thought it would be perfect to take the opportunity to embarrass him whilst he can.

"Dick head" jordan mumbled kicking behind himself into James's leg causing him to grown throwing himself forward and darting off down the hall probably to cry to virgil. You laughed quietly to yourself at the boys interaction with one another.

"Sorry about him he's crazy" jordan laughed walking further into your office. You found his confidence to be quite sexy which to be honest was surprising because normally if a complete stranger was to walse Into your office un announced you would tell them to fuck off.

"Its okay dont worry" you replied sitting on your desk to get a better look at the famous footballer to be walking around your office. You began to play with the sleeve on your training hoodie as he started to look more and more beautiful which caused you to remeber kissing someone on your first day wouldn't be a particularly good idea. You wanted him to speak to you not to flirt with you just to have someone in the building you could trust and look for when things get hard but when there as handsome as jordan those aims start to fall from your mind and all you can think is wow.

"Your new here im guessing?" He said to you standing infront of you as he stared down at you and your empty desk with a million and one pens scattered across it.

"Er yeah yeah started about 20 mins ago" you laughed whilst pushing all the pens off your desk without looking away from him as it looked extremely messy. You looked up at him not expecting him to be so close. Jordan liked the clear sense of humour you had, it was something he enjoyed within a girl as he knew they would be a lot of fun.

"Ohhhh I see, well I'm happy to show you around" he replied to you carefully fixing his hair with his hand. You had heard and seen all the drama with his hair, the constant perfect styles he put it in during every game, the funny videos of his teammates saying he was always doing his hair and you had to admit it certainly was perfectly done.

"Its ok Paul showed me" you smiled at him as your eyes interlocked with his, something clicked. You realised the only thing that mattered was him and you in this very moment. For some reason you had the urge to kiss him. Your hands found themselves around his neck as his found themselves resting on your hips as his lips smashed into yours. His lips were perfect and soft against yours it was almost like a puzzle finally being done. It wasnt an intense kiss just a soft peck which sent you slightly funny.

"Shit I'm sorry we shouldn't of done that" you said immediately pulling away realising you had just kissed him.

"Don't apologise these things happen when its with the right person" jordan laughed as he moved away from you towards the door. You couldn't say anything you stayed sat there watching his legs take him away not being able to process your encounter with the liverpool star. Kissing was not your style on the first day but maybe he was special, there must of been a reason on to why you felt it was ok.

-

"And that is how me and mummy met" jordan said with a wide smile at your 3 children who had been listening intently to jordan telling them how you had met, obviously in more of a child friendly and easier way to understand.

"Woooow so mummy was naughty and kissed you" your youngest son said giggling at his mums mistake. Jordan nodded at your son as you watched from the doorway not believing that one mistake led to a perfect life with the man of your dreams.

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