#Elude Misery

[inushin]

NaNoWriMo Month 2022

Konnichiwa, Enigmas. We have reached November, which is National Novel Writing Month. So I will be dedicating the entire month of November to finishing my second book, Elude Misery. I’m currently on chapter 13, the last one, so hopefully, it won’t take too long to finish. I’m still practicing Iaido and Capoeira five days a week after work so it’s definitely pretty busy, plus I start moving into…

[xx-vergil-xx]

iasip s1 mac haircut forever in my heart anyway that tweet that said the best way to get better at art is to get super obsessed w one guy is right every time i dip into a derangement phase about Media i can feel the level-up

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

i stg i'm gonna FIND the guy who wrote wig's hamlet quotes.

[sophsicle]

okay probably actually what i should do is delete tiktok. i am truly the master of my own misery here and i know that. it is in my power to remove myself from the presence of the content i find so infuriating and yet i consistently choose not to. BUT. like. what is with this new obsession with canon? like someone explain? i have seen like 3 tiktoks (and ill be honest it really only takes one 2 get me ranting at my empty bedroom like a lunatic) where people are out here complaining about how fandom is mischaracterizing the marauders and how knowing canon is the bare minimum work someone needs to do to make a headcanon which. like. who are you people and why has the concept of silly fun eluded you??????? the bare minimum work??? bro. if someone wants to write a story about some lil wizard guys and all they know is that they are some lil wizard guys and they have never picked up an HP book or watched a movie THEY SHOULD DO IT. and it wont ruin anything. the fandom will be fine. it'll be chillin. heck, maybe it'll even enjoy this baseless story. there are no mischaracterizations in fandom, a space in which the whole purpose is for people to be creative with the source material, there are just characterizations you like and ones you don't. if you want nothing but word for word what JKR has written that's weird but go off king, u should go read her then and stop making it everyone else's problem. like. stop making up rules you fascists. fandom is anarchy. nobody has to know anything or do anything or follow any other rule besides don't be a mean guy.

[tamiart]

I wrote a little romance scene between Halsin and Tav, mostly imagining Halsin’s POV.

Summary: Tav is breaking down under the pressure of the enormous task ahead of her, and Halsin happens upon her.

Since I don’t consider myself a writer, I have never tried to write anything like this before. But I love this game so much, and especially when it comes to these two characters, my imagination is continuously running away with me. I need more material with them, so I tried to create some of my own. I hope you like it.

Midnight Solace

Everyone was finishing up their duties in setting up camp. Halsin looked over to see Tav talking to Wyll and Gale, who were arguing about something as they tried to come up with a strategy for some fight or other, which was now an almost daily occurrence. Tav looked worn out, barely listening to the two of them bicker as she studied a map they had drawn in the dirt. The others were always going to her for help with their problems, and by Silvanus did everyone in this group have catastrophic problems. In all his many years, Halsin had never met such a varied, volatile bunch of individuals. They reminded him of his younger years when every mishap, every mistake, felt like the end of the world.

Tav was the most intriguing to him. She couldn’t be half his age, and yet this young, unassuming slip of a girl had gone out of her way, putting aside her own troubles and fears, which must be plentiful though she never voiced them, for weeks throughout their perilous journey to help many along the way, including himself. She was helping him find a way to lift the shadow curse, which had haunted him for a century as his greatest shame and failure. She had risked her life to infiltrate a horde of nasty, treacherous little goblins to free him - a huge, threatening wild bear that could have tried to kill her too for all she knew. But even in his most savage form, she wasn’t afraid of him. 

Halsin had never met anyone like her. He often found himself watching her from across camp as she went about the daily routine that everyone had settled into - helping to prepare their meals, eating, talking and laughing with everyone around the fire, getting ready to go to sleep, preparing to head out in the mornings. He wondered about her as he performed his own duties. He felt himself drawn to her, and realized he was reluctant to leave her side. He was sorely tempted to forsake his druidic duties and stay with her, to be there for her and protect her for as long as she would let him during her quest to save them all. She stirred long-dormant feelings in him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this way about anyone.

Later that night, after everyone had sought their bedrolls, rest seemed to elude Halsin, so he gave up and headed towards the woods to lose himself in a hunt. As he walked past Tav’s bedroll, he noticed she wasn’t there. He looked around briefly, but did not see her. Slightly alarmed, he enhanced his senses and picked up her scent trail heading into the forest. Wanting to make sure she was alright, he followed it.

As he approached the stream nearby, he heard the sound of someone crying. He stopped and peered through the trees in that direction and saw that it was Tav, sitting by the water, her head resting on her bent knees. He felt a sympathetic pang to see and hear her so distraught. Not wanting to frighten her, he made his footsteps audible as he rounded a bush and approached her, and she started up and noticed him, and immediately turned away to surreptitiously wipe away the traces of her misery. He felt his heart stir.

“Oh, Halsin,” she said, “what are you doing out here so late?”

“I could not sleep,” he responded, “so I was going for a walk. I could ask you the same thing. Are you alright, my friend?”

At that, she failed at reigning in her emotions and burst into sobs once more.

“I’m sorry,” she sputtered through her tears. “I don’t know what’s come over me tonight.”

He hurried over and sat beside her. “It’s alright,” he tried to reassure her. But she could not stop, and he hesitantly reached out to touch her shoulder.

His touch seemed to relax something in her and she leaned towards him. He put his arm around her and held her closer. The feel of her sobs shaking her slight frame melted away his final resistance, and he knew then that he would do anything to help this girl. He was lost to her. He held her until her sobs quieted into sniffles. 

“What is it, my friend? Can I do anything to help?” He asked her gently.

“No, I’ll be okay.” She sighed.”Ugh look at me, I’m such a mess.”

“You are still beautiful. But stay here, I’ll get something for you.” Halsin quietly returned to his tent and found a clean cloth, poured a cup of water and grabbed a blanket as well, then returned to Tav’s side. She had calmed down and sat quietly staring into the stream with a troubled expression on her face. He draped the blanket around her shoulders and handed her the water and cloth.

 “Thank you. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” said Tav, wiping her tear-stained face. “They’re all depending on me to be strong. I need to be strong for all of us if we’re going to get through this.” She took a sip of water and put the cup down on a rock.

He placed his arm around her again and pulled her close. “No one expects you to be invincible. You don’t need to carry all of it alone. We’re all here to help you. I’m here to help you.”

She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyelashes. The distance between them was too close. The urge to kiss her was overpowering, and it took all of his will to resist. She needed him to be strong just now, and he would give her his support.

“Thanks, Halsin,” She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “That’s nice to hear. I just… I’m so afraid. I don’t know what I’m doing half of the time. Why does every decision have to fall to me? Every time one of us gets injured, I wonder if I should give it all up. Maybe I’m just leading us all to our deaths.” Her voice choked on those last words, and she covered her face with her hands and pulled away from him. “I can’t… that thought… it’s too much to bear.”

“Your fears are completely understandable under the circumstances. We have far too much leveled against us, with no end to our journey in sight. What an incredible amount of pressure to undertake. But Tav, you’ve been amazing thus far. Why do you think everyone trusts you so implicitly? No one else could have gotten this eccentric group of misfits this far, to survive as much as we have. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed it. You don’t realize how extraordinary you truly are. My dear friend, we would all follow you anywhere. I would follow you anywhere. If anyone is going to get us all through this, it’s you.” 

Tav looked up at him again, a new light and curiosity in her glance. “You truly believe that?”

“With all my heart.”

Suddenly she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Oak father preserve him, Tav had him wrapped around her finger. “Thanks, Halsin,” she whispered into him. She looked up at him again, and her face finally softened into a smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Tav, I - “ he tried to find the right words. “Please know that I’m always here for you, if you ever need to talk about anything. I will do my best to help you, in any way that you need.”

She was still looking up at him, her gaze searching. She was so beautiful, he could hold back no longer. Cautiously, he lowered his face down towards her, watching her expression as he did so. She did not pull away, and her lips parted as her glance fell to his mouth. He closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. He tasted the salt of her tears as he kissed her, and she kissed him back, tentatively at first, but quickly growing more eager. Her lips were full, soft and warm. Finally they both had to pull away, gasping for air. He had to stop now before he took things too far. He couldn’t ask that much of her just now in her current vulnerable state.

Tav stared at him, stunned. Then as if suddenly realizing where she was, she blushed and gave him a shy, tentative smile. “Wow,” She gasped as she found her voice. “What was that?”

“I’ve dreamed about kissing you for a long time,” he confessed to her.

“Really? But I didn’t… I thought… you’ve never…” Tav stammered.

“I know. I didn’t want to do anything to upset you or harm our friendship. And I didn’t want to distract you during such a crucial and difficult time. I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to let you focus.”

Tave let out a breathy laugh. “Well, it’s a very welcome distraction.” She hesitated, then looked up at him shyly once more. “I’ve been thinking about that as well, with you.”

He wrapped her in his arms once more and held her in silence. They sat together, listening to the night sounds of the forest and the babble of the nearby stream. Gradually, he felt her relax in his arms. Her head began to droop against his shoulder. He could have stayed this way all night. But reluctantly, he gently shook her awake.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

She sighed. “You’re right.” She stood up and handed the blanket back to him. She tried to return the cloth as well, but he told her to keep it. She seemed reluctant to go. “Thank you, Halsin. This was… it means a lot.” She smiled at him once more.

And she was gone before he could respond, leaving him alone once more in the woods, the blanket in his arms, all of his senses full of her, and his mind a whirl of thoughts, emotions and desires.

[svn-bangtan]

Soulmates

»pairing: Yoongi x reader

»genre: BTS | 13+ | Fluff

»wc/date: 4.5k | June 2023

» warnings: Just some fluff 

»Summary: Everyone had a soulmate and many find theirs much faster than others. Throughout her years being alive, Y/n is slowly beginning to lose hope in finding her soulmate. After becoming a successful artist and meeting a new client and a stranger at a cafe, things change very quickly. 

» notes: THIS ONE-SHOT WAS ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MY OLD ACCOUNT @loomdiamonds​ 

»  m.list | Taglist | Thoughts? Comments? Concerns

Soulmates. The notion of being destined to be with someone, a connection meant to last a lifetime. It's a captivating concept that defies comprehension.

In this extraordinary world, every person bears a unique tattoo on their wrist. It consists of their soulmate's first and middle initials, followed by their last name. For instance, if Y/n's soulmate's name is Tong Sochun, her tattoo would read Tong S.

Discovering one's true soulmate occurs through physical contact, such as a high five. When this happens, the wrist tattoo vanishes, replaced by a new one encircling the ring finger, bearing the partner's full name. From that moment forward, they both embark on a blissful journey together.

Simple, right? Well, not quite.

Y/n's tattoo reads Min Y., a constant reminder since her earliest memories of yearning to meet him or her. However, as the years pass, hope gradually slips away.

Recently, she relocated to Seoul, seeking better prospects in this vibrant metropolis. Unfortunately, after spending considerable time here, it feels like an exercise in futility.

Today, she finds solace in a cozy cafe, engrossed in a new book, relishing her well-deserved day off. These are the moments she eagerly anticipates—a chance to escape reality, stepping out of her apartment and immersing herself in simple pleasures that help momentarily forget about soulmates and the complexities of daily life.

A deep sigh escapes Y/n as she briefly diverts her attention from the book, gazing outside at the enchanting view of Seoul. She offers a faint smile, hugging her coffee mug a little closer. For an instant, she glances down at her wrist, tracing the delicate script that has adorned it since infancy.

Despite her waning hope of finding her soulmate, Y/n yearns to experience the same happiness her parents share—a love so profound, nurtured from childhood, and fortified by a single hug in first grade.

It's every girl's dream—to witness her mom and dad, who never had to embark on wild adventures to find their destined partner.

Setting her cup down, Y/n sweeps her hair away from her face, observing as the first snowflakes begin their gentle descent from the sky. Her gaze drifts downward, lost in contemplation.

Out there, somewhere, Y/n's soulmate patiently awaits. Perhaps they ponder the same questions that haunt her. Uncertainty and countless inquiries swirl within them, chief among them being the fear of rejection.

Rejection is a cruel blow, one that cuts deeply. It ranks among the worst acts one can inflict on another, second only to criminal behavior. When you experience outright rejection, your tattoos vanish, and you become destined to never find love again. Even if you were to try, happiness would forever elude you. It's challenging to articulate fully but rest assured, it's a devastating fate to endure.

What if Y/n's soulmate has passed away, unbeknownst to her? The same fate awaits.

Love becomes an elusive concept, eternal happiness forever out of reach. If she never gets the chance to be with her soulmate, life becomes an unrelenting misery. It's an unfortunate reality, one that plagues the minds of all who ponder the enigma of soulmates.

This notion has even crossed Y/n's mind. At twenty-eight, while all her friends have found their soulmates, she has begun to wonder if her day will ever come. Perhaps her destined partner is no longer among the living. Yet, her wrist bears the undeniable mark—a reminder that they still exist, waiting to be discovered.

"What is a lovely lady like yourself doing all alone up here?" a male voice suddenly interrupts, causing Y/n to jump slightly.

She turns her head and finds a tall man with shaggy brown hair, his warm smile directed at her. Returning the smile, she shrugs her shoulders and raises her book. "Just reading, cherishing the simple things."

Nodding, he gestures toward the empty seat in front of her, silently seeking permission to join her. Y/n agrees, and as he settles across from her, her eyes are drawn to his hand. She notices a name etched around his ring finger, and a quiet sigh escapes her. 'Of course, someone as good-looking as him has already found his soulmate,' she muses inwardly.

"You'll find them one day," he remarks suddenly, causing Y/n's eyes to widen in surprise. 'Did I say it out loud?'

Chuckling, he holds up his hand, his gaze fixed on her bewildered expression. "You were staring, so I assumed you were questioning yourself." Y/n offers a faint smile as she turns her gaze back to the window, where the falling snow gradually blankets the ground.

"It's astonishing to think that somewhere out there, my soulmate awaits me," she muses, looking down at her tattoo with a tender smile. "I admit, meeting them is a truly magical experience." She takes a deep breath and glances at the man, finding him already gazing at her with a smile.

"Hopefully, that day comes soon," she confesses, her fingers gently tracing the tattoo. "This waiting game has become unbearable."

The man chuckles in response to her words, understanding etched on his face as he takes a sip of his coffee. Once again, they sit in silence, finding comfort in each other's presence until Y/n breaks the quietude.

"I apologize for my rudeness. I'm Chun Y/n," she introduces herself.

"Chun?" he says, his expression a mix of confusion and surprise. Y/n nods, offering a sweet smile. "Yes, I'm not originally from Seoul. I moved here from Namyang-dong."

He nods, his grin widening. "Well, my name is Hoseok, and I might just know your soulmate," he declares, standing up and leaving Y/n perplexed.

"Wait, what?"

"Chun is a rare last name, right? I don't think I've ever come across anyone with that surname," he explains, prompting Y/n to slowly nod. "Yes, it's more common in Japan, if I'm not mistaken."

Gently taking hold of her hand, Hoseok gazes down at her tattoo, humming in contemplation. "Well, a good friend of mine, who recently returned to back to Seoul, bears your last name and initial on his wrist. He hasn't met his soulmate yet. It's possible that the two of you are destined for each other."

"But I'm confused," Y/n interjects, withdrawing her hand. "Is that why you approached me? Do you do this with many women?"

Hoseok bursts into hearty laughter, a sound that oddly resembles a windshield wiper, shaking his head. "No, I mistook you for my fiancée by accident. You two have a striking resemblance, and when I noticed your mark, I thought I'd explore the possibility."

"Oh, I see..." Y/n says, leaning back in her seat. "So, what now? If I choose to entertain this possibility, how will I meet your friend?"

Hoseok smirks, reclining in his chair and taking another sip of his coffee. "Leave that to me Chun Y/n."

Sometimes, Y/n finds herself plagued by a persistent thought that whispers she may never cross paths with her soulmate. It's as if the universe has singled her out, marking her as one of the unlucky ones destined to live without that profound connection. This notion lingers, casting a shadow of doubt and loneliness over her heart.

Yet, despite occasional glimmers of hope ignited by her encounter at the café, Y/n has learned to temper her expectations. She has grown accustomed to guarding her heart, shielding herself from the potential pain of disappointment.

In this particular moment, Y/n is immersed in her art studio at work, fully absorbed in a new piece taking shape on her canvas.

Suddenly, a gentle knock at the door interrupts her concentration, drawing her attention towards the entrance. Her face lights up with a smile as she sees her boss, Kim Namjoon, stepping into the room, accompanied by an incredibly striking man.

Rising gracefully from her seat, Y/n warmly greets them both, and Namjoon turns towards his companion, ready to make the introductions.

"Y/n, this is Yoongi, my best friend and a producer," Namjoon announces, his voice tinged with pride. "Yoongi, meet Y/n, one of my incredibly talented artists. She's the one who painted that remarkable piece you showed interest in a few months ago."

A delicate blush colors Y/n's cheeks as she gazes at the man introduced as Yoongi. His presence commands attention, and the timbre of his deep voice momentarily catches her off guard. "Thank you," she responds graciously, her voice gentle and composed. "I truly appreciate your kind words, sir."

Yoongi, his eyes seemingly locked on Y/n, offers her a warm smile. "Please, call me Yoongi. I'm intrigued by the story behind that captivating painting," he says, his curiosity evident as he takes a leisurely stroll around her studio, Namjoon following closely behind. Together, they admire the artwork adorning the walls, until their attention is drawn to a copy of the painting that had caught their eye.

With a steadying breath, Y/n prepares to share the tale behind her creation. As she points to the two figures portrayed in the painting, she feels Yoongi's unwavering gaze upon her. She strives to maintain her professional composure, even as her heart flutters with anticipation. Her words flow with passion and depth, painting a vivid picture with her storytelling.

"Beautiful," Yoongi remarks, causing Y/n to momentarily lose herself in his gaze. A deeper shade of pink graces her cheeks, and Namjoon interjects, unwittingly shattering the enchantment.

"Speaking of soulmates, Yoongi here wanted to commission a piece for his own," Namjoon shares, unknowingly pricking at Y/n's delicate hopes. Swiftly, she masks any trace of disappointment and offers a genuine smile. "It would be my pleasure to create a piece for you, Yoongi."

"Hey, Y/n," Namjoon says with a warm smile. "I need to take a quick call. I'll be right back." Without waiting for a response, he exits the room, leaving Y/n alone in the studio.

Just as their connection seems to deepen, a stack of papers held precariously in Yoongi's hands begins to waver, threatening to tumble to the floor. In an instant, a gust of wind rushes through the studio from Namjoon leaving briefly, scattering the papers in all directions.

Reacting with swift reflexes, both Y/n and Yoongi instinctively reach out to catch the fleeing sheets, their hand's mere inches away from touching. Their eyes meet briefly, a fleeting spark of electric anticipation passing between them, hinting at the profound connection that almost transpired.

Yet, their near-touch is abruptly interrupted as Namjoon bursts into the studio, his voice filled with urgency. "Yoongi, we have to go. It's already 3, and we'll be late for our meeting with Jin." Namjoon swiftly exits the studio, with Yoongi following in his wake. However, before he leaves, Yoongi turns back to offer Y/n one final smile. "I look forward to working with you, Y/n."

Returning the smile, Y/n bows respectfully. "Likewise," she replies softly as Yoongi walks away, leaving her once again in the solitude of her studio. A sigh escapes her lips as she settles back into her seat, her gaze fixed upon the canvas before her. "Every time, Y/n," she whispers to herself, a tinge of frustration evident in her voice.

Shaking off her thoughts, Y/n firmly grasps her paintbrush, determined to pour her emotions onto the canvas once more. Stroke by stroke, she channels her hopes and dreams, infusing her art with passion, knowing that one day, amidst the uncertainty that lingers, her soulmate might just find her.

"I'm curious, what prompted your call today?" Y/n asked, taking a sip of her coffee. She heard Hoseok chuckle on the other end of the line as she finished tidying up her workstation and made her way toward the bedroom in her studio.

"Your soulmate, of course," Hoseok replied, causing Y/n to roll her eyes. It had been about three days since they had met at the café, and ever since, Hoseok had been eager to introduce his friend to Y/n to determine if they were potential soulmates.

Unfortunately, due to their busy schedules and Y/n's dedication to her artwork, they hadn't been able to meet yet. Despite Hoseok having a soulmate, Y/n couldn't shake Mr. Yoongi from her thoughts. She knew it was wrong since they could never be together, but she couldn't help but think about him.

"I don't know, Hoseok," Y/n said as she sat on the bed in the bedroom. Mr. Kim, the building owner, had kindly agreed to remodel her studio into an apartment-like space, complete with a sleeping area. Y/n was grateful for this arrangement since she practically lived in her studio more than her actual home.

"Why not, Y/n? He's available tonight, and so are you. It's perfect," Hoseok persisted, causing Y/n to roll her eyes and glance out the window at the weather. "I'm still at work, and even if I go, I probably won't have time to go home and freshen up. Besides, have you seen the weather outside?"

"You're impossible, Chun Y/n, you know that?" Hoseok teased, eliciting a laugh from Y/n. After some time on the phone and a bit of convincing, she eventually agreed to finally meet Hoseok's friend that night. Once she hung up, she lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the upcoming meeting.

'Try not to get your hopes up, Y/n. There's a strong possibility it's just a coincidence,' she thought to herself. As she lay there, a knock on her studio door interrupted her thoughts. She got up and opened the door, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the man in front of her.

"Mr. Yoongi?"

"Hello, I just came to talk to you briefly about the painting. May I come in?" he asked politely. Y/n nodded, opening the door wider for him to enter. She took note of his well-fitted suit and noticed that his hair was now styled in waves instead of being pushed back.

Closing the door behind him, Mr. Yoongi stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. "So, have you thought of any ideas for your painting for them?"

He paused for a moment, turning to look at Y/n. "Well, I'd love to hear your ideas. I've made a list of possibilities, but I'm not entirely sure."

"I'd love to help you in any way I can. Let's start by discussing how you would describe your soulmate," Y/n said, walking over to her desk to grab her notepad. She heard him sigh as he took a seat on a random chair, capturing Y/n's attention.

"I haven't met them just yet," he said quietly, his words drawing Y/n's full attention. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that."

"It's alright, really," Mr. Yoongi replied, looking up at Y/n with a slight smile before leaning back in the chair. "After I saw your artwork—forgive me if this sounds creepy—but I couldn't help but look more and more at all of your pieces. Since starting my career as a producer, I feel like I've lost touch with people, and I stopped actively searching."

Y/n nodded, immediately understanding his sentiment as it resonated with her own feelings. As much as she wanted to meet her soulmate, with each passing day, her hope dwindled, fearing that perhaps they didn't want to be found.

"When I saw your artwork, it instantly made me feel alive again. It made me see the brighter side of things and gave me the courage to give the search another try after all these years," he continued, locking eyes with Y/n.

Unbeknownst to her, her heart began to beat faster. "Thanks to you, I found hope again. With this painting, I want to convey that even during my period of giving up, not a day went by that I didn't think about them. And who better to paint it than the person who restored my hope?"

Y/n smiled warmly, feeling honored by his words. She jotted down some notes in her notebook. "Well, just know that I am truly honored to undertake this for you. Your soulmate is already so fortunate to have you."

They engaged in a conversation, discussing various ideas for the painting until Mr. Yoongi's phone suddenly rang. He apologized and checked the caller ID. "I'm sorry, but I have to meet up with a friend right now."

"That's alright. Let's call it a night," Y/n said, setting her notebook aside as they both stood up. She walked him to the door, and as he was about to leave, his eyes caught sight of a flyer hanging nearby. "You're having a showcase?"

"Yes, it's the day after tomorrow. You're welcome to come if you'd like," Y/n replied, offering a polite smile. Nodding, Mr. Yoongi returned the smile before opening the door. "I'll definitely stop by. See you later. And thank you again for your assistance."

"Anytime, Mr. Yoongi," Y/n said, bidding him farewell.

"Wow, I had no idea you were such a talented artist!" Hoseok exclaimed, his eyes scanning the art gallery where Y/n's showcase was taking place. Y/n chuckled softly and nodded in response.

"Well, to be fair, we haven't known each other for that long," she replied graciously, expressing her gratitude to the attendees. Hoseok seized the opportunity to inquire about her recent date. Turning towards Y/n, he asked, "So, how did the date go? Are you guys soulmates?"

Y/n let out a deep sigh, shaking her head in disappointment. "They never showed up," she stated, her gaze focused on a piece of artwork in front of them.

Strangely, she wasn't as disheartened as one might expect. In fact, she had almost decided not to attend the date herself after her encounter with Mr. Yoongi. "I should probably strangle him," Hoseok muttered under his breath, expressing his frustration with his unreliable friend.

As Hoseok continued venting about his friend's unreliability, Y/n turned her head to the side and caught sight of someone entering the gallery.  A light smile formed on her lips for a brief moment before she quickly shook her head and redirected her attention back to Hoseok.

It's not him, Y/n. Remember, don't get your hopes up. His soulmate is out there, and it's unlikely to be you, she reminded herself silently, glancing down at her wrist.

Although Y/n had met Mr. Yoongi twice, she had never caught a glimpse of his wrist to determine their compatibility. In truth, she preferred not to know. She had been making an effort to stop thinking about him, but for some inexplicable reason, she couldn't shake him from her thoughts.

"He's right there. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind," Hoseok grumbled, his frown directed at someone behind Y/n. Shaking her head at his impulsive behavior, Y/n decided to stroll around her exhibit, relishing in the pride she felt for how far she had come in her career.

Painting had always been her refuge, her way of escaping reality, and each canvas held its own unique journey and story. While she never shared those stories with the public, she delighted in hearing people's theories and interpretations of her artwork.

Lost in her own thoughts, Y/n found herself standing in front of her piece titled "Loveless Love." Several people had gathered around it, captivated by its beauty and engaged in discussions. This sight brought a wider smile to her face.

"It's a truly beautiful piece, as I've told you before," a familiar voice spoke, causing Y/n to jump slightly in surprise. She turned her head and saw Yoongi standing there, his gummy smile radiating warmth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's alright," Y/n replied, her gaze returning to the painting. She could feel Yoongi's eyes on her, causing a gentle blush to color her cheeks as she focused on the artwork before them. Despite the crowd surrounding them, it felt as though they were the only two people in the room.

"So beautiful," Yoongi whispered, capturing Y/n's attention once again. She met his gaze, and in his eyes, she saw a certain look.

Slowly, he reached up his hand, his fingers tenderly grazing her cheek before delicately tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

Y/n's heart fluttered as she gazed up at Yoongi, the man she had come to love deeply. They sat together under the shade of a grand tree, sharing an intimate picnic. Her eyes met his, captivated by the gentle glimmer in his deep brown orbs, and a radiant smile graced her lips.

"Yoongi," she said, her voice filled with affection. "I can't help but wonder... how much do you love me?" As she spoke, Y/n noticed the beautiful ring adorning her left ring finger, engraved with Yoongi's full name.

Yoongi's eyes locked onto hers, and he tenderly clasped her hands. "Trying to extract my wedding vows, huh?" he playfully remarked. "Well, I'm afraid that's top-secret information. But I can promise you, my love for you is immeasurable." His words were accompanied by a light chuckle as he lightly tapped her shoulder.

Unable to contain her joy, Y/n giggled and lightly tapped his good shoulder in return. Leaning down, Yoongi planted a soft kiss on her head, his gaze never leaving her eyes. "Seriously, I want to know," Y/n insisted, a glimmer of curiosity shining in her gaze.

Her expression turned tender as she spoke, her voice filled with heartfelt sincerity. "My love for you knows no bounds. It will endure through rain and sunshine, treating you like a precious diamond and never letting you wander far from my side. Even when distance separates us, you'll always remain in my heart, every second of every day. My love for you will bloom until my very last breath, for with you, I have found purpose and a love I want to show you." Y/n's eyes sparkled as she held Yoongi's gaze, her love pouring forth.

Yoongi's gaze softened, brimming with warmth and adoration. "I remember the first time I saw you," he reminisced.

"From that moment, I knew you were my soulmate. Your presence in your studio captured my attention completely. Your eyes, your smile... they stole my heart the instant you spoke. I never believed in love at first sight until I met you. And to this day, I can't believe how perfectly we were meant to be. You are everything I've ever dreamed of in a soulmate, and now, you are mine. Please never doubt how much I appreciate everything you do for us. You mean the world to me, and I love you with all my heart."

Y/n's cheeks flushed with warmth and delight. "Stop," she exclaimed, her voice filled with a mix of affection and amusement. "That was so cute, it might make me start crying." She covered her face with her hands, feeling overwhelmed by the depth of Yoongi's love.

Yoongi chuckled softly and gently removed her hands, his lips pressing against the back of them. "And if you do cry," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness, "I'll always be here to wipe away your tears."

Feeling her heart swell with love, Y/n sat up fully, being careful not to bump her head on a tree branch. Their eyes met once again, and the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their own little universe.

"I can't wait to marry you," Yoongi confessed, his hand tenderly caressing Y/n's cheek. Her smile grew wider, and she felt an overwhelming sense of joy and anticipation.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Y/n leaned forward and kissed Yoongi with all the passion and love she held within her. The kiss started softly but soon deepened, as every inch of their bodies and souls melted into one another. Yoongi's hands cradled Y/n's face, ensuring the perfect connection, while she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

Finally, they pulled apart, their lips still tingling, but their smiles radiant and content. Y/n rested her head on Yoongi's chest, listening to the comforting sound of his heartbeat.

Time seemed to stand still as Y/n gasped, returning to reality. Her eyes widened, and she looked up at Yoongi, astonishment etched on both their faces. Slowly, a slight pain emanated from her wrist and left ring finger, drawing their attention downward.

Unbeknownst to them, the entire room had turned their gaze towards the couple, their curiosity piqued. Y/n's wrist tattoo faded away, replaced by a name on her ring finger—Min Yoongi.

"Oh my god," Y/n whispered in awe, her eyes flickering up to meet Yoongi's matching expression.

He is my soulmate. He's who I've been waiting for, she thought, her heart overflowing with joy.

Countless questions swirled in her mind, but before she could voice them, Yoongi took action. In a moment of pure instinct, he pressed his lips against hers, leaving Y/n breathless and captivated once again. She gasped in surprise but quickly melted into the kiss, their connection growing stronger with every passing second.

The room erupted into applause and cheers, but Y/n blushed profusely, hiding her face in Yoongi's chest. His laughter reverberated through his chest as he relished in her adorable reaction. "See, Y/n? I told you I knew your soulmate," Hoseok declared triumphantly, catching the attention of both Y/n and Yoongi.

"He's the one I was supposed to meet?" Y/n asked, her voice filled with astonishment. Hoseok nodded, and Y/n turned to Yoongi, finding the same disbelief mirrored in his eyes.

"Yes, Yoongi, she's the one you stood up last night," Hoseok explained, prompting Y/n to laugh wholeheartedly.

"In my defense, I didn't go because I got caught up in work after visiting you," Yoongi confessed, causing Y/n to smile and playfully shake her head. "It's alright. At least now we know who this painting is for."

Yoongi's eyes softened as he whispered, "Yes, my beautiful soulmate, Chun Y/n." Y/n's heart raced, and her smile widened further. Embracing the moment, Yoongi leaned in for a quick peck on her lips. "Guys, please get a room," Hoseok groaned, earning giggles from everyone witnessing the affectionate exchange.

"Can't I cherish my beautiful soulmate?" Yoongi playfully retorted, his eyes shining with adoration.

"Stop it," Y/n protested, her cheeks flushed with a rosy hue. She looked down shyly, only to be gently guided by Yoongi to meet his gaze once more. "Don't be shy now, Y/n. This is how it will be forever. I promise you," he declared, his voice brimming with sincerity.

"Forever," Y/n whispered, her eyes sparkling with love and excitement. "I absolutely love the sound of that." Their love had found its place, and from that moment on, they embarked on an enchanting journey, hand in hand, destined for a future filled with eternal love and happiness.

[edenmemes]

house of the dragon starters

ep1 - 10 .

❝ try not to look too relieved. ❞ ❝ did you sleep? how long? ❞ ❝ no king has ever lived that hasn't had to forfeit the lives of a few to protect the many. ❞ ❝ i don’t need mothering. ❞ ❝ it is our fate, i think, to crave always what is given to another. ❞ ❝ you’re safe with me, i swear it. ❞ ❝ to elude a storm, you can either sail into it or around it. but you must never await its coming. ❞ ❝ i have only ever defended you. ❞ ❝ i've always thought of you and i as having been made from the same cloth. ❞ ❝ you will address me as "your grace" or i will have my guard cut out your tongue. ❞ ❝ i’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory. ❞ ❝ you’re always like this when you’re worried. disagreeable. ❞ ❝ i like this position. it’s quite comfortable. ❞ ❝ how sweetly the fox speaks when it’s been cornered by hounds. ❞ ❝ we haven’t spoke much...since... ❞ ❝ i do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone. ❞ ❝ i was never much of a dancer. ❞ ❝ do you want me to kill him? ❞ ❝ i’m asking with you to come with me...away from all of this. ❞ ❝ come, eat. fortify yourself for the journey. ❞ ❝ you swore to protect me. ❞ ❝ what will they say of me when the histories are written? ❞ ❝ it’s the only thing i have to my fucking name! ❞ ❝ look what my life became without you. a droll tragedy. ❞ ❝ strive to restore whatever scrap of honor you have left. ❞ ❝ our worth is not given. it must be made. ❞ ❝ it pleases me to hear you say this. that i am not alone in my grief. ❞ ❝ if you mean to elicit some anger from me, you should know that you're failing. ❞ ❝ it bothers you, does it not? ❞ ❝ the realm owes you a great debt. ❞ ❝ all i wanted was for someone to say that they were sorry for what happened to me. ❞ ❝ we must all mourn in our own way. ❞ ❝ do you have a specific course of action to propose? ❞ ❝ we're both people who have had to cut our own way through the world. ❞ ❝ were that to happen, losses would be incalculable. ❞ ❝ it was not my intent to make offense. ❞ ❝ when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect. ❞ ❝ i find i have...few friends lately. ❞ ❝ we don’t belong here. ❞ ❝ i only want to help you. ❞ ❝ you cannot believe such gossip. ❞ ❝ just get out. leave me at once. ❞ ❝ to have every young knight and lord fawning over you...what a misery. ❞ ❝ you’ve been much alone these past few years. alone and angry. ❞ ❝ the road ahead is uncertain, but the end is clear. ❞ ❝ you’re young. you will learn. ❞ ❝ this is just what i need...a little adventure. ❞ ❝ care for some company? ❞ ❝ what is this brief mortal life...if not the pursuit of legacy? ❞ ❝ the wise sailor flees the storm as it gathers. ❞ ❝ you are a plague...sent to destroy me. ❞ ❝ for one night, i wish to be free of the burdens of my inheritance. ❞ ❝ do you wish to hear my opinion on the matter? ❞ ❝ i’ve been alone. you abandoned me. ❞ ❝ i’ve decided to remain here and read instead. ❞ ❝ if there were another path...one that led to freedom...would you take it? ❞ ❝ we should be free to speak our minds to one another. ❞ ❝ everything i’ve given you, you’ve thrown back in my face. ❞ ❝ answer me. it’s important. ❞ ❝ do you never long for home? ❞ ❝ i know you’ve never seen true battle. ❞ ❝ your heart is even darker than i thought. ❞ ❝ you think yourself a cunning person. your plans are obvious. ❞ ❝ you never were one to stay idle. ❞ ❝ do not speak of this again. ❞ ❝ they whisper about me in the corridors. ❞ ❝ am i your prisoner? ❞ ❝ have the decency to look grateful. do you know what has been done to give you this day? ❞ ❝ love...is a downfall. ❞ ❝ we’re free to do as we please. ❞ ❝ you will make a fearsome knight. ❞ ❝ just take my arm, at the least. ❞ ❝ it seems the gods have been especially cruel to you. ❞ ❝ i will be a stranger when we meet again. ❞ ❝ you dare put hands on me? ❞ ❝ you look so much like your mother in certain lights. ❞ ❝ i have no shortage of allies. ❞ ❝ who gives a fuck what some lord thinks? ❞ ❝ take your fucking hands off me. ❞ ❝ a certain insolence runs in the family. ❞ ❝ meat without wine is a sin. ❞ ❝ i gave up the idea of wearing a crown generations ago. ❞ ❝ are you...are you hurt? ❞ ❝ reluctance to murder is not a weakness. ❞ ❝ exhausting, isn’t it? hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. ❞ ❝ we have nothing in common. ❞ ❝ you deserve better than what i have been. ❞ ❝ you are an honorable man with a good heart. it’s a rare thing. ❞ ❝ i promise you, in time, you and i together will prevail. ❞ ❝ life has, i know, disappointed you. ❞ ❝ if a king isn’t feared, he is powerless. ❞ ❝ i’d rather ride alone. ❞ ❝ be careful. one could take your words for treason. ❞ ❝ i’ve never seen that side of you...i even doubted its existence. ❞ ❝ i will have the truth of what happened. now. ❞ ❝ do you wish to know your death? ❞ ❝ if we don’t mind our own histories, it will do the same to us. ❞ ❝ i believe you were made to wear the crown. ❞ ❝ we are turning back, all right? ❞ ❝ everyone’s staring at us. ❞ ❝ i would say it’s nice to be home, but i scarcely recognize it. ❞ ❝ most of my years have been spent living in terror. ❞ ❝ all that i have, i owe to you. ❞ ❝ i’ve wondered many an hour what your purpose was in coming here. ❞ ❝ what can either of us know of ruling a kingdom? ❞ ❝ does the promise of war excite you? ❞ ❝ none of this is a game. and yet you treat it like one. ❞ ❝ a matter has arisen that requires your attention. ❞ ❝ night time, you might not be so lucky. ❞ ❝ i have no wish to rule! no taste for duty! i am not suited. ❞ ❝ you flee what other men die seeking. ❞ ❝ i endured it for as long as i could. ❞ ❝ we don’t choose our destiny. it chooses us. ❞ ❝ it is ill luck to look upon the face of death. ❞ ❝ you’ve already found enough trouble today. ❞ ❝ who might you be running from, now? ❞ ❝ i am yours and you are mine. ❞ ❝ i will not have blood shed beneath my roof. ❞ ❝ we are closer to gods than to men. ❞ ❝ you shouldn’t do this alone. let us help you. ❞ ❝ that war is not mine to begin. ❞ ❝ it has been so long since we were granted the joy of your presence. ❞ ❝ how could you allow such a thing to happen? ❞ ❝ do not allow your temper to guide your judgement. ❞ ❝ now they see you as you are. ❞ ❝ do you want to know the truth of it? i was frightened. ❞ ❝ you desire not to be free, but to make a window in the wall of your prison. ❞ ❝ you are wiser than i believed you to be. ❞ ❝ i speak the truth. and you know it. ❞ ❝ hope is the fool’s ally. ❞ ❝ while i like your support, i do not need it. ❞ ❝ go to your chambers. you have said enough. ❞ ❝ i thought i wanted it, but the burden is a heavy one. ❞ ❝ i understand you’ve found yourself in some trouble. ❞

[sunkissed-zegras]

i desperately need 🧊 with trevor….

GIRL ANGSTY TREVOR WILL BE THE END OF MY EXISTENCE also lowkey gives off 'right where you left me' vibes HAAHAHAHA

trevor sat slouched in a booth at the far end of the bar, where no one was. it was empty ─ no one really wants to be drinking at a bar on a tuesday at 5 pm. but there he was, drinking from the now luke-warm beer he had order two and half hours ago.

the dimly lit bar provided trevor with a shroud of anonymity, a temporary escape from the relentless demands of his life. the ruthless comments from critics and the harsh comments from his 'fans' had seemingly gotten him. his eyes bore the weight of unspoken burdens, hidden behind a disheveled mop of hair. the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses seemed distant, as if they were occurring in another world ─ trevor was seemingly in his own.

each sip of the lukewarm beer carried a bitter reminder of all that had gone wrong. it wasn't just the taste that soured his mood; it was the flavor of regret that lingered on his tongue. he had made choices, hard choices, and they had taken a toll on him, just like everyone had warned him.

the bartender glanced his way, a silent question in their eyes, but trevor waved them off. he wanted to be alone in his misery, if only for a little while longer. in the solitude of the empty booth, he pondered the path he had chosen and wondered if it was worth the price he had paid.

his mind kept replaying every moment of the last night he had with you: his beautiful, amazing, supportive girlfriend. even if it was almost eight months ago, the burn had seemingly left a mark.

trevor's thoughts had been on relentless loop since it happened, like a never-ending highlight reel of that fateful night. he could still smell your sweet familiar perfume, the one you had worn since high school, and he could hear the soft, understanding tone of your voice. it was as if you were right there with him, in that dimly lit bar, even though he knew you were miles away.

but there was one thing that eluded him, one detail he couldn't quite grasp no matter how hard he tried: the exact look of your face. iy was slipping away from his memory, fading like a distant dream, and that hurt more than anything else. losing your face, your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you were happy ─ it was as if a part of him was vanishing along with those memories.

he realized that it was truly over. it wasn't just a breakup; it was the slow elimination of everything that had once defined his world. trevor's heart ached with the weight of that realization, and he took another sip of his now lukewarm beer, trying to drown out the pain that threatened to consume him.

the last night of their relationship haunted trevor like a ghost in the shadows. it had been the night that shattered everything they had built together since high school, the culmination of a slow, painful unraveling. and he knew it was his fault, too.

he replayed that night in his mind like a broken record, dissecting every word, every gesture, every mistake. the way they had argued, the harsh words exchanged like daggers, the tears that had stained both their cheeks ─ it was all etched into his memory with agonizing clarity.

he had pushed too hard, let his own insecurities and frustrations drive a wedge between them. in that moment, it had felt like the right thing to do, like a necessary release of pent-up tension. but now, as he sat alone in that empty bar, he realized the devastating consequences of his actions.

the weight of regret pressed down on him, and he knew that there was no going back. he had lost the love of his life, the person who had been his rock, his confidant, his everything. and it was a loss that cut deeper than anything he had ever experienced.

he didn't feel like himself with you ─ it was always "y/n and trevor," an inseparable pair, a team that felt destined for greatness. they had dreams together, plans for a future that included a loving family with two boys and a girl (so that they could protect their sister, like he and griffin had always done with ava), two cats and a dog, and a big house filled with even bigger hearts.

but now, as he sat in that dimly lit bar, all those dreams felt like distant memories from another lifetime. he had watched them crumble, one by one, under the weight of his own mistakes and poor choices. the life they had imagined together had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, leaving only a sense of emptiness in its wake.

in those long and agonizing eight months, trevor tried to fill the void you left in his life with anything and everything he could find. it didn't matter how many girls he met, how much money he made, or how successful he became in the sport he had once sworn to love with all his heart. none of it brought him any real happiness or contentment like you once had.

he had been led astray by the misguided notions of others, who had convinced him that success in his career, fame, and the thrill of one-night stands were what he truly wanted. but now, as he navigated the wreckage of his heart, he realized the painful truth. they were either envious of what he had lost or utterly clueless about how it felt like to be truly in love.

as he stared at the bottom of his glass, the truth hit him like a ton of bricks. how could anyone in their right mind choose a one-night stand over the love of their life? the person they had planned to build a future with, the one who would bear their children, the one they wanted to grow old with ─ you had been his rock, his everything. and he had let it slip through his fingers, foolishly thinking that there was something better out there. now, all he had left were regrets and the painful knowledge that he had made the biggest mistake of his life with even bigger consequences. his eyes stung with unshed tears as he stared down at the now empty glass and he finally let them fall. each teardrop held the weight of his regrets, each one a testament to the love he had let slip through his fingers.

in that moment, he allowed himself to grieve for the love he had lost, for the future that would never be, and for the pain he had inflicted upon himself.

in the cold solitude of that dimly lit bar, he understood that he had gambled away the most precious thing he had ever known (and will ever know), and now he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret.

[glassesntea]

Another sneak peek from my upcoming Levi x fem!reader headcanon

You couldn't shake the feeling that you didn't deserve this, that everything would crumble down, letting misery and sadness flood back again.

You saw Gabi looking at you, a worried expression on her face, "Y/N? Are you okay?"

Even Falco has stopped talking, a similar worry on his eyes "You don't like the stew?"

You gulped. The dread you felt climbing up your throath was slowly ebbing away.

You survived, you were here with people who cared about you.

You were not alone.

"Aha... no, it's fine," you croacked, smiling at the kids. Levi was staring at you as well, but you weren't able to held his gaze for long. It seemed to understand what has passed through your mind and you felt embarassement warming your face.

Don't look at me like that, I don't want anyone's pity.

"And the stew is delicious. Thank you, Falco."

-----

Later on, when the kids came back to their home, you sat down on the couch, reading a book.

You heard Levi approaching the living room, the ritmic tap of his cane stopping at the doorstep. You lifted your eyes from the page and, for some reason, he looked hesitant.

He opened his mouth once, then closing it, as if what he wanted to say eluded him. He limped near the couch, sitting on the other end away from you.

"Y'know..." he tapped his index on the handle of the cane "You don't have to do that."

"Do... what exactly?" You asked, careful not to sound too defensive. He turned his face to look at you, the light of the lamp casting a warm hue on his features. You have noticed that his blind eye was particulary sensitive to the sunlight. You have seen him squinting when you were outside with Onyankopon and the kids two days ago.

He didn't looked bothered by it right now, thankfully.

"Be cheerful like that."

You frowned "Uh? Should I be... miserable instead? Levi I don't know what you're talki..."

"No, wait I..." he tsked, lifting his hand "it came out wrong. What I wanted to say is: you don't have to pretend that you are fine if you are not."

You stayed silent. The old you, the one before the Rumbling, would have deflected his worry with a pleasant façade and a bubbly demeanor. Right now, that girl was chained somewhere deep within you, stunned in her numbness, unable to hide what you truly felt.

"I... I wasn't..." you held your breath for a second, before exhaling " I used to be able to find the positive aspects of everything once. To push forward without thinking much about..." you gestured vaguely "This."

Levi placed his cane to the side, making himself comfortable, leaning back on the couch with a grunt "A lot happened since then. Doesn't mean you should act in a way to make others feel better if you are not."

"Mh. I feel like I don't deserve any of this... not when many others didn't have the same luck."

"You have fought for this life, it wasn't luck. And many lives keep on walking on this earth for the same reason" he lowered his voice "don't do this to yourself, regretting things out of guilt and smothering your feelings won't do you any good."

Your eyes burned but your chest felt lighter, like the weight that crushed your lungs during dinner was suddenly lifted from your body. You sniffed. The book forgotten in your lap.

"I guess you are right. It's just... not easy."

"If it was, we wouldn't be here talking about it."

You snorted "Always the pragmatic, Captain?"

"I mean, you would be with Armin and the others. And... not here."

Oh.

"I don't know about that. But of one thing I'm sure..." you shifted closer, Levi stiffened a bit by your sudden movement but he regarded you with a tinge of confusion "This is the place I want to be regardless of everything. I'm not cut to be an ambassador and despite everything I love being here with the kids, Onyankopon and you. And you may not believe that, but I'm at peace here. I feel like I'm starting to piece my life together."

You placed your hand on his: it twitched, like he wanted to slip away, but in the end you felt the muscles relax. You knew he hated to show his missing fingers, let alone allowing others to touch the area. In your haste you didn't realize it, but to your surprise he squeezed gently and you smiled at him.

"I'm glad." His voice conveyed the same kindness, low and pure. The mellow light of the lamp made the sharp edges of his figure more round, almost youthful.

The eyes... has anyone ever seen this part of him?

As the thought slipped in your mind, the same sensation of three weeks ago came back in your stomach: a buzzing sensation that blurred the edges of everything outside the greyish-blue colour of his iris, the warmth of his skin...

Levi was unmoving. It was difficult to read his face right now. Or maybe it wasn't... because you saw... confusion, yes. Even a smidge of something more profound and vulnerable.

You percived a sense of longing in your chest. A crave for connection. You lowered your eyes to your interwind fingers, just in time to see a current in Levi's other hand that slowly move to cover you, trapping you in an unspoken desire to nearness.

"A-Ah, well, yes. I'm the first to be glad" you slowly but firmly withdraw your hand, and put some distance. Whatever happened, it disappeared like a reflex on the tides. You noticed Levi's expresion closing off again, clearing his throath and crossing his arms, like an armour. He pushed himself farther, like he feared that moment as much as you did.

This tension between you two was something you still didn't understand.

"Well, I'm beat." You streached yourself and got up "Gonna hit off the bed. Do you need me for something?"

"No, get some rest. See you tomorrow" he answered and you hurried toward you room, your heart beating too fast.

I don't know what it was. But I can't allow it out again.

We can't

Upcoming soon

[bellofthemeadow]

Dawn Ends the Night | Chapter 4

Aemond Targaryen x FemReader (Dayne)

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning: All warnings on the Series Masterlist, will update if necessary (Re-iterating, no minors allowed! Thank you)

Chapter Summary: After Aemond saved you, you are presented to court.

Notes: New character unlocked! Hello you guys, I am so happy to be back with a new chapter, its not necessarily a filler chapter, but it is definitely a "move the plot along" chapter. Can you believe that we are still on the same day the Lady Dayne arrive to King's Landing?! Sorry for the snail's pace. but I really like to dig deep into the psyche of the characters. It should start moving a bit faster now.

ALSO, omg you guys were so kind with all the love you gave me, and I am so happy that you are enjoying this story 🥰 Your comments and reblogs are fueling this story, so thank you so much xxx

Unto the story, LMK what you all thinks and if there are some things you would like to see, feel free to tell me 💜💜💜

Love you all

Taglist: @duds31 , @snh96, @lol-im-done, @heavenly1927, @whimsywilde , @queen-123s-posts , @httyd-marauders , @singhfae ,

The Iron Throne

Perros despised King’s Landing he hated everything about it from its oppressive heat to the humidity that was always thick with a constant, putrid stench that reeked of death and desperation. Having lived most of his youth on the streets of Sunspear, he had thought himself familiar with poverty and misery of those of lesser means. Yet, after just a day navigating the Captial’s streets, he realized how mistaken he had been; even the most destitute street urchin in Dorne seemed to live like a king compared to those in Flea Bottom. 

As the evening sky started to fall and dim on their first day in the city, Perros was dumbstruck that his lord would still consent to leave his only daughter to languish in such a dismal place.  Perros had always felt a close connection to his young lady. He had after all, witnessed the young lady’s youth and had watched her grow from a little sapling to an elegant and beautiful cherry tree. He had even been present at her birth, and Perros was certain he was the first outside the immediate family to cradle you after you entered the world –screaming and crying face scrunched up and as red as a little tomato. Perros still vividly remembered how small and fragile you had looked in his large, scarred hands. The future Lady of Starfall, your father had declared. Perros had also been there for your first steps, the first time you went in the Dornish Desert, the first time you had swum in the Torrentine. Perros had seen all of the work and expectations placed on your young shoulders as the future ruling lady of Starfall – and he had seen it all snatched away after the birth of Gerris.  

Perros could still remember when life was simpler, in those days he would follow you around Starfall, ensuring your safety – running after you as you would try to evade your tutors, twirling on your small pudgy legs. Perros may not have been your father by blood, but his love for you was no less than that of a true parent and he had always taken immense pride in your achievements and when your birthright was passed over in favor of your younger brother, Perros had felt such a deep outrage. So much so that he had been willing to take arms in your name. Despite his respect for your father, he could never fully reconcile with the decision to favor Westerosi customs over the Dornish practice of absolute primogeniture, which held no bias against gender in inheritance and would have seen you on the starry seat. This injustice had always kindled a flame of discontent in his heart, and he had vowed that if your father would not, he would always do right by you.  

And today he failed you.  

When your party had just arrived in the city, like when you were a child, you had managed to elude Perros' vigilant watch. He had been so preoccupied with surveying potential threats around the carriage that he hadn't noticed your discreet departure. The mere thought of what could have happened had the one-eyed prince not intervened sent shivers down his spine. He shuddered at the possibilities and although he could not help but find the boy an arrogant sniveling prince that was unworthy of even licking the ground you walked on; he was nonetheless grateful for the boy’s intervention.  

Only a few hours had passed since the turmoil at the market, and following the Queen and the Hand's directive, The Dayne retinue had taken some time to recuperate and prepare for the formal introduction at court. Much to Perros’s amusement, you had taken much of that brief respite to caring for the scruffy young boy you had rescued from the market. You diligently scrubbed him clean, his skin eventually taking on a healthy glow. Later, after Prince Aemond had insisted on being led to your chambers, you even spent part of the afternoon in his company, a fact that Perros found utterly unbecoming of royal decorum. 

He stood guard, silently observing as the prince awkwardly assisted in managing the boy. Aemond held Davos firmly, yet his stiffness and apparent disconnection from the warmth of your smile struck Perros as wholly unsuitable for someone of your worth. In the guard’s eyes, the prince's rigid demeanor and aloofness did not befit someone worthy of your affection or regard. 

After an hour, Perros had gruffly shuffle the dragon prince outside of the room, refusing to listen to his backward grumbling or your insistence that he could stay. While you were changing? Absolutely not. Perros had remained firm, you needed time to prepare before meeting the rest of the dragons and their Hightower kin. Snakes. Snakes wearing dragon skins, but snakes nonetheless, Perros thought.  

Following Prince Aemond's departure, you entrusted Davos and your brother Gerris to the capable hands of your trusted maid, the same one who had taken care of you alongside Perros’ watchful eyes. Athna, with her years of experience and her motherly touch, gently herded the two boys, softly silencing their childish protests, away for a much-needed nap. Gerris, though the young heir to Starfall, was still too tender in years to be formally introduced at court and the bond he had swiftly formed with Davos, it seemed already impossible to separate them – the boys had become friends since their introduction earlier in the day and Davos’ presence in the throne room would be deemed inappropriate. For common born lads do not belong at court with well-bred folk, Perros thought, yet he was welcome and regardless of his birth he was the captain of the guard for House Dayne, had been for the past 15 years. Birth mattered less so in Dorne, perhaps the lad could come with them and leave this putrid city behind, Perros pondered, and Lady Dayne could come back with them and they could all forget about this business.  

Upon his return to escort, you to the throne room, Perros was met with a vision that nearly brought tears to his eyes. There you were, no longer the little girl who hung unto his legs and begged for stories of the desert, but a captivating beauty with wisdom in her eyes. Your dress, a delicate lilac silk intricately embroidered with stars, hugged your form in a way that highlighted your softness and elegance. It was a sight that filled Perros with immense pride, yet also a twinge of sadness. The young charge he had watched over for so many years had blossomed before his eyes into a dignified lady, ready to step into the world. 

"You are a sight for these old eyes, my lady," Perros uttered, his voice quivering with emotions.  

You faced Perros with a gentle, self-effacing smile. "You know, after the day's events, you'd think I'd feel more prepared for this. I mean, I barely escaped having my head chopped off in the street," you said with a light, self-deprecating laugh. "And I have even met my betrothed. And surprisingly, I think we might get along well. But I am still so nervous.”  

Perros let out a snort at your observation. "That boy should count himself fortunate just to breathe the same air as you, my lady," he remarked. 

You playfully rolled your eyes at his comment. "Oh, please, Ser. Le us not speak ill of him. After all, Aemond is a prince – and a most gracious one at that." You teased.  

"A prince of a realm that holds no sway in Dorne," Perros countered dryly. 

Your laughter rang out, light and carefree. "You have quite the knack for diplomacy, Ser," you teased. 

Perros responded with a half-smile. "My sword is the only diplomat I need." 

Your eyes sparkled with mirth. "Perhaps it's best to keep that sort of diplomacy sheathed when we enter the throne room," you suggested with a wink. 

Perros let out a soft snort and watched you attentively as you stood before the mirror, expertly arranging your hair under the elegant hairnet your mother had given you, the shiny strands of your hair framing your face with grace. 

The room fell into a heavy silence, filled only by the soft rustling of your gown. Perros's gaze remained fixed on you, his expression a mix of fondness and concern. His voice, when he finally spoke, was thick with emotion. "My Lady, just give me the word, and I'll whisk you away on the next ship. We can escape to somewhere far from here, away from dragons, from politics. I could take you back to Dorne – to Princess Aliandra. The Martell would look after you!" 

You offered him a melancholic smile, "Your loyalty has always been unwavering, ser Perros," you replied gently. "But we both know fleeing is not an option. It never was an option. I love my family too deeply to abandon them. And as for Prince Aemond..." You paused, your gaze lingering on your reflection as you blushed slightly. "He saved my life. Perhaps being his wife won't be the dreadful fate I once imagined." 

"A cocky dragonling, that's all he is," Perros grumbled under his breath. 

"You have always been overly protective, dear Ser," you said with a soft chuckle. Hugging yourself, you looked thoughtful. "Do you think I can handle it? This life at court?" 

Perros met your soft gaze in the mirror, "There's no one more gracious or better prepared for such a task than you, my lady." His voice betrayed a hint of sadness. "Even if it pains me to say it as it means acknowledging how much you've grown." 

Your smile was bittersweet, as you let out a breathy laugh. "I remember when you'd carry me back to bed after I'd sneak out to watch the stars on the ramparts." 

"I've earned many gray hairs because of you," Perros snorted warmly, "You were a handful, my lady, but you touched my heart. I'd do anything to see you happy." 

"I might not find happiness," you mused, "but perhaps I can find contentment." 

"That's not enough," Perros insisted softly. 

 You looked at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "You know what would truly make me happy, Perros?" 

He straightened, ready for your command. "Just say the word, my lady." 

"I would like you to take care of Davos. Teach him everything you know. I want more for him than the life he's had so far. I do not want him to be alone anymore.” 

Perros snorted gruffly "That little Davos, eh? He's a scrawny thing, but with the right care, I suppose he could grow strong. He's got spirit, that one." 

You nodded. "He is a fighter; he just needs a chance. And with Gerris already taking a liking to him, I'm sure he shall fit right in with the rest of the family." 

Perros raised an eyebrow, skepticism clear in his voice. "And you think the royal family will just accept a Flea Bottom urchin in their midst?" 

You smiled, a hint of mischief in your expression. "Maybe they will have to. I've already spoken to Prince Aemond about it, and he has agreed to discuss it with his mother." 

Perros huffed, "And you trust him?" 

"He's given me no reason not to trust him," you replied steadily. "He saved my life, Perros. And he seemed genuine about helping Davos." 

Perros sighed, the lines on his face deepening with worry. "My lady, your heart is too open, too trusting. It worries me, what others might do with such kindness. You wear this cloak of a ghost, trying to shield yourself, but I see through it.” Perros took a small breath, before softly continuing “Your heart is too large, too exposed. Be cautious, my lady. Don't let them take advantage of your goodness.” 

Approaching Perros, you reached out and wrapped your arms around the seasoned guard, holding him tight. "You've always been my rock, Perros. Believe in me a little, will you? You have taught me everything I know after all. " You softly admitted.  

Perros returned the hug, his tone laced with a hint of regret. "I only wish I had more time to teach you... But you remember, don't you? How to defend yourself if necessary?" 

Your laughter was light at his words, "I don't anticipate the need, Perros, but yes, I remember. Between the ribs to make it hurt, straight to the heart to make it quick.”  

He nodded sagely. "And subtly, to leave no trace?" 

"I'm not planning on poisoning my betrothed, Perros!" you chuckled, shaking your head. 

"Just ensuring you're prepared, my lady," Perros replied protectively.  

You smiled warmly. "Thank you, Perros. But let us keep discussions of poison out of these walls, please." 

"I'll do my best, my lady," he promised, his expression softening.  

The sound of knocking interrupted the moment. "My lady, it's time. The court awaits," called a voice from outside.  

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself. "No backing down now,” you took a deep breath “Time dance with some dragons.”  

The grandeur of the Targaryen (or perhaps Hightower?) court was a striking blend of both everything you expected and the unimaginable. Its vastness and opulence were just as you had envisioned – expansive windows casting brilliant light across the room, the pervasive symbols of the Seven adorning the walls, and the hall itself, immense in its scale. Dominating the space was the Iron Throne, a chilling emblem of Aegon the Conqueror's might, forged from the molten swords of a thousand defeated foes.  

Yet, as you beheld the throne, a surge of Dornish pride swelled within you. Dorne, after all, had never yielded to the dragonlords. The words of House Martell, "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," resonated with a deeper meaning, but it was your own house, House Dayne, that had historically been the shield of the Torrentine. You remembered the tales of your ancestors, steadfastly repelling invaders, or in times of desperation, slowing their advance to buy precious time for the other houses of Dorne to prepare. 

House Dayne had endured much at the hands of the dragons and the Hightowers, but in this moment, amidst the intimidating splendor of the Iron Throne, you felt a sense of covert triumph. Today, it was your family that held a pivotal position of influence, and this knoweldge filled you with quiet confidence as you stood before the throne, the legacy of your house a silent yet potent force at your back. 

Upon nearing the foot of the Iron Throne, your attention was inexorably drawn to Prince Aemond. Positioned regally to the right, he presented a stark contrast to the man you had encountered earlier. His silver hair, which had previously hung loosely, now was arranged in an elegant half-updo, lending him an air of refined sophistication. Dressed in what appeared to be the finest black leather, he exuded an aura of princely dignity, enhanced by the presence of a longsword at his hip. With his hands neatly clasped behind his back, he observed your approach with a piercing blue eye, sharp and discerning. Almost predatory. 

This frigid version of your intended seemed worlds apart from the one who had awkwardly, yet warmly, helped you with Davos. The raw protectiveness he had displayed in the market was now cloaked behind a facade of cool detachment. Standing there, he seemed carved from marble, exuding an air of untouchable, statuesque grandeur, he appeared as a figure from the legends, the embodiment of a Dragon Lord. Observing him in the shadow of the Targaryen throne, standing tall and imperious, it was easy to believe the tales told by the smallfolk – that the Targaryens were more akin to gods than men. Yet, as you stood there, a small smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. This fearsome Dragon lord, Aemond One-Eyed, was the same man who had been struck by a soapy sponge just hours before. The memory of Aemond, momentarily caught off guard and spluttering with indignation, as Davos and Gerris were cackling with glee had somewhat shattered the formidable image he now presented. 

Your gaze swiftly swept past Prince Aemond, landing on the figure seated next to him – from the dark green doublet with the golden pin on his breast, the man could only be Otto Hightower, the hand of the king. Notably absent was the King himself, rumors of the King's failing health had reached Dorne, but to see the throne unoccupied during such a crucial introduction – your presentation as his son’s betrothed and as the first Dornish retinue on Westerosi soil since the Conquest – hinted at a deeper malaise within the realm. 

You pondered whether the King's absence played into the Hightowers' favor. With no monarch to potentially disrupt their schemes, Otto Hightower's influence was unmistakably clear – no number of dragons or wildfire would change that fact; the Hightowers ruled here. Otto’s eyes, sharp and calculating, met yours. There was an almost tangible weight to his gaze, as if he were measuring your worth, gauging whether you would be an asset to his plans or an unforeseen hindrance. 

Next to the throne, your gaze settled on a woman of sophisticated poise with a cascade of dark auburn hair. She was clad in an exquisite gown of deep green samite, the high neckline accentuating her stately bearing. Her attire was accentuated by ruffles of a darker shade at her wrists, and her neck was adorned with a striking necklace of emeralds and onyx, shaped into the symbol of the Seven-pointed star. This must be Queen Alicent, you reasoned. 

Yet, for all her poised appearance, you could discern a subtle undercurrent of anxiety that seemed to ripple beneath her calm facade. It was as if each of her measured movements and serene expressions were carefully orchestrated to mask an inner turmoil that screamed to be released. What mask would you need to wear after your marriage? A face of practiced contentment? Or would you need to seem as cold and lethal as the blades forming the throne, and keep your Dornish warmth to the confine of your husband’s arms? Would he even welcome your warmth, a traitorous voice murmured in your head.  

The Hand of the King's voice broke the silence of the court. "It is my privilege to welcome House Dayne to our court. We greet our Dornish brothers and sisters, and the realm rejoices in embracing them back into its fold." The words, spoken with a calculated warmth, hung in the air, but their reception among the courtiers was mixed. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and you could feel the undercurrent of barely veiled disdain for your kin. 

As you stood there, your mother's firm grip on your bicep served as a silent reminder of the facade you needed to maintain, while your father's smile, a practiced mask that barely concealed the distaste in his eyes, echoed the sentiments of your own heart. 

“Dorne has long sought friendship between our two noble and valiant kingdoms," your father began, his voice smooth and measured. "As lord of house Daynes, whose lineage traces back to the Dawn Age, it is my honor to mend the rifts that have long divided our kin. And given today’s events, perhaps a touch of Dornish wisdom is precisely what this city needs.” 

 Otto visibly bristled at your father's veiled critique. “Indeed, an unfortunate incident," he conceded, his words tinged with a forced calmness. "Though, it must be said, had your daughter adhered to the expected bearing of a lady—safely ensconced within her carriage—such an unpleasantness might have been averted.” 

Your father opened his mouth to respond, but you swiftly interjected, your tone honeyed yet edged with steel. “Or perhaps the crown should offer a timely reminder for the city watch that an overzealous exercise of power is not always necessary or justified." 

A collective intake of breath echoed through the room; Otto's face contorted like someone who had sucked on a sour lemon. He quickly masked his reaction, regaining his poise. "Indeed, my lady. A most astute observation. Perhaps you would grace one of our small council meetings with your insights. We would be most delighted to benefit from your wisdom." 

The throne room buzzed with suppressed snickers and whispers. Mocking. Mocking you. Mocking your ideas and your lineage, bastards you thought. Meanwhile, you noticed Aemond, his fists clenched in barely contained anger seething next to his grandfather.  

With a poised smile that belied the storm brewing within, you replied, "I would welcome such an opportunity, Your Grace. I am heartened by your gracious invitation." 

Otto's brow furrowed, readying a sharp retort, but before the words could leave his lips, Queen Alicent smoothly stepped in. "We are indeed relieved that you emerged from the ordeal unharmed, my lady," she began, her voice calm yet carrying across the room. The murmur of courtiers filled the air as she continued. "My son Aemond has spoken highly of your courage, particularly your selfless act in defending a young boy at great risk to yourself." Her gaze swept across the assembly, her expression one of sincere admiration. "Such gallantry is truly commendable and speaks volumes of your character. It has always been my belief that the woman who would marry my son must possess a resilience of spirit. I am glad that it turned out to be the case, my lady." 

Trust. This was the unspoken question that hung heavy in the air. Are you with us or against us? Her gaze seemed to demand. What role will you play in this game of thrones, and how will you influence my son? The queen’s warm gaze seemed to demand. 

What was your endgame? Even you could not definitively say. Your heart pulsed with your love for your homeland, the desire to serve your family, to protect those you cherished. But could you extend that loyalty to this new, intertwined Hightower-Targaryen lineage? Could they become your family too? 

Your eyes flicked towards Aemond, whose demeanor was a volatile mix of restraint and simmering anger. A wrong word and he looked like he might explode. The words of his grandfather seemed to have struck a nerve, yet there was something more beneath that tempestuous surface. In the brief hours since your paths had crossed, he had shattered the rumors of his cold-hearted nature, showing glimpses of kindness and vulnerability. Could you learn to understand... nay to love this enigmatic prince who had saved your life? To become his partner, a bridge between Dayne and Targaryen, nurturing future heirs who would one day soar the skies on dragonback? Your mind wandered, envisioning a child with silver hair and laughing eyes, astride a majestic purple dragon, Dawn gleaming in their small hand. 

"I too am relieved, Your Grace," you replied respectfully. "Prince Aemond's actions were both brave and just. His courage in defending not only me but also the ideals of his house was commendable. You have every reason to be proud of him." 

Alicent's expression softened at your words, you had said the right thing apparently. She stepped forward, her movement graceful and composed, and gently took your hands in hers. She smiled, and there was warmth in her eyes, trying to get a read on you, on your intention. She seemed satisfied with what she saw because she slowly tugged you with her toward the dais. Your parents' expressions briefly registered surprise and a touch of apprehension at this unexpected development as you were drawn away from them. 

With your hands still clasped in the queen's, she led you closer to the throne, positioning you beside Prince Aemond. A flicker of panic crossed his features as you stood there, a mere breath away from him, you could feel the twitches of his fingers next to your hands- his presence was so overwhelming it was almost crushing.  You could hear Queen Alicent (or was it the Hand?) drone on in front of the court, but all you could feel, hear and see was Aemond.  

"Prince Aemond," you whispered playfully. 

Aemond, his voice equally low replied, "Lady Dayne." 

"It is a pleasure to see you again, my prince," you continued, the corners of your mouth curving into a subtle smile. 

"We saw each other merely two hours ago, my lady." he pointed out. 

"A lifetime for some prince Aemond," you quipped lightly. "I would have thought my absence might weigh heavily on my betrothed's heart." 

Aemond appeared momentarily lost for words, his usual composure faltering. While Queen Alicent continued her discourse on duty and loyalty, you maintained a facade of rapt attention, though a sly smile played on your lips.  

"Surely, you have missed me in these past few hours, my prince?" you murmured under your breath, the hint of a tease in your tone. "A betrothed left unmissed is a grievous oversight, would you not you agree?" Aemond, caught off guard, struggled to respond. 

Reproachfully, Aemond looked at you with a glower of distrust "You find amusement in mocking me, my lady?" 

"No, only in the delightful shade of pink you turn when lightly ribbed," you teased, observing as his ears flushed a deeper shade. 

Aemond cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "It has been some time since anyone dared to make such jests with me. To tease a dragonrider takes a certain fearlessness. Some would say stupidity even." 

"Is the great Vhagar present in this room, then?" you inquired with mock seriousness. "I see no mighty she-dragon poised to devour me." 

A soft chuckle escaped Aemond's lips, but it was cut short by a stern glance from his grandfather. The Hand's disapproval was evident and was seeping through his every pore, which you could see even from his position on the throne. Was Otto Hightower regretting the alliance already? How quickly to make an antagonist of one of the most powerful men in the realm, this calls for an award, you thought morosely. 

“I pray that Davos has recuperated from the ordeal?” 

You smile, “It depends; the attack in the market or the forced bath? If it's the former, I believe he has bounced back quite resiliently. As for the bath, well, I fear the poor boy might carry that trauma for some time, given the intensity of his protests. 

You glanced at Aemond's hair playfully, "I must say, your hair seems to have weathered the soapy siege remarkably well. I'm relieved, really. It would have been a tragedy to see such fine, silken locks come to any harm." 

Aemond's response was a tad unimpressed "You do me too much honour with your flattery, my lady," he sarcastically uttered. Then, in a softer voice, he added, "I'm relieved to hear the boy has not been too deeply affected by today's ordeal." 

You nodded, "Davos is a resilient child. For now, I have entrusted him to the care of my knight, Ser Perros. He is to teach Davos everything he once taught me. I have every hope that he will grow to be strong and fearless, never again to be a victim of brutality." 

"Is it a customary practice in Dorne for a knight to oversee a young lady's upbringing?" Aemond inquired. 

You offered a light shrug, "Ser Perros was not responsible for my formal education, but he ensured I would never be defenseless. Despite what transpired in the market, I assure you, I am far from helpless." 

Aemond's voice was soft, his gaze still fixed ahead as Queen Alicent continued her discourse. "I would not dare to think otherwise, my lady," he said. "Your courage outshines that of many men of greater size and strength. I myself know of a young boy who would have wished for nothing more than to have a guardian as valiant as you when the time called for it." 

Twice now, Aemond had mentioned this young boy - once at the market and again just moments ago. Curiosity bubbled within you. Who was this boy? Did Aemond genuinely know him, or was this some sort of strategy to charm you? To humanize himself to you? Your gaze discreetly swept over his striking profile: the pronounced aquiline nose, the defined jawline, and the sharp cheekbones – you feared you could cut yourself on him if you got too close. By the Gods, it was so unfair – this man was such a beautiful specimen, a perfect blend of sharp angles and elegance. You could almost feel homely when standing next to him. Almost. You had seen the hungry looks from some of the male courtiers when you had first entered the throne room, Perros had almost taken some heads before the formal introduction had begun.  

As you stood beside Aemond, carefully positioned by Queen Alicent on his unscarred side, your eyes couldn't help but drift to his face. The sight of his lone, good eye, clear and intense, pulled at something deep within you. A curious urge overtook you, a desire to reach out and gently touch the leather patch that covered his other eye, to silently convey that his imperfections held no sway over your perception of him. The loneliness and hurt that lingered in his gaze were palpable, almost tangible in their intensity. You knew little about the prince beside you, but perhaps, in time, you and Aemond would find the words to share your stories, to reveal the journeys that had shaped you both into who you were today. 

The commanding voice of the Hand resonated through the hall, snapping you back to reality and away from the small bubble you had created with Aemond. 

"With the formalities now concluded, we can finally rejoice in the joyous celebration to mark the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Aemond, to a noble daughter of House Dayne. May their union be enduring and bountiful, heralding a new era of prosperity and unity for both our houses. This wedding, under the watchful eyes of gods and men, shall be a beacon of hope and unity, shining brightly against the backdrop of our bloody histories.” Otto Hightower paused, his eyes sweeping over the assembled courtiers with deliberate calculation. "In four moon’s time," he began, his voice laden with nuanced implications, "the Seven Kingdoms will welcome a new princess into its fold. This auspicious union will not only fortify the bonds between our houses but will also herald a new epoch of strength and unity for House Targaryen and all its true and devoted allies. It is a time where loyalty shall be rewarded, and the true power of allegiances will be unveiled. Now comes the time when we must take care to distinguish friends from foes, and I am grateful to call House Dayne, and the whole of Dorne, true friends of the crown." 

 The weight of Otto's words hung in the air, its sinister undertones sending a shiver down your spine. You felt a wave of apprehension washed over you. You knew why you were here, your father and Prince Quoren had warned you of the green’s plot and yet, your heart raced nonetheless. You had not thought that Otto Hightower would be so... blatant in his desire for power and the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a physical force. 

 It was then you felt a gentle but firm pressure on your hand. Glancing sideways, you saw Aemond, his expression inscrutable, not even looking at you, but his warm, large hand enveloped your smaller shaking one in a soft grip. It was as if he, too, sensed the burgeoning unease within you, and offered a silent reassurance. His touch, surprisingly warm and grounding, was a small comfort amidst the rising tide of fear and uncertainty. In that moment, the prince, spoken of in whispers of terrors, felt less like a stranger and more like a friend.  

Leaning closer, his presence a comforting shadow, Aemond's lips hovered near your ear, his breath a warm caress against your skin. His whisper was barely audible, yet clear, "Might I have the pleasure of your company tomorrow to break our fast, my lady?"  

The soft intimacy of the moment caused a warm blush to rise on your cheeks. "It would be my joy," you responded with surprised. You did mean it truly; you would be delighted to eat with Aemond tomorrow.  

"Shall we say at dawn?" he suggested, “Or is that too early, my Lady?”  

"Dawn is quite perfect, my prince– any later and I would feel robbed of your presence” you ribbed.  

"Is this to be our fate? For you to tease me until the end of days?" Aemond’s good eye slides over to you, inscrutable yet vulnerable.  

Biting your lip in a moment of contemplation, "If it displeases you, I can refrain, my lord." you offered shyly trying to tug your hand back – but Aemond refused to let go.  

His reply was swift, his tone soft yet earnest. "No, please... never stop," he murmured with a naked vulnerability that touched you. "My lady." 

You gently squeezed his hand, offering a silent gesture of comfort and understanding, "Dawn it is then," you affirmed softly. 

Next Chapter - Interlude

[yandere-toons]

DEATH AND DIGNITY

Yandere!Death the Kid – Platonic Scenario

WARNING: use of firearms, strong violence, toxic mindset.

WORD COUNT: 4.881

HOUR AFTER HOUR, from the time the sun climbed up the stars to the time it sank below the horizon, with every fanciful stroke of a tired pen, Kid poured onto paper the thoughts that would not leave him.

These thoughts gnawed at his mind like termites at rotten wood, consuming it bit by bit until what once was stable now teetered on the precipice of collapse. This flight of passion was a waking nightmare that haunted his every movement.

His right hand, which clutched the pen as though glued to it, exploded into a fit of shakes after forcing itself to remain stiff for a final sentence. The words that lay before him disgusted him more than the most fetid odour, and with an anguished cry, Kid tore the page free of the notebook.

“It's not good enough!” His yell was dripping with frustration, frustration with himself, the look of the letter and its intended recipient. The noise carried on the silent air of the mansion and shattered the peace of many a slumber.

It rounded corners and slipped underneath closed doors, ushering two pairs of haggard footsteps from a plush bed. Kid was deaf to this series of thumps, for what filled his ears was a combination of mumbles and rustles.

A few strips of paper had been severed from the rest and stuck to the spine while Kid pounded the majority into a ball and hurled it into the metal wastebasket beside the desk. As the wastebasket rattled, Kid slammed his elbows into the flat top of the desk, hunched over in his seat, and cradled his face in his palms.

“Kid?” Liz called, surprise and concern intertwined. “You okay?” She hesitated to ask, fearful of what had dragged such pain from him in the dead of night.

Bare feet brushed stone as Liz took another step towards him, and this one brought her to the foot of the desk. She looked down at the back of Kid's head and leaned forward to get a better view of him.

Kid did not meet her gaze. Perhaps, he had deemed himself unworthy of it, or perhaps, he had not the strength. “If I don't get it right, they'll think I'm garbage.” The misery in his voice told the story of someone who had given up on proving anyone wrong.

Liz saw how many pages were missing from the notebook and how packed the wastebasket was becoming, and she understood how steep the cliff was from which Kid dangled. “No, they won't. Just go with whatever you have left.”

On any of the nights that came before, he went to sleep at the same rigid bedtime. On this night, Liz observed, he quested for something that eluded him.

His eyes were glazed with manic confusion and open wide despite the dark circles surrounding them. His fingers danced across the desk as if it was hot to the touch, finding solace in digging each nail into the wooden surface.

Kid finally blinked after a full minute of staring at the next blank page in the notebook. In a shaky breath that teased the arrival of tears, he whispered, “I can't stop, Liz.”

It was not a declaration of determination or some great desire, but rather, it was a desperate recitation of the fact that he was, at that moment, as he had been at countless others, a slave to his obsessive thoughts.

They looped in his mind without end, threatening devastation if they were ignored and withholding his ability to relax until he wrote a particular string of words exactly as he had imagined them in his head.

Dozens of failed attempts sat in a stack inside the wastebasket.

Patty squatted in front of it with a curious laugh, collected a few balls of paper off the top, and began crafting an origami giraffe. She hummed a merry tune as she smoothed the trash and then folded it into a work of art, which earned a slight smile from her big sister.

Kid, however, was dead to everything but the blank page and the pen in his hand. He moved to quell the thoughts that suffocated him, and Liz grabbed his hand and guided it away from the page.

She frowned at the coldness of his skin and narrowed her eyes at his shallow breaths. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

He looked at her as though it was his first time hearing the word “eat” and was puzzled by its lack of apparent relevancy to his task. As the fact that a world existed outside of writing the letter washed over Kid in a slow wave, he turned his head back to the notebook and mumbled, “No. There was no time for that.”

Patty jumped up and spread herself across the desk, lying on her stomach and kicking the air. She stretched her arms towards Kid and shoved an origami giraffe in his face. “Give them this! Everybody loves giraffes!”

If she had taken a pack of crayons to it, one could have mistaken it for a real baby giraffe.

Kid eyed the origami giraffe and instinctively judged whether slicing it in half would produce equal pieces. A vertical slice would, he deduced, and he accepted it with both hands.

* * *

KID'S HOUSE WAS A CASTLE pulled from a gothic storybook, its walls adorned with tentacled skulls and red spikes, and its grass home to a garden of guillotines. Being in it was like stepping into a different universe, one where each room mirrored itself on opposite sides.

Every red-carpeted staircase footed the traffic of dozens of guests, and all the linen-draped tables threw their candlelit shadows upon the stone floor. The floor had been scrubbed and buffed until no scratch was in sight, as you noticed your reflection on the monochromatic rock.

Peering through one of the arched windows of the aptly named Gallows Mansion yielded the moon-tipped glint of a cast-iron fence, its spear-like bars pointing at the purple sky and spreading from a locked gate.

The music of the student body enjoying a break rang loud over the jazzy piano emitting from a gramophone. Its needle traced the grooves in an old disc, tucked into the corner of the walls bordering the right side of the central staircase.

Doing so much as lifting a piece of food from the lines of prearranged plates seemed a disservice, as if you were sullying a priceless creation meant to be looked at, not touched. The air smelt of salads, turkey legs and mashed potatoes with peas, leaving a zesty bunch of crumbs on everyone's tongue but your own.

Kid bopped himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand: “Idiot!” He hissed the word through clenched teeth and pushed his eyes to the floor, his breathing rattled and his once-steady hands curling into fists.

“Of course, they don't like it!” The bite of self-disgust in his voice was potent, but when Kid snuck a glance your way to catch you scanning the other partygoers with boredom, his heart punched his ribcage. “They're not having a good time,” he muttered, “I need to fix this.”

After patting imaginary dust from the clothes he had ironed twice before the party started, Kid took a deep breath through his nose and straightened his posture to the point of stiffness. A stony composure washed over his face and unwound the wrinkles clinging to it.

Kid departed from his group of friends, who were humouring the blue-haired Black☆Star as he stood atop a table and dramatised the events of his latest victory, and only one of them noticed.

The squeak of dress shoes pivoting on the stone floor alerted you to the sight of Kid sliding into the space beside you. He had aligned himself with you, facing the same direction as you and standing at the same distance from the nearest table as you were.

He wore black suspenders over a dark tie and a cedar brown dress shirt, like a classy gent out for a stroll, giving him a muted appearance that would have been easy to overlook in the crowd if not for his half-striped hair.

“I couldn't help but notice that the catering is not to your liking.” Kid recited the line that he had been refining in his head and repeating under his breath on the way over. “Rest assured, the menu will have greatly improved by the next party.”

As he turned to you, his arms came round from behind his back. “In the meantime, please accept this as a token of my apology.”

Kid presented an origami giraffe with the spirit of a chef peeling off the lid of a silver platter. He had closed his eyes, but when his anxieties about somehow grabbing the wrong item sprouted, he reopened them to study the gift in his hands.

“Patty wanted me to give it to you.” He stumbled on the name, as if he had intended to say a different one, but faltered just as the sound came out.

You tucked the giraffe underneath your arm, nodded at him, and offered a smile that Kid had yet to see you bear for any other person. “Tell her it's the finest gift I've ever received.”

Something bloomed on your face, an untroubled excitement that quieted the worries swirling round his mind about whether the dimensions of the paper giraffe were still symmetrical. “I heard about your last assignment!”

It was at that moment that Kid lost himself, his mask of calm slipping to betray unabashed interest. The hunt for maleficent souls had not occurred to him once that night. These villains were as much fair game as a wild hog, yet here he was, fretting about matters that he now wondered if his father would deem trivial.

Your eyes flitted to your pocket, which your free hand dipped inside with a purpose. “It sounds like dangerous work, so I made you this.”

A ringlike shadow flew over Kid, and then a necklace found its place on him. It was symmetrical, just as he would like it to be. It was also homemade, a truth that dawned on him like the first ray of sunshine after a storm.

“It's a good luck charm!” was how you described it, but he was too far gone into a spiral of hopeful theories to register this.

Kid cradled the necklace in the palm of his hand, and he saw the effort you had poured into making it. In that instant, it was a promise, a wish fulfilled, a dream realised.

When he gazed at you again, time had frozen for him. The surrounding chatter about upcoming exams and who had collected how many souls from voices of varying pitches and tones shifted to a similar, insignificant buzz, as did everything else but the rapid beats of his pulse.

His arms began to outstretch towards your face with the awe of someone daring to reach out to something godly. Kid took the sides of your head in his hands, applying a firm yet careful pressure that suggested both the need to admire and the fear of causing ruin.

In a half-breathless whisper, he said, “Of all the souls I've seen, yours possesses symmetry unparalleled.”

It was the type of compliment one might expect to hear while dancing under glittering chandeliers on the marble floor of a ballroom, intimate yet formal. From the mouth of a god who personally folded the tips of every roll of toilet paper in his mansion into triangles and abandoned missions to centre the painting in his living room, it was the type of compliment that had you walking with your head held high.

A wine glass full of apple cider hit the floor and shattered against the stone.

Kid recoiled as if he had been slugged in the gut, a twitch invading his eye while his face warped into a look of pure horror. The shattering of the glass was a high-pitched explosion that clawed his brain, which overflowed with images of the apple cider tainting his spotless floor.

When Kid thrust his head towards the source of the disaster, his gaze met that of Liz, who was standing in front of a nearby table with Patty.

He stormed to her table and arched his back, careful not to step in the orangish puddle of drink and broken glass. “Liz! How could you? Do you have any idea how long it takes to make this floor sparkle?” The words gushed out of his mouth like a waterfall, not stopping to breathe or allow for another's response.

As his agitated rant about needing to scrub the room again rolled over her ears, Liz raised her arm and rubbed the back of her head with a forced chuckle. “Whoops! Guess I'm a little clumsy tonight.”

Patty skipped after her big sister, only to pause and set her mouth agape when she took a peek at you. “Huh?” She tilted her head and leaned towards you with her hands sticking outwards.

“Hey!” shouted Patty, drawing the short word into a lengthy stretch of surprise that pulled joy at her lips. “You're who Kid's always talking about!”

Kid caught his breath mid-sentence, and he veered towards her as panic etched itself across his face. “Patty!” His sheepish outcry reverberated through the atrium and gathered the attention of various partygoers, who disregarded their previous conversations and proceeded to rubberneck.

She turned to him and cocked her head with an innocent hum. “What is it, Kid?”

He dashed behind her and began pushing her back to the table where Black☆Star was devouring his third dish. Patty did not resist, merely staring over her shoulder at him.

As soon as you were out of his sight, the repetitive thoughts returned to swarm his mind like flies flocking to the smell of carrion.

* * *

FROM THE MOMENT that it was flung over his head to the moment that he walked the streets of Death City on this overcast twilight, Kid had not removed the necklace for any reason for even a second.

He kept it near his heart, circling his spearpoint collar and framing his skull brooch of pure metal as if his heart would cease to beat without it.

Liz had glimpsed him cleaning it and polishing it when he thought he was alone, and on three separate occasions, she had questioned him about his preoccupation. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Kid always replied, eyes half-closed with disinterest and tone one of steely resolve. “I'm simply caring for a friend's gift.”

He was chasing a fantasy, and it seemed that everyone except him knew that. Every few minutes, he reached for the necklace and touched it, holding it for a bit to confirm that it had not disappeared since the last time he checked.

Shimmers of a napping sun poked through the cloud bank and dappled the cobblestone road ahead. The rhythm of his footsteps, a deliberate pattern of Kid counting the number of brown and grey stones, was broken by a scream.

It was the scream of glass as it shattered into a downpour of shards jumping on the street, and it dotted the cobblestones where Kid would have rested his feet if not for the hulking man blocking his path.

His mask was akin to the head of a devil, with bicorn ears and a drill-like nose. It glared down at Kid from under the rows and rows of fluorescent lights spewing out of adjacent buildings.

He had donned the red spandex and yellow cape of a superhero from the comic books of yore, but the sack he lugged over his shoulder was brimming with gold bars.

The surprise that had opened Kid's eyes and mouth wide died away with a surge of opportunistic confidence. “You evaded me once, Lupin. I can assure you it will not happen again.” He extended one arm to Patty and the other to Liz, prompting them to exchange brief nods.

The sisters vanished into beams of pinkish-white light, and there in his hands materialised a pair of silver Beretta M9s. Kid held them upside down and crossed his outstretched arms into an X-shape, with his pinkies hooked on the triggers.

“You think I'll just stand here and take it?” was all Lupin bothered to say before his free hand scooped a wooden handle out of his boot.

No sooner than Kid saw the glint of a dagger did he yank the pistols towards his face and form a protective barrier of steel and tailored sleeves.

The blade was so swift and the cut so clean that he was scarcely aware of where it had struck. His ignorance persevered until the glimmer of something caught his eye as it was split in twain and ripped from its home about his neck, and the answer drove a graver pain into him than the sharpest spear.

The necklace, a sliver of yourself that you had so graciously bestowed on Kid, lay battered at his feet.

The shock lasted only for as long as it took him to stumble backwards and regain his footing. He had enjoyed the gift so much that it became indestructible in his mind, and to see it reduced to what a passer-by would call garbage was the most dastardly of transgressions.

It was then that the pang of sorrow, which paralysed him like a snake's venom, bled into a frenzy that shook his heart and twisted his innards into knots. A lonely kind of fear crept up his spine, the kind that saw isolation in crowds and focused on every detail of imperfection.

The slice had been at an angle, dooming one piece to be longer than the other. That cretin, Kid thought, had not the decency to damage it symmetrically. By robbing the necklace of its symmetry, he spat on your hard work and perverted his connection to you.

Thuds of boots on stone approached him in a flurry, and Kid spun his head towards the noise to see Lupin rearing his dagger in preparation for another swing. Kid drew his twin pistols before Lupin could do him any more harm and, at point-blank range, planted two shots in his chest.

“You wretched pig!” Kid bellowed vitriol with the ferocity of a vindictive god, and during that momentary surrender to his darker impulses, that was what he had become.

He pulled the triggers again and again as quickly as they reset. The flashes of light were brilliant and tinged with pink, an oblique hail of his very soul.

To Lupin, who it blew to the ground, and the dagger knocked free of his grasp, it was inescapable like the claws of fate reaching down to take a swipe at him.

The barrage of shots had mangled the body beyond recognition, yet Kid fired at it still. He unloaded his virtually infinite magazine until the bones turned to powder and the cobblestone was chock-full of holes.

His hold on the pistols' grips was ironclad enough to crush a windpipe, a fact that unnerved Liz into shouting through the din, “Kid! You can stop now!”

The shadow of Kid stretched far as he loomed over the dead Lupin. His teeth, clenched until aching, glistened with spit while sweat traced the sides of his head. The incessant twitch in the corners of his lips complemented the wrathful look in his eye, the look of vengeance outpouring.

When the flood of bangs ended, the air, so thick with tension, begged for an encore. Kid swung his arms downward in a manner both snappy and rigid. Trails of smoke wafted from the barrels of the pistols, hissing and crackling.

The chipper, excitable voice of Patty rang out in the coming silence. “Woah! He's got spooky eyes!” Like a child to whom death was a game, she laughed.

As Kid turned back to the necklace and softened his scowl, the rage that had consumed him faded into hollow depths. In its place, a sense of shame swept over him like wind over dunes.

Kid dropped his weapons at once and fell to his knees. The sound of the pistols clattering to either side of his feet, as well as the immediate protests from Liz, went unheard.

For a while, all he could do was stare at the ruined necklace as if at the burial of a dear friend. Terror squeezed his stomach and seized all warmth from him, the anguish about what you might think of his failure to protect your gift, about a mistake that you may believe was intentional or evocative of his shortcomings.

When Kid retrieved the necklace, it was a heap of pieces that would never be whole again. His lips began to quiver, and he became misty-eyed.

He kept pushing the broken ends together, whimpering like a kicked dog when nothing stopped him from pulling them apart as effortlessly as he breathed.

Tears dripped from his eyes and plopped on the skin of his hands in streaks that rolled down the base of his thumbs. Some dangled there on the edges of his fingers, while others plummeted to the cobblestone and stained it with dark spots.

A shudder had begun to invade his body as if a cold wind was blowing through the room that only touched him. His hands closed around the remains of the necklace until his fists could be no tighter, and then Kid slumped in defeat.

“They entrusted me with this.” His voice rose from a desolate whisper to a high-pitched lament that threatened to crack under the tears straining his throat. “And I failed them.”

Even with the towering shape of the DWMA on the horizon, you had never seemed farther away from him than you did now.

Liz looked on, arms akimbo and eyes crinkled in suspense, and debated whether to console him or chastise him.

Patty raised one finger to her chin and observed his woe with a wide-eyed, curious gaze. She had parted her lips slightly, and a howl of laughter was bubbling on them.

“I don't deserve to live anymore,” cried Kid. He pressed his fists against his temples as if his brain was throbbing and wept into the dimly lit expanse of the deserted street.

Liz sighed through her nose and turned to Patty, who bent forward from cackling and slapping her knee. “Come on, Patty.”

The instant she said this, the two sisters knelt at Kid's side. Patty slammed her palm into his back time after time as if she were performing some crude version of the Heimlich maneuver on him. “You gave them a giraffe, so there's no way they can hate you now!”

Liz set her wary eye upon the scattered remains of Lupin, upon that display of a life ended in seconds with barely any trail to prove that it had existed. “Kid, we should tell your dad.”

His head snapped up, and the outflow of tears paused. “Yes,” he mumbled, “yes, you're right.” Kid stuffed each piece of the necklace into his pocket and then rushed away from the skeleton, lifting both hands to his collar and straightening it.

He banished all distress from his countenance and shut his eyes. When they opened, the back of his hands lay sideways against his lapels. He twisted his wrists and curled his fingers before extending his arms frontwards, tucking his middle and ring fingers into his palms while splaying his thumbs, index fingers and pinkies.

Orbs of violet light expanded at his fingertips and enveloped his hands in a sizzling, sparking glow that shot forth onto the cobblestone. It exploded in a ball of purple fire like a comet's tail and, with searing heat whipping the hem of Kid's uniform, branded the face of Death into the ground.

The brilliance of the flames shone across every speck of wall and window in the street. Disembodied souls of the dead emerged from Kid as strips of darkness silhouetted against this light, their ghostly shapes bobbing and pulling away from him with expressions of permanent terror.

The trio of holes that acted as Death's eyes and nose touched the reddish sky in blazing cylinders of light, and an angular figure cloaked in black appeared in the upward wind that followed.

Death, God to many and Dad to few, looked back at Kid through the same white mask that had rendered him unreadable in the days of early childhood. Even with eyes that judged the souls of all living beings, Kid could only guess his father's emotions until he talked.

“Hiya, Kiddo! Learn anything new?” He spoke with the goofy voice and exaggerated mannerisms of a cartoon character from the black-and-white era of television.

As he maintained heavy eye contact with his father, Kid resembled a statue carved out of stone so that it may never shed a tear. He stood erect, his dry tone betraying a hint of disdain. “You can scratch one name off your list.”

From her spot just beyond a car's length behind him, Liz stood beside her sister and squinted at Kid. Patty was still finding amusement in how funny Lupin's skull looked with no jaw bone and only half a cranium, while Liz struggled to parse the venom that laced Kid's words.

Death leaned towards Kid to the point where his mask was all that was visible, turning his head so that one eyehole was nearer to Kid than the other. “Oh? And which one would that be?”

Kid was conscious of his red-rimmed eyes, but he forced his lips into a straight line and smothered the urge to contort his face and resume crying. Instead, a hateful coldness flowed into his pronunciation of the name that he spat from his tongue as if it were a piece of rotten food. “Lupin.”

“Ah, can't say I'm sad to see him go!” chuckled Death, shrugging and retreating to his former position. “He must've gotten lazy after last time!” He bounced as he said this and stuck out his arms with palms upturned.

On his hands were oversize gloves, the bulky and puffy variety that devoted sports fans jiggled in support of their favourite teams. No part of Death's natural form was exposed, all of it concealed under cloth and mask.

Kid allowed his eyes to narrow and his brows to furrow. He delayed blinking, fearing that the movement would encourage another tear to fall. “Yes, I'd rather not be reminded of my past failures.”

Death settled down enough to take a closer look at his son and indulged in what he considered to be harmless curiosity, but his next question struck Kid like a lightning bolt. “Say, Kiddo. Where's that necklace you've been wearing?”

* * *

LONG AFTER THE CORRIDORS of the DWMA had darkened with nightfall, life stayed under the flickers of sconces to prepare the school for tomorrow.

The door to the infirmary creaked open, and a stream of moonlight gloated over the pair of black shoes that trudged across the tile floor.

It startled you from where you had been changing the sheets on a bloodstained bed. “Kid? What are you still doing here?”

Kid emptied his pocketful of broken pieces onto the end of the bed. He turned his gaze sideways and clenched his jaw, refusing to look you in the eye. “A Grim Reaper worth respecting wouldn't make such a grievous error.”

You nearly failed to recognise what the pieces once were, but when the realisation loosened your grip on the sheets until they clumped near the pillow, you slunk towards him.

Kid collapsed into a sitting position, with his knees folded on opposite sides of him and his toes pointing at the walls. “You have every right to wish ill on me.”

He bowed his head so that his hair obscured his eyes, which had lost much of their natural glow in favour of a tearful sheen. He condensed the emotion that had been running rampant in his voice moments earlier into a whisper. “But my life would be worthless if you cut me from yours.”

You crouched to his eye level and brought your hands onto his shoulders with a tentative slowness. “We're friends, aren't we?” Hesitation littered the “aren't we” part of the statement as if you were deep in foreign territory and searching for validation. “One broken necklace won't change that.”

The crescent moon jiggled with a resonant laugh, and as Kid sat there wondering what sort of angel you must have been to forgive him, his shoulders rose with a newfound lightness.

You almost took your hands back when he gripped one in each of his own, holding them up at equal heights like a knight pledging himself to his new liege. “I will never let you down again.” His stare became unwavering on the word “never” as though it were the most certain thing in the universe.

Kid sprung from the ground at such an impressive speed that he dragged you with him and went airborne for a split second. His next footstep was brisk, no more than a lurch, and brought him far closer to you than was necessary to make his words heard.

“This I swear on my life.”

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

[inushin]

Chapter Update

Hey there, Enigmas! First off, I would like to apologize for not having a blog written for this week. My mind got a little overloaded this last week, balancing between work, martial arts, and my writing career. I recently started a new job and it’s been an adjustment. The frequent interactions with members at the gym can be quite the drain on my social battery. But I do have some announcements…

[aaeeart]

I feel guilty about this one :')

Wanna read something evil? Read the fanfic under the cut!

New addition from the Inquisitor Kanan AU, this one is from Fortress Inquisitorius and will have some unsettling stuff (Fallen Order and Rebels were mean to captured Jedi and so am I), like you know, torture. Just fyi if you don't approve, don't read 😄 I'm posting these excerpts randomly so far - no reading order yet, take it or leave it >:)

But for some quick info, you know what this is, the jedi gets snatched, Empire is mean, the jedi is sad.

Kanan flinched awake, a dream in his head quickly dissipating leaving behind confusion and a gradual understanding. He was in a dimly lit cell in an uncomfortable interrogation chair he had occupied since his arrival at Fortress Inquisitorius. Still bound from his chest to legs, still just as much hopeless as he has been before he finally fell asleep.

His gaze fixed on the opposing wall, his features contorting as he struggled to control the tightness in his facial muscles that lingered from the fading dream. Though the specifics eluded him, he could recall the Ghost and his crew engaged in conversation, a stark contrast to his current reality. The dream had offered a temporary respite, only to further accentuate his misery upon waking.

Lost in his thoughts of the elusive fantasy, Kanan became aware of another presence only when the purge trooper made a sharp movement to his right. The trooper stood by the red barrier, assuming a stance that suggested he was surely due to be changing shifts soon.

A mischievous grin formed on Kanan’s face as he spoke, his voice laced with mockery and a touch of wonder.

„You know,“ he taunted, relishing in the opportunity to undermine the trooper’s intimidating facade, „I’ve encountered more fearsome guards at a droid spa. Straight backs and all that, you know?“ The trooper’s shoulder twitched in response to the prisoner’s remark, prompting him to adopt a more rigid and militaristic pose. Kanan chuckled inwardly, thoroughly amused by the trooper’s reaction. „Honestly, they'll have anyone guarding important people these days, wouldn’t you agree?“

Seething with anger, the trooper clenched his fist, but before he could formulate a retort, an urgent beeping emanated from his wrist com. The trooper’s helmet crackled with a distorted voice demanding his presence elsewhere. Casting a – Kanan imagined a resentful glare on his undoubtedly ugly face – at the jedi, the trooper reached for his belt pocket and deactivated the red barrier with his key card, leaving Kanan alone once more.

In the ensuing solitude, Kanan took a deep breath, attuning his senses to the surrounding environment. Though meditation proved challenging within these confines, it still offered a means to gather strength and fortify his resolve. As he struggled to calm his racing thoughts, a traitorous voice whispered in his mind, sowing seeds of doubt and despair.

"Hera didn't come for you," the voice insidiously murmured. Kanan bit his lip, determined to silence the treacherous inner dialogue. "They left you," the voice persisted, its relentless persistence threatening to erode his resolve. Frowning, Kanan pushed back against the voice, "I'm at peace with my choice." he whispered to himself and let the bubbling anger cool off. "They're safe. They're alive."

The truth of his words resonated within him. He knew deep down that he would feel it if something had befallen his crew. Besides, the Grand Inquisitor would undoubtedly relish in taunting him with such information. The Inquisitor rarely left the moon anymore, especially not since a few days ago, when apparently Lord Vader himself gave his dark side puppets the order to break their new toy.

It turned out a new jedi came to Lothal. Ahsoka Tano. The realization brought a mix of glee and apprehension. Ahsoka was a legend among the padawans, Kanan recalled, the student of Anakin Skywalker.

He supposed it only made sense she survived the Purge. She left the jedi order near the end of the war.

"Fulcrum," the Grand Inquisitor had revealed during a previous encounter, his words still reverberating in Kanan's memory. "She is the one you've been receiving orders from." The revelation had shocked Kanan.

He spent so much time thinking he was the sole survivor and yet...

"You really didn't know," the Grand Inquisitor chuckled. "How dissapointing. And how inconsiderate of your captain, don't you think?"

Kanan felt a little betrayed at the thought. Did Hera know Fulcrum was a jedi? The Inquisitor picked up on the hesitation in a split second and tried his best to exploit it.

But he left the cell as frustrated by his failure to make Kanan succumb to his emotions as he did any other day, while Kanan, if he ignored the fact he wasn't escaping any time soon, or that his body felt like it could crumble to dust with each blow, slash or surge of electricity, he felt victorious as he smiled each time the Inquisitor lost patience and left.

Ever since Ahsoka's appearance however, his situation had deteriorated. Before, Kanan had endured each painful day with the belief that death would soon claim him due to his perceived uselessness. Now, he found himself staring into an abyss of uncertainty. He was not to be killed; he was to be broken, molded into one of the Inquisitors. Kanan understood the reason behind this decision—his connection to his crew and their association with Ahsoka made him the perfect bait.

"There is no hope," the small voice persisted, its insidious tone causing Kanan to sigh heavily. He raised his gaze toward the ceiling, fighting against the frog in his throat. The sounds outside his cell abruptly captured his attention, diverting his focus from the haunting voice within.

It couldn't be... Stretching out with his senses, Kanan sought the familiar Force signature amidst the suffocating darkness, but..

Ezra's voice, filled with determination and defiance, echoed through the corridor.

"No," Kanan whispered in disbelief and lost focus as thick fog of panic overwhelmed his senses.

No. No no no.

"You will take me to Kanan Jarrus." Ezra's voice commanded sharply.

"That won't work on us, kid." A cold answer from a trooper.

Then an amused laugh from the Grand Inquisitor. "You will see your master soon enough."

The heavy doors swung open, revealing the Grand Inquisitor and the troopers. Ezra's eyes widened as he spotted Kanan, his voice filled with relief. "Kanan!"

The Grand Inquisitor's sly smile twisted into a mocking grin. "Ah, Kanan Jarrus, our heroic Jedi master. Your padawan has been quite resourceful, breaking into our secured facilities to find you."

Meeting Ezra's gaze, Kanan saw relief flooding the young boy's face, mingled with a sense of urgency.

A surge of pride and concern welled up within Kanan. Ezra's gone to such lengths to save him? Doubts flitted through his mind, but the profound connection and familiarity that flowed between them dispelled any skepticism as their eyes locked in a steadfast gaze.

Fear consumed Kanan's being as desperation laced his voice. "What are you doing here?" he pleaded, struggling against the restraints that held him in place.

Ezra made to move towards Kanan, but the two Purge Troopers grasped his arms and held him back.

The Grand Inquisitor's voice dripped with sadistic satisfaction as he walked closer to Ezra. "Unfortunately, Kanan, your apprentice's bravery comes at a price," He paused and extended his hand towards one of the troopers and the armored soldier placed his electric baton in it.

Kanan growled urgently, his body contorting in a futile attempt to break free from the restraints, but he only managed to bruise himself.

The Inquisitor smiled and activated the baton. He spoke to Ezra. "It looks like your master doesn't wish to save you, boy."

"No!" Kanan yelled when the dark sider raised his hand. With a swift motion, he struck the boy, causing him to stagger and cry out in pain. In that moment, Kanan's crumbling walls collapsed, his heart overriding his logic with a single desperate goal.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left within him, Kanan broke free from the chair, and hurled the Grand Inquisitor together with the Purge Troopers aside as he rushed toward Ezra. But as Kanan reached out to embrace the boy, his arms closed around empty air.

The illusion shattered before his eyes, leaving only a haunting void.

The Grand Inquisitor's laughter echoed through the cell.

Realization washed over Kanan like a chilling wave. He had been played. The weight of his failure settled upon his shoulders, crushing his spirit and extinguishing the fight within him.

Before Kanan could react, the Grand Inquisitor exerted a powerful Force push, slamming him against the cold floor, rendering him motionless once again. The Inquisitor knelt beside him, his gaze burning with sadistic pleasure.  

"Come now, Kanan," the Inquisitor taunted, his voice filled with malice. "Where's that charming smile of yours?" Kanan fought to calm his rapid breathing, his lips trembling into a thin line. The metallic scent of the cell invaded his nostrils as the Inquisitor continued to press him down.

He lost. He did exactly what the Inquisitor wanted and expected. He suddenly noticed how cold he felt, as if he just emerged from an icy pond…

In a moment of overwhelming vulnerability, Kanan flinched as the Inquisitor activated his crimson lightsaber, bringing it dangerously close to his face. Heat emanated from the blade, uncomfortably close to Kanan's skin.

A hand landed on the side of Kanan's head, tugging at his hair, still tied in a ponytail. The grip tightened, digging into his skin as the Inquisitor forced his head up, drawing it nearer to the blade.

Leaning forward, the Grand Inquisitor hissed into Kanan's ear, his voice laced with triumph. "You see, Kanan," he whispered, relishing in his victory. "You are not special. Everyone breaks within the walls of Fortress Inquisitorius, and you are no exception. You're just like the rest of us."

He let him go and the two imposing Purge Troopers forcibly lifted Kanan from the ground, dragging him back to the interrogation chair, strapping him in once again.

The Grand Inquisitor approached Kanan, his eyes burning with a sadistic fire. "Use the dark side, Kanan," he demanded, his voice dripping with malice. "Free yourself and embrace the power that awaits you."

Kanan clenched his jaw, his eyes filled with unwavering resolve and loathing. "No," he declared, the simple word filled with defiance.

The Grand Inquisitor's face twisted into a cruel smile. He retrieved the electro baton and pressed it against Kanan's chest. Agonizing pain coursed through his body and he screamed and the longer the pain lasted, the more did the scream sounded like an agonized wail followed unwittingly by tears. From the pain or for the shame of how easily he let himself be tricked, for himself...

The Inquisitor removed the baton.

Kanan took a long desperate breath, shaking from exhaustion. The Grand Inquisitor gripped Kanan's chin, his grip tightening with every word. "You are a fool, Kanan Jarrus," he sneered and forced the jedi to look him in the eye. "You will break, just like all the others, it's only a matter of time. And when you do, I will revel in your defeat."

He let him go, tossing the baton aside, waving his hand towards the electric torture device connected to the chair itself.

The excruciating pain wracked Kanan's body, his screams reverberating through the walls of the fortress.

TBC...

[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

Something that is moving me about this IWTV adaptation is that... if you only watched the movie or read only the first book it may elude you since Louis' pov is so full of grief and bitterness, but the thing is, Louis loves Lestat. He desires him, is head over heels in love, as a matter of fact.

Often I see Louis being portrayed as long-suffering, resigned in his relationship with Lestat and while yes, they are toxic (lmao), they often fight and hurt each other and are quite terrible to each other, but their relationship is not only defined by misery.

Louis likes to be with Lestat, he enjoys his company, lights up when they are together and by memory I can remember at least two characters (Khayman and Amel) commenting how deeply Louis loves Lestat and how very obvious it is. And the fact the show is actually showing this to us from the beginning, that love was actually always there despite everything actually means so much to me

[slasherrcentral]

Run, Rabbit, Run — Bo Sinclair. (18+)

Summary: after attempting to run away from him again, maybe you will finally learn your lesson this time around.

Note: this is so fucking filthy and i’m not the least bit sorry for it, bo sinclair has fully rotted my brain. please don’t read if you are sensitive to any of the triggers involving violence, stockholm syndrome, spit and blood or talks of murder. this is some shit below the cut and viewer discretion is very much advised.

Dedications: the wonderful @visceravalentines for inspiring this work with her fic “I’m so dirty, babe” because it’s changed my entire life. and also to the beautiful @bosinclairz , who inspires me to have a blog even half as cool as theirs. thank you !!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Warnings: predator/prey play, name calling and abuse, heavy stockholm syndrome implications, spitting, blood, choking, bdsm elements, topics that elude to past murders, slight voice kink ( if you squint ) ( not even if you squint ), extremely heavy and violent sexual content.

The morning air was frigid while your bare feet pattered against the concrete, your breath leaving your chest in heaving, tired gasps. He was right behind you, the tell-tale pattering of old, worn out black work boots was as clear as the day you’d stumbled into the tiny, vacant town of Ambrose, when he had to chase you down for the first time after discovering his horrible, malicious intentions. You’d been so stupid then, too naive and entirely too trusting. His low, sultry drawl had given you a false sense of contentment. Those piercing, wild blue eyes had drawn you in like bee’s to honeysuckle. He’d even gone as far as to call you darlin’, that wolffish grin peeking out behind sharp canine’s as his eyes scanned your figure, making you fidget in place. Denim shorts, white spaghetti strapped tank with a crimson red bra visible underneath the flimsy cloth. You should’ve ran right then and there, should have found something to clobber him over the head with. But you didn’t. You’d been begging for it then like you’re begging for it now.

“Run, little rabbit! Run!” Bo laughed manically behind you, sending a series of chills down your spine. He was taunting you now, always taunting and menacing. His disease lusted for the chase, for the terror he inflicted upon you. The deep, rumbling chortles and your pants were the only sound ringing through the abandoned, haunted town. Nobody was coming to save you. There was nobody for miles and miles. You should know, you tried to escape him before. Look at where that got you, restrained in an old medical chair and tortured for two weeks straight with no reprieve from your misery. Your body was still blanketed with scars from that incident, constant reminder’s of who you slept next to at night.

You could still feel the stitched up wounds, courtesy of Vincent, on your inner thighs, rubbing against the denim of your washed jeans, blue jeans that had belonged to another girl before you, a girl that had thought she could escape too. Her worn, tattered Polaroid picture was still hanging up inside of Bo’s makeshift workshop. It was taken not long before he’d grown tired of her whining, and put her out of her misery with the sharpened blade of his hunter’s knife. You wanted to rip up that picture, chew it to pieces and spit it out on the ground. You did not like the idea of him still looking at her after you fell asleep at night, when your hole was of no further use, thinking about all the things that he did to her.

He was right, when he’d spat in your face that you never learn, duct tape digging viciously into your wrists. You didn’t think he’d be in the house this morning, didn’t think he would catch you making a bee-line for the open porch door. But he did, and now you knew, he was not going to make the same mistake again. You were dead. Another poor soul forever incased in wax, just like all the others, and you could practically hear them laughing at you as well. Stupid, stupid girl. Thinking you ever even had a chance. Stealing a glimpse over your shoulder, he looked murderous. Pointed, narrowed blue eyes burning into the back of your head. His top lip was curled up into a snarl, growls burrowed deep in his chest, canine teeth exposed to the dewy morning air. You knew Bo wasn’t running as fast as he could be, choosing to make a fun little game out of this instead. You hated his games. It’s because of them that you’ve almost been killed, strung up from the ceilings with ropes and leather straps as he took his careful time ruining your body. A body that was no longer yours — a body that he molded to his darkest, most unfathomable desires.

You were tired. You wished he’d kill you, get it over with once and for all. Vincent would make you look beautiful again, maybe he’d put you in the movie theater, where you could always watch a film. Where you’d never, ever be alone again. Where you could fade into nothingness. Where you could forget about how pitiful you were and how disgusting it was for you to love the very man who stole everything from you. Your goals, ambitions, drive for the future. You’d been on your way back to campus from your spring break trip when your car broke down, leading you here. Leading you to him. Hell, you’d even heard your name on the radio some months ago. Your parents were looking for you, your friends are worried, your teachers insisted that it wasn’t like you to vanish. Bo had laughed when he saw the tears on your cheeks, spitting that they’ll never find you here, that you’re his.

In a move that surprised the both of you, and because the little spitfire that Bo came to adore so much is still buried somewhere deep down inside of you, you hook your heels into the gravel and duck to the left, where a house was awaiting your heady arrival. Slipping on the morning muck—you crash right in front of the steps, a pained groan leaving your chest. Get the fuck up now, he’s right behind you, are the only two things your mind kept shouting. Despite your gasps for air and the pain, you manage to dodge Bo just as he gets within’ arms length of you. He leered at you, twisting to follow you up the stairs and into the shabby, white house. You’d flung yourself into the residence, pressing your frame against the door. It doesn’t have a fucking lock, you’re fucking stupid to think that it did. Barreling all of your weight against the door, which wasn’t much because you’ve lost a considerable amount since arriving here, sustaining a diet of eggs and sandwiches. Your teeth rattled within’ your gums as Bo pounded on the front door behind your aching back, screaming expletives, demanding that you open it up or he’ll carve you like a thanksgiving turkey.

“You’re really in for it now, little bunny.” He huffed out a callous chuckle. And then like rumbling thunder on hot summer nights or heat lightning cracking in the air, he slammed up against the door with his elbow. You’re whimpering now, scanning the house for an exit, but it seems like there’s none. There is, however, a staircase. Hearing the wood split, knowing that he was getting in, you slipped away from the door and made a run for the stairs. He was inside in a matter of moments, his chest heaving and his fists clenched tight at his sides. You’re certain that he’s going to kill you. You’d die here, in the little sad house on the corner, staring into those ocean blue eyes all the while. You hoped that when he does it, that he looks at you. That he see’s you, one more time, and that you’d sit with him for the rest of his days. It’s the very least that he could do for you. You bolted, his glare burning into your back, clambering up the stairs.

It took no time at all for him to reach you, wrapping a meaty fist around your bruised, scarred ankle. You’ve screamed, you’re sure of it, throat burning and warm, wet tears streaming down your cheeks as you began sending hard kicks behind you— hoping one of them would land. One had to land. Had to give you time to make an escape from his rage. “Let me go right now, you fucking psychopath! Let me go! I hate you, I hate you and this fucking haunted town so fucking much!” You’re rambling now, jumbled and frantic. He laughs, that bastard laughed at your hysteria—dragging you down the stairs, slowly now, one at a time. Taunting, always taunting, his malice gave you enough time to send a brutal kick right at his nose. Your kick landed, right on the bridge of his prominent nose. He yelped, surprised for a fraction of a moment, then he roared. Blood poured from the wound, dripping onto his tee, down onto the dirty, blue carpet below. You gaped, waiting, terrified. And when Bo’s gaze fixed back on yours, you knew that you were in for a world of pain. You’d knocked his favorite truckers cap off his head, made him bleed his own blood. Good, you thought. Means you hadn’t lost every piece of your soul—yet.

“You wanna play fuckin’ games with me, sugar? We’ll play, then. Disobedient little bitch, forgettin’ all of the manners I’ve taught you.” Before you had any time to prepare for the blow, he sent a monstrous kick with a steel-toed boot directly to your rib cage. You gasped, couldn’t help it, your lungs attempting to suck in the sweet air that had just been knocked from you. Your head was swimming— small mewls leaving your lips, sputtering out some thick coughs. “Look at ya, poor thang. Writhin’ around, helpless and achin’. Soundin’ sweet for me, singin’ like a bitch in heat down there.”

You were flung onto your back, eyes wide and scared, still dazed from the blow to your mid-section. Bo’s on top of you within’ mere moments, hands now latched tightly around your throat. You’re squirming under the weight of him, heels digging into the carpet and your mind beginning to haze over. It was brutal, you were almost certain that your eyes were going to pop out from their sockets if he pressed down any harder. He was showing sick, twisted restraint— you hated him, hated him so much for it too. He could just end your misery and get it over with. He could extinguish that inferno that builds up inside of your gut when you’re sitting in the passenger’s seat of his truck, windows down and taking in the breeze on back road’s, sandy curls that framed the nape of his neck swaying in the wind, pillowy pink lips curled into a grin as you sang along, obnoxiously, with whatever song he’d chosen.

Or when you’re both in bed, crushed against his chest, strong hand clasped against the swell of your hip bone whilst the other cradles a cigarette and he’d murmur praises in your hair and the crickets sang outside your window. Or when he made you true Louisiana cuisine, snapping at you to stop munching on his goddamned vegetables and grab him a beer from the fridge. When you did, he’d kiss the crown of your head. You needed, desperately, to get away from him. You’re in love with him inconsolably so, to the point where it’s killing you, right here and right now.

He let go. He fucking let go of you and then wrenched calloused fingers into your mouth, hooking the long, ringed digits over your bottom teeth and under your tongue, pulling down with such force that your head rattled. Your mouth popped open—slick and waiting, sobs bubbling in the back of your throat. His iris’ are pitch black now, the dark has swallowed up the light, primality glinting in pools of midnight hues. So busy gasping for air after his attack on your neck, Bo was anything if a man of true opportunity. He hadn’t yet made up his mind what he was going to do with you, what he would have to do to break you. You noticed gears turning in his head, pillowy pink tongue jutting out, running across his bottom lip. He wanted to hurt you, he was going to .. but there was something else, something that you couldn’t quite pin.

“Keep that fuckin’ filthy mouth open, ya hear?” Bo’s leaned down now, snarling into your ear, the smell of sweat and blood swimming in your nostrils. It was so overwhelming, so intoxicating. Made you burn down below, made you wither into yourself with shame. “I don’t wanna have ta’ ruin this perfect little face, that beautiful little mouth. My cock has always looked so good nestled in that throat, don’t ya think so, sugar? Makin’ me hurt ya’, thought ya’ knew better by now.”

A white glob of his spit pushed past his lips; dangled past his chin, slowly lowering into your plump mouth, one of his personal favorite assets on you. Now you’re squirming again, keening at him, a silent beg to cease his infernal teasing and sink his knife into your throat, but you should’ve known. He wouldn’t let you go that easily, not without proving his point first. His saliva’s drooling into your mouth — sliding it’s way down your throat and you’re swallowing it without any command, with meticulously trained obedience, courtesy of the man currently pinning you down to the dirty floor. He was smirking again, tongue poking out to wet his lips, and sanguine curls sticking to his damp, tan forehead.

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He crooned, “There’s my good, dumb little baby. Just how I want ya’. Don’t need one thought in this pretty head.” And then he backhands you, sharp and fierce. It busted your lip, throws your head to the side, makes you cry out in terror as pain radiates in your cheekbone. One hand made a quick work of hooking into your jaw again, keeping meaty fingers pushed invasively into your tongue while the other slid into your flimsy underwear. It hurt so bad, those fingers in your mouth and pushing against the newly opened wound on your bottom lip. And it felt good, too. So fucking good. He made a house inside decay and rot, and you lived there with him, singing songs on the radio and making breakfast in his shirt. Those wax figures were all laughing at you now, you could hear them. You were filthy, utterly grotesque.

Two calloused, rough fingers were on your clit. You’re strained and babbling into his hand, whimpering like some bitch in heat, as Bo so kindly put it. His deep, thundering groans does nothing to help your current state, only aiding your back in further arching, heart thudding wildly against his own. Slow, slicked circles around your swollen bud sent you reeling, exhausted legs still kicking underneath of his weight, white dots speckling your vision. His fingers were still locked on your jaw and stuffed inside of your mouth, and when you’d whined at him again because you felt like your teeth were giving way to his brute strength— he had taken his hand out of your battered mouth to send a ferocious slap to the same cheekbone as before. Bo knew that it would only hurt more that way … it did.

“B-Bo! Stop, p-please, just fucking kill me!” You cried, fingers digging into his white v-neck, as if attempting to anchor yourself into him, into that moment. Sticky, warm tears were freely flowing now, and he leaned in your face to lick them off your bruised cheekbone. He always did love how quickly bruises blossomed on you, like paint to canvas. His breath, always so hot and wet, invaded your rattled senses. Then, all at once, he sinks two fingers into your core, giving you no time to adjust before setting a brutal pace that had your legs shaking, your head thrown back against the staircase. “Stop Bo, stop, stop! F-fuck, I can’t take it! Please, please!”

“I know you’re lyin’ to me, angel.” He kissed your inner earlobe—sloppy wet kisses careening down your neck, before he stopped at your jaw to bite down. It hurt so bad, the skin breaking, your moans turning into sharp, bellowing shouts of agony. The dig of his fingers were keeping you grounded, expertly finding the sweet spot inside of your body like all the times before, calloused fingertips rubbing into the sponge of your g-spot and pulling an animal-like wail from the back of your throat, hips wrenching in an attempt to throw him off. “Christ, this cunt is fuckin’ droolin’. Makin’ a big ‘ole mess. You don’t know what to do with yourself whenever ya ain’t gettin’ stuffed fuckin’ full, do ya? Fuckin’ empty inside, needin’ somethin’ to scratch that itch.”

Tears continued blurring your vision- chest heaving as you struggled to intake enough air underneath of Bo’s braun. Your heels have stopped digging into the filthy, dusted blue carpet beneath your feet. Your fingernails have stopped assaulting his neck and chest, leaving a litter of angry, crimson red welts and scratches behind, which had only seemed to spur him on. His lips found yours, another all too familiar occurrence, gnashing of tongues and teeth and blood and spit and regret and stone-cold hatred and unspoken love all at once, your peak lurking dangerously close to the surface. He was right, always right. You needed him, needed this. You craved it, actually, and the realization only made your tear ducts well up more. When he broke away, he was feral looking as he loomed above you. And when Bo’s lips pursed to send another big, white glob of his spit directly into your face; spittle hitting your sore cheek, chapped lips and bruised chin, you screamed out for him, fingers digging into his back and arching off the floor with a steady groan, eyes rolling in your skull as wave after wave of euphoria overtook your body. His teeth were digging into your collar bone now, tearing skin and growling like a rabid dog, his arm was under your back and holding you against him as the rest of your orgasm has turned you into a mewling, squirming mess in his tight hold. Like a little kitten, you thought, trying to wriggle free from grasp and scamper off into the woods.

“Right there, angel. Jus’ like that. Feels so good when you’re cummin’ all ‘over my fingers, don’t it, my sweet girl? Almost made me forget about your punishment.” His southern drawl, filled with false comfort and low, rumbling honey, turned venomous again. “I’m gonna fuck ‘ya into the ground now, little bunny. When I get done with ya, maybe you’ll finally fuckin’ understand exactly where this sloppy cunt belongs, after I fuck it stupid. Not that you need any fuckin’ help with that.”

You were thrown onto your stomach, head smacking against the staircase and making you simper in pain; although, not as much as the hard knee pressing into your spine suddenly did. You cried out, legs aimlessly flailing once again. You could hear him making hasty, frantic work of his black leather belt behind you, and grumbled curses leaving his blood-stained lips. Your entire body was sore and stinging, eyes filled up with tears and dried tears staining your purple and yellow cheekbones. Your lip was split, your cunt was aching, sputtering and clenching around nothing, your spine threatened to give way underneath the weight of his clothed knee. “I-I’m so sorry, B-Bo! Please, please, I won’t ever run from you again!”

And when you heard the metal buckle release, before that same belt looped around your hands — securing them to the small of your back, you felt the weight of Bo’s love for you. He didn’t want to kill you, he didn’t want you to leave him. He couldn’t fathom what he’d ever do without your scrambled eggs and toast thats always just a little too burnt in the mornings, without your pattering footsteps behind him while he worked about Ambrose, always lingering and always wanting, eager for any chance to be near him. Or without your perpetual, infuriating kindness, how you’d cradle the nape of his neck and press kisses to his sweaty head, whispering in his ear how good he is, how he’s worth something. No, he couldn’t kill you, couldn’t ruin this, but he could make it hurt— he’d always make it hurt. Snarling, he took his boot off of your spine and made quick work of shedding your denim jeans and undies, pulling them down your legs with jarring force. You’d arched back into him without realizing it, seeking his warmth and his embrace. He laughed at you— again, reaching down to pull himself free from the confined black slacks around his waist.

“Ya ain’t sorry for nothin’ yet, angel.” He made a noise similar to annoyance in the back of his throat, “But ya will be, that I can promise ‘ya. If ‘ya wanna act like yer some disobedient little mutt with no fuckin’ common sense or house trainin’, forgettin’ what i’ve taught ‘ya, that’s how yer gonna get fucked.” With one big hand pressing in between your shoulder blades, whilst the other found purchase underneath of your waist, Bo’s cock was pressed up against your heat. Your stained face was pressed down into the carpet, which smells soured and stale from years of abandonment. You’re holding your breath, still trembling, waiting for Bo to sheath himself inside of you. “Here I was, fixin’ to be sweet on ‘ya tonight for being so good ‘fer me lately, only to find my angel tryin’ to run away. Mama must have been right, i’m a damn fool. You wanna break it, darlin’? Break this old heart of mine?”

You sobbed into the carpet—fingers digging into the fabric. You felt guilty, felt so damned guilty. It’s part of your sickness, part of who you are now. You never wanted to hurt him, even when you had opportunity, even when he made you bleed and scream and beg. Never wanted to know a world without him, without ocean blue eyes and calloused hands and the smell motor oil left behind on his clothes. If you ever were found, a therapist would tell you that you have what normal people call Stockholm Syndrome. All of your friends would plead with you to see reason and stop thinking about him. Your parents would want him to spend his life in prison. And all the while, you would dream of being back here with him. You’d be in that small cell with him, refusing to leave his side. You’re filthy, and fucked up, and dirty, belonging all to him.

Your tongue wanted to stick out childishly, at all the ghosts who’ve been taunting you since your arrival; wanted to tell them all to shove it. He was yours, he cared about you. You had him in a way that nobody would ever have him again. You ruined him just like you’re ruined now, bound together by your vileness, something not even Trudy could say from her grave.

“N-no! I never want to break your heart, please,” You didn’t know what you were pleading for, pushing the warm clench of your pussy into the head of his cock, “Bo! I need you, I need you so bad, p-please fuck me hard and make it hurt! I-I need it to hurt please, sir.”

The levee broke. Bo slid into your wet, willing hole with an ease that was almost embarrassing. Almost. This is where you were meant to be, right here- pinned under the man who you loved more than life itself, even if it’s never going to make sense again, even if it’s so wrong. Even when you felt him push your body into the carpet, even more so than it already was, his breath steady on your goosebump-ridden back as he gains his bearings, hissing through clenched teeth at the feeling. You held your breath, wanting to savor the sound, knowing that it’s your body that makes him lose his composure. His ringed fingers dug painfully into your shoulder blades, but you didn’t mind. Your face was smushed down into mildew-coated carpet, and you still didn’t mind. You’d pry open your chest and wrap your fingers around your still-beating heart, handing it over to him if that’s what he wanted from you. When he grants you with another bone-shattering thrust, hard and deep, stopping for a moment to grind his pubic bone into the flesh of your ass, you snapped back to reality with a loud wail, that bounced from the walls of the small home and makes Bo’s pillowy top lip curl up into a pleasured sneer.

“That’s my fuckin’ angel. My good fuckin’ girl, always ready to be pumped full ‘o me, aren’t ya?” That damn southern drawl, you could live inside of it if he’d allow you to. You nodded, the best that you could with your face shoved so brutally into the floor. But that wasn’t good enough, not for the man behind you. Bo’s thick, veined hand took mercy on your shoulder blades and grabbed a fistful of your matted hair, whilst the other locks itself around your waist in an iron clad grip that made drool start pooling in the corners of your dried, cracked open lips. “Speak up when I’m talking to ‘ya, girl. Won’t bother sayin’ it twice, either. Use ‘yer cute little lips and start singin’ pretty for me, sugar.”

“P-please, sir! I need it so bad, need to be full of you, need to be yours! Please, fuck me, please!” You were absolutely wrecked before he even started, babbling directly into the carpet while his hand held your face there by your hair, scalp stinging so pleasantly, your mouth drooling and hanging opened, waiting for yet another sticky, wet surprise from his mouth. And he began fucking you, in earnest, balls slapping against your ass with a volume that should be disgusting, so damned raunchy that it could’ve hit top views on the latest porn channel. You couldn’t get enough, didn’t want to ever get enough — wanted to feel that cock, always so thick and angry, plunging into your achin’, soaked little hole for the rest of your life.

“Right there, sir! Oh, fuck yes!” You’d moaned into the creaking staircase—your body moving on it’s very own accord, pushing yourself back against his brutal thrust, desperate for any release that he we going to give you; crimson blood still leaking from his nose and falling on your bare back with little droplets that makes your toes curl into themselves, cracking at the bone. There was a prominent warmth in your belly, a dam that was sheer minutes away from breaking, a heat that made the chill, morning breeze seem piping hot. You’re clinging to the surface, grasping at whatever purchase you can find on the floor, screaming for him like a banshee. He felt too good, he felt so good, and you wanted to kill him for it, make him bite down on your rage and on your searing, weightless devotion to him. Get a taste of his medicine, make him bleed for your loyalty. He was pawing at you now, keeping you in place against him, driving his cock into you at a speed that should be considered brutality, hisses and low, thundering groans echoing. But you’re alive, your body on fire, your heart swelling.

“And If ‘ya really think that I’d let ‘ya slip away from me, you’re dead fuckin’ wrong.” Bo hisses into your ear as a coil began to tighten in your stomach. “Ain’t nothin’ on god’s green earth as sweet as this cunt and she knows who she belongs to. You’d just come back to me, baby, beggin’ me to take ‘ya back again. Thats if, ya don’t go blabbin’ to the pigs—like the fuckin’ bitch that ‘ya are.”

“I-I love you, Bo,” you’re sniffling into the floor, “Love you, so fuckin’ much. I’m not leaving- I need you, you make me so happy, sir.” You weren’t lying to him, and that’s the most devastating part. Bo hummed and he seemed pleased by your dramatic confession and the genuine sound of your voice, flipping you with a force that rattled your bones. You were dazed, whining and confused, the back of your head slapping against the staircase and further aiding your current state, all the white dots that danced in your vision returned, and it made Bo squeeze your inner thighs like he was trying hard to maintain his own composure, the sight of you reduced to nothing but a pliant, squealing little toy to use like a fleshlight was enough to make him tail spin.

Bo sits back on his broad haunches, pushing your thighs up against your chest and effectively folding you in half, before drilling into your core at a numbing pace that has your watery, puffed up eyes rolling back into your skull and screams that ran your throat ragged in seconds, the air between you both becoming so thick that you could practically taste it when you opened your mouth to keen for him, your hands reaching up to tangle in his tee-shirt, which you wanted to pull from his skin. He used the ball of his thumb to rub tight circles onto your clit, granting you one step closer to sweet, unabashed release. When Bo brought his hand up from his assault on your clit, to slap it without mercy, you began to spasm in his grasp.

“Keep those fuckin’ eyes open,” He snapped down at you, “Look at ‘ya, filthy fuckin’ bitch. Spread wide for me, cummin’ all over the carpet. You feel that, angel? Feel ‘yerself creamin’ nice and hard ‘fer me?” You do, could feel it starting in your toes, splintering it’s way through your body, spurting at the seams. You were delirious with pleasure— could hardly manage more jumbled whimpers and pleas for his mercy, for what heaven he’d be willing to give to you in this little hell, something that would be yours to keep.

“Y-yes, sir! It feels so fucking good,” You wheezed, “I’m gonna cum, sir! I’m gonna cum!” Jaw slackened, eyes squeezed shut, toes curled up, fingers bunched up into his old work tee-shirt. Your orgasm was a violent thing, turbulent and licking up your spinal cord. You felt your sticky, hot release spill down your thighs and onto his thighs, the wet clapping of your skin meeting his own sounded akin to the sweetest music you’ve heard, the symphony of your bodies colliding with a passion that you’d never, ever known before. Bo groaned, his peak wasn’t far behind, lurking just underneath the surface, his head lulling backwards to stare up at the cracking, white water-stained ceiling. This has to be his heaven, his own place of worship nestled between your thighs.

“Baby,” Bo’s body folded over your own, lips closed on your neck, red hot kisses left in his wake. “Gonna cum, gonna fill ‘ya up. Mark ‘ya from the inside out. ‘Ya ever pull this shit on me again, I’ll slit that fuckin’ gorgeous throat ‘an bleed ‘ya out like a snuffed deer. Hear me?” When Bo kissed you again, smooth as butter, tasting blissfully of copper and cigarettes — you hooked two trembling legs around his waist and pulled him deep, your hands finding purchase in his damp curls. Curls that you wanted to root your fingers through forever, anchoring yourself to him. You loved him, wanted to burrow into his skin and stay there for good.

“I-I hear you, sir! I’m so sorry, p-please forgive me Bo, wanna be so good for you.” You hiccuped, “Wanna be your angel. Please, let me be good for you, daddy. I’m empty without you, make it feel better.” It wasn’t very often that you flipped the daddy switch, made him so hot under the collar. But when you did, you knew you had him right where you wanted him. His groans, the resounding grumble that vibrated deep in Bo’s chest, was confirmation that you had him on a wire. There’s nothing left to do but send him teetering on the edge. When your hips came up to meet his thrusts, you did exactly that, wide eyes staring up in awe as his damp, disheveled frame succumbed to bliss.

“Jus’ like that, sweet girl, fuck!” Bo clenched his teeth, brows furrowed in concentration and head lulled while spurt after spurt of his spend painted your walls in the essence of him, marking his territory, making sure you understand who you belonged to. This was his, no one else’s, not even yours. After he collapses on top of you, panting and thoroughly exhausted from the chase you put him through and from fucking you into the carpet; he placed little, gentle kisses on your chest, up to your collar bone and neck line before finding your sore lips.

“Never run from me again, angel.”

“I won’t.”

With the world waking up outside and basking you in a glow of golden hue, you smiled up at him through dark, crimson blood stained teeth and when he returned the same smile back to you— his bloody canine’s showing, you know that you weren’t lying to him.

author’s note:

how are we doing? are we okay? yeah, me either. thank you all so, so much for reading! i have a lot more of ‘ole Bo sitting in my draft’s, more to come from yours truly.

[desertfangs]

A Ghost in Our House [AO3]

Armand/Louis - Mature - 3098 words

After traveling to New York City together in the early 1900s, Louis is living like a ghost in their shared home. Armand wants to bring back his passion and joie de vivre, but doesn't know how.

This was written for the @valenfangs prompt "Unrequited."

Before anyone gets upset, let me just say I don't think Armand's love here is unrequited, but at this point in time, Armand believes it is. Louis is so mired in his grief and misery that he is unable to appreciate or reciprocate the way Armand wants him to.

I find this era with them so fascinating because Louis describes it as entirely miserable and cold, and then Armand leaves him because he can't get him out of his malaise, so we know that's true, but also, I believe they had good nights and intimacy during this era, too.

Short Excerpt:

Armand looked down at Louis' pallid face, soft in sleep, surrounded by a mane of inky black hair. He spent countless hours studying Louis’ eyelashes, the little lines in his lips, the way his head rested on the small pillow. He was a gorgeous man and the death sleep rendered him more stunning, like a sculpture.

Armand was lingering. He had only opened his coffin to make sure he was there. Normally he did this check before sunrise to ensure Louis had made it home safe, but he hadn’t done so yesterday and thus he’d come in now after sunset to ease his worries. 

Last night, Louis had torn out of their shared home like a tornado, whirling right past Armand who’d been in the living room hoping to catch him. It was as if Armand did not exist. More and more, Louis treated him like a ghost. Or worse, a hideous end table he’d rather pretend wasn’t there. So Armand had gone to his room and stayed there, not bothering to listen for his return, not bothering to ensure he was back before the sun came up, as he so often did. 

Louis was younger in the blood so the death sleep took him sooner, held him longer. It was lucky, really, or Armand might not see Louis at all. 

At least now he could see him sleeping, for all the good it did. He reached down into the coffin, stopping short of touching his face, fingers dangling just above his forehead. He wanted to feel his smooth skin, to have that contact, brief as it was. But he pulled his hand back. It wasn’t the same if the touch was stolen. 

He would have it again. Louis would come out of his malaise. He’d been distant and broken since they left Paris, but there were moments of awe, of pleasure. Moments when Armand saw a spark, felt a change, and thought he might finally be snapping out of it, only for him to retreat back inside of himself again. 

And yet here in New York he’d only gotten worse. He’d sunk further into his dark moods and now Armand had to sneak into his room to get glimpses of him sleeping, lest he never see him at all. 

He snarled at the sleeping form, annoyed that Louis seemed determined to exist as a phantom and in turn, was making Armand into one as well. 

Louis’ face twitched. His eyes fluttered. Armand held his breath. He should close the coffin and go, he knew that, and yet he couldn’t look away as Louis sucked in a breath, his chest rising as he came back to life. His eyes opened, searching around in a panic until they locked onto Armand, hovering above him.

“What is it?” Louis asked, sounding breathless. 

“What do you mean?” Armand asked.

Louis sucked in air as if his vampire lungs required it and sat up slowly in his coffin. “Is there trouble?” 

He looked scared and Armand’s heart squeezed. He wondered if Louis was having nightmares again. Strange that creatures such as them could dream even in the depths of death sleep, that even the comfort of oblivion eluded them. 

“No trouble,” Armand said gently. He reached out but again stopped short of touching him. 

Louis frowned. “Then why are you here?”

Read the Rest on AO3