#Equality cannot come from death and violence

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |25|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Twenty-Five: Weather Changes Moods

warnings: anxiety, self-harm (scratching), nightmares, grief, references to past violence and death, and blood.

note(s): travlot is NOT a thing in this series, i'm clarifying this incase the scene between travis and lottie gets misinterpreted. i have never and will never ship those two.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The warmth feels like a betrayal.

Spring settled without asking permission, creeping through the forest on soft feet, melting away the familiar bite of winter that had become your companion. The sun touches your skin with foreign fingers, gentle and insistent, demanding acknowledgment of a world that continues to turn despite everything that's been buried beneath the snow.

You wake before dawn in the hut you share with Nat, your body rigid with the memory of dreams that refuse to fade. Jackie's voice still echoes in the space between sleep and consciousness, her laugh threading through your ribs like smoke. Your fingernails find the familiar groove along your forearm, scratching at skin that's already raw from nights of restless anxiety. The scar from your self-inflicted wound has healed into a pale line, but you trace it anyway, remembering the weight of deception, the metallic taste of your own blood on fabric meant to convince them all you were gone.

Nat shifts beside you, her breathing steady but alert. She's learned to recognize the sounds of your nightmares, the way your body fights against sleep even in unconsciousness. Neither of you mentions it. There are too many unspoken things between you now, filling the small space of your shared shelter like held breath.

"Hunting today?" she asks quietly, not opening her eyes but knowing you're awake.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out rougher than intended, scraped raw by dreams and silence.

The routine has become precious in its simplicity. You and Nat moving through the forest together, her rifle steady in experienced hands while you grip the hunting knife that's become an extension of yourself. The same blade that brought down the bear months ago, that's tasted blood and survival in equal measure. Your fingers know every nick in the handle, every imperfection in the steel. It grounds you in ways words cannot.

But even this partnership carries weight. Travis haunts the edges of conversations you don't have, his name a careful absence in the space between you and Nat. Since Javi died, since the ice cracked and swallowed small hands and infinite potential, Travis has been gravitating toward Lottie like a moth drawn to flame. She offers him something you've all learned to recognize but can't name—a promise of meaning in meaninglessness, purpose in the face of random cruelty.

You've been avoiding him. Not just Travis, but the guilt that follows in his wake, the way his grief mirrors your own in uncomfortable ways. He lost a brother. You lost everything. The mathematics of trauma don't balance, but they resonate, and the sound is too sharp to bear.

Nat doesn't ask why you flinch when Travis appears at the edge of camp. Just like you don't ask why she stopped seeking him out, why their careful dance of almost-love dissolved into parallel silences. Some boundaries are too fragile to examine directly.

Shauna is another conversation that doesn't happen. Her name sits between you and Nat like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything unsaid. The distance that's grown between you and Shauna feels geographic now, measured in careful steps and averted gazes. You catch her watching sometimes, her eyes carrying questions you're not ready to answer.

The codependency that once felt like salvation now weighs heavy as chains. Every avoided glance is a small violence, every unreturned touch a theft. But you can't seem to bridge the gap that trauma carved between you. Some wounds heal crooked, and attempting to straighten them only causes fresh damage.

You and Nat move through your morning routine with practiced efficiency. The rifle gets cleaned and loaded, checked and rechecked with the methodical attention that keeps you both alive. Your knife gets sharpened against the whetstone Javi once showed you, the metal singing against stone in notes that sound almost like prayer.

The forest in spring feels like putting on clothes that no longer fit. Everything is too bright, too alive, too insistent on growth and renewal when all you want is the honest simplicity of winter's harsh truths. Buds appear on branches like small green wounds, promising change you're not sure you're ready for. The air carries scents of thaw and possibility, earth waking up from dreams it's not ready to abandon.

Your anxiety responds to the warmth like a wild thing in a cage. Your nails find purchase along your arms, scratching patterns of nervous energy into skin that's seen too much. The scratching helps sometimes, gives the restless feeling somewhere to go. Nat notices but doesn't comment, the same way you don't comment on how she checks her rifle obsessively, cleaning parts that are already pristine.

"There," she whispers, freezing mid-step.

The deer stands thirty yards away, head raised and alert, ears twitching toward sounds only it can hear. Brown eyes that hold no malice, no understanding of the hunger that drives you both deeper into the forest each day. It's beautiful in the way wild things are beautiful—completely itself, unmarked by the human need to survive at any cost.

Your knife feels heavy in your hand. The deer's neck pulses with life, rhythm visible beneath fur that catches morning light like benediction. You've killed before. The bear, with desperate fury and terror-fueled strength. Small game, with growing efficiency and diminishing guilt. But something about this moment feels different, weighted with significance you can't name.

Nat raises her rifle with movements that have become meditation, breath steadying, world narrowing to the space between intention and impact. She's beautiful like this, you think distantly. Competent and sure, holding death and sustenance in careful balance. The way her shoulder absorbs the rifle's weight, the slight tilt of her head as she aims—these details etch themselves into memory with startling clarity.

The deer takes a step closer, unaware it's walking toward its own ending.

You think about Jackie, the way she moved through the world with unconscious grace, never imagining that survival would become a daily negotiation. She wouldn't understand this version of you, the one who calculates kill shots and carries violence in her pocket like spare change. The girl who loved her couldn't have conceived of needing to choose between mercy and hunger.

But that girl died with Jackie in the snow. What remains is something rawer, more honest about the cost of continuing to breathe.

The shot echoes through the forest like thunder, sharp and final. The deer drops instantly, Nat's aim true as always. You're moving before the echo fades, knife ready to finish what the rifle started if necessary. But Nat's work is clean—one shot, instant death, minimal suffering.

"Good shot," you say, kneeling beside the still-warm body.

"Yeah." Nat's voice is steady, but you catch the slight tremor in her hands as she lowers the rifle. Taking life never gets easier, even when necessity demands it. "You want to start with the bleeding?"

The work of death is intimate in ways that surprise you. Your hands know what to do now, muscle memory built from months of making use of whatever the forest provides. The knife slides between ribs with practiced ease, finding the spaces between bone and cartilage that allow access to what keeps bodies running.

Blood runs warm over your fingers, darker than expected in the morning light. The deer's eyes have already begun to cloud, that spark of awareness dimming into something vacant and peaceful. You've learned not to look too long at eyes that no longer see. They reflect things you're not ready to examine.

"Remember our fifth hunt together?" you ask quietly, working to drain blood into the container you brought for this purpose.

"The bear?" Nat settles beside you, beginning the careful work of preparing the carcass for transport.

She nods, understanding flowing between you without need for elaboration. The bear was dying anyway. This deer was simply unlucky enough to cross your path when hunger demanded feeding. The moral mathematics are complicated, but the end result is the same—meat for the camp, another day of not starving.

Your anxiety finds outlet in the repetitive motions of butchery. Knife through hide, separating useful from wasteful, organizing chaos into manageable pieces. The scratching along your arms subsides as your hands find purpose in the work. Blood under your fingernails feels different now than it did those first weeks after Jackie died, when you'd clawed at frozen ground until your fingers bled.

Then, blood meant failure—your inability to save what mattered most. Now it means survival, the daily choice to continue existing in a world that offers no guarantees.

"Travis has been asking about you," Nat says eventually, her voice carefully neutral.

Your hands still for a moment before resuming their work. "What did you tell him?"

"That you're dealing with your own shit. Same as everyone else."

The deflection sits comfortably between you, another unspoken agreement to leave certain territories unexplored. Travis's grief over Javi, your guilt over participating in the hunt that led to his death, the way trauma braids together until individual threads become impossible to separate—these conversations can wait for a day when survival requires less immediate attention.

"Lottie's been helping him," Nat continues, and there's something in her tone you can't quite identify. Not jealousy, but not indifference either.

"Good." The word tastes strange, but you mean it. If Lottie can offer Travis something resembling peace, who are you to question the source? Peace is rare enough that its origins seem less important than its presence.

You work in comfortable silence after that, the forest around you slowly waking to full daylight. Birds call from branches heavy with new leaves, their songs carrying notes of territory and courtship and simple joy in being alive. The sounds should be comforting, but they feel foreign after months of winter quiet.

The deer yields more meat than expected, enough to feed the camp for several days if preserved properly. Your knife work has improved dramatically since those first fumbling attempts at small game. Competence born of necessity, skill carved from the bones of desperation.

"We should head back," Nat says eventually, checking the position of the sun through the canopy.

The thought of returning to camp tightens something in your chest. Shauna will be there, moving through her own routines of survival, carefully not looking in your direction. The distance between you has become a living thing, fed by guilt and complicated grief and the knowledge that some bridges, once burned, can't be rebuilt with good intentions alone.

You finish wrapping the meat in the clean cloth you brought for this purpose, movements automatic while your mind drifts toward the inevitable return. The huts that have replaced the cabin feel temporary in ways that make your anxiety spike. Everything here is makeshift, held together by hope and necessity and the stubborn refusal to admit that rescue might never come.

"Ready?" Nat asks, shouldering her pack and rifle with movements that speak of endless practice.

You nod, sliding your knife back into its sheath with the careful attention the weapon deserves. The blade has become talismanic, carrying history in its steel—the bear's death, countless small game, now this deer. Each kill adds weight, but also purpose. You're not the same person who once scratched hearts into notebook margins and snuck out bedroom windows for stolen kisses.

That girl exists in memory now, preserved in amber like something precious and irretrievable. What walks through this forest is harder, more honest about the cost of love and the price of survival. The scratches along your arms tell their own story—anxiety made manifest, the body keeping score when the mind tries to forget.

The walk back to camp passes in relative quiet, both of you alert for sounds that don't belong. The forest in spring offers more places for threats to hide, new growth providing cover for predators that might see you as competition or prey. Your hand stays close to your knife, muscle memory keeping you ready for violence that might come without warning.

But the forest remains peaceful, offering only birdsong and the whisper of wind through leaves still tender with newness. Your anxiety settles slightly as familiar landmarks come into view, though it doesn't disappear entirely. It never does anymore, that low hum of alertness that's become the soundtrack to daily existence.

The camp appears through the trees like something half-remembered from dreams. Smoke rises from the central fire, carrying scents of morning meal and human habitation. Voices drift toward you, the careful conversations of people who've learned to negotiate proximity with infinite care.

Lottie's laugh reaches you first, followed by Travis's quieter response. They're sitting close together near the fire, his dark head bent toward her fair one in postures of intimacy that make your chest tighten with recognition. You were once part of such tableaux—curled against Jackie's warmth, sharing space and breath and the casual certainty that love was sufficient armor against anything the world might offer.

Your nails find their familiar path along your forearm, scratching at skin that's learned to expect this particular kind of pain. The sight of Travis finding comfort in someone else's presence shouldn't hurt, but it does. Not because you want what he has, but because it reminds you of what you've lost—not just Jackie, but the ability to trust that connection won't inevitably lead to devastation.

"Good hunt," Nat says as you approach the fire, her voice carrying the easy confidence that's become her trademark since taking unofficial leadership of the group.

Shauna looks up from the pot she's tending, her eyes finding yours for a brief moment before sliding away. The contact lasts barely a second, but it carries the weight of everything unspoken between you—shared trauma and abandoned intimacy and the careful geography of avoidance you've both learned to navigate.

"Deer," you add unnecessarily, lifting the pack that holds your morning's work. "Should last us a few days."

The practical focus of survival provides safe harbor for conversations that might otherwise drift toward dangerous waters. Food, shelter, safety—these topics offer neutral ground where emotional minefields can be temporarily avoided.

Travis glances in your direction, something uncertain flickering across his features. You look away before the moment can develop into something requiring response. The guilt you carry over Javi's death sits too close to the surface, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation. Better to maintain distance than risk conversations that might crack the careful control you've built around your trauma.

Lottie's eyes track the interaction with interest that makes your skin crawl. She sees too much, understands connections that others miss or choose to ignore. Her attention feels invasive in ways you can't articulate, like being studied by something that views human emotion as data to be collected and analyzed.

"The forest provided," she says softly, her voice carrying undertones of significance that make your anxiety spike.

You don't respond, focusing instead on the practical work of organizing the day's kill. Your knife needs cleaning, the blood washed away before it can dull the blade or attract insects. The routine tasks provide anchor points, keeping you tethered to immediate concerns rather than the larger questions that threaten to overwhelm.

Nat settles beside you as you work, her presence offering wordless support. She doesn't need to understand the specific nature of your anxiety to recognize its presence, doesn't require explanations for the careful distance you maintain from certain conversations. The partnership you've built is based on mutual respect for boundaries, shared understanding of trauma's geography.

The deer's blood washes away easily in the stream that runs near camp, leaving your knife clean and ready for whatever the forest might demand next. Your hands know this routine now, the careful attention required to maintain the tools that keep you alive. The blade reflects morning light like promise, steel holding potential for both creation and destruction.

Spring continues its relentless advance around you, indifferent to human struggle or preference. The warmth that felt like betrayal this morning has settled into something more familiar, though still foreign after months of winter's honest brutality. Change arrives whether you're ready or not, demanding adaptation from bodies and minds that have already stretched beyond their original parameters.

You trace the scar on your arm one more time, remembering the weight of deception and the metallic taste of your own blood. That night feels both immediate and distant, separated by experiences that have aged you in ways that can't be measured in days or weeks. The girl who cut herself to fake her own death was already someone you barely recognized. What remains now is something even more transformed, carved by necessity into shapes that would be unrecognizable to the person you used to be.

But you're alive. Against all odds and reasonable expectations, you continue to breathe, to hunt, to carry the weight of survival with hands that have learned to hold both gentleness and violence in equal measure. The deer's death will sustain the camp for several days, and that's enough. It has to be enough.

The warm weather settles around you like an ill-fitting coat, foreign but gradually becoming familiar. Spring offers no promises except change, no guarantees except that the world will continue to turn regardless of human suffering or joy. You scratch at your arms one more time, then make yourself stop, focusing instead on the simple fact of still being here, still choosing to continue despite everything that's been lost along the way.

Tomorrow you'll hunt again. Tonight you'll dream of Jackie and wake to Nat's steady breathing beside you. The routine provides structure in a world that's forgotten how to offer certainty. And for now, that's enough to build a life on—however temporary, however fragile, however foreign it feels in weather that promises nothing but its own relentless advance toward whatever comes next.

[a-timely-problem]

...my very much straight family seriously keeps insisting that Palestine is terrible and may be the wrong party to support BC to quote them: "They're very homophobic and those leftists should try to go there and survive."

...they don't care about queer people. At all. They're looking for a reason to hate the innocent people that are currently dying, completely ignoring that there are queer Palestinians and that no matter what may or may not be true, you can't ever achieve equality in a country that's being actively eradicated

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (Masterlist)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Subgenders: Omega! Reader, Beta! Yoongi, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Jimin, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Hoseok, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 80k so far

—  Warnings: Violence, Blood, Murder, sexual and physical abuse, PTSD, themes of healing, suspense, mute character's, depictions of eating disorders, healing, hospitals, epilepsy, assassins, spyies,

Before you read:

This is the second version of this story, it's better, edited and longer. But if you want to read the first (near complete) version of this story you can read it on tumblr here, or on Ao3 here. there's like a million words of it lol.

not everything is tagged in this version. there is quite a bit of triggering content. i go into much more greater detail about the m/c and the abuse that she suffered at the hands of Geumjae in this version. if there is anything that doesn't get a tag and you feel it needs it, please don't hesitate to tell me!

This version is a lot longer than V1, and because of that the chapters don't line up, chapters 1-13 cover chapters 1-4.

While there are only a few things that have been taken out/restructured, but yoongi and the m/c get a dedicated slow burn love story in this now. i've also added 60k to what we did have so please give this tons of love!

i will not be reblogging these parts nearly as much as the others, because i want there to be less crowdedness on my feed. i will try my hardest to respond to comments if there are any this time around.

~-~

Prologue: Omens

Summary: you watch your husband murder someone, and try not to make it worse

Part 1: The Beta

Summary: Seokjin meets Yoongi when he's at his lowest.

Part 2: The Funeral

Summary: The death of a king pin makes the whole picture come crumbling down. In 120 days, Yoongi will decide who rules the criminal empire.

Part 3: The Alpha

Summary: Seokjin meets Namjoon when things are finally getting good, will the introduction of an alpha disrupt his and yoongi's little pack?

Part 4: Of Violent Dogs

Summary: Kim Namjoon will kill. That is a fact that you can count on.

Part 5: The Pups

Summary: Namjoon meets Jungkook in the Emergency room. "he's sick Joonie, and you can't make him better." that doesn't mean he's not going to try.

Part 6: Prey Animals

Summary: A death and A dinner party (a woman that yoongi can't take his eyes off of.)

Part 7: Hoseok

Summary: Yoongi brings home a stray, but luckily he's going to stay. (Yoongi won't, Yoongi is going to leave)

Part 8: Just Not her

Summary: Yoongi cannot decide if he trusts you or not. After being followed, he interrogates you to figure out your motives.

Part 9: Ribbons

Summary: A dinner at the Moon house prompt Yoongi to get closer and closer to you. But how close can he get before he pricks his finger?

Part 10: Junk Drawers and Daydreams

Summary: Yoongi just wants to figure you out. Just that. He promises.

Part 11: Warm Monsters

Summary: Yoongi's attraction gets harder to ignore, as does your suffering.

Part 12: The After

Summary: In Yoongi's absence the pack sort of falls apart.

Part 13: Bruises and Butterflies

Summary: One life doesn't equal seven.

~-~

Commonly asked questions:

Why the different name? because i thought it would be confusing to have two series's by the same name on the same page

Why are you editing this story? because i want to put it up for physical purchase either on amazon (ew i know) or some other alternative, the beginning of the story had always bugged me because it was not paced the same as the rest of it.

[nismo-omsin]

Redefining Antisemitism: Why All Semitic Peoples Must Be Included

For over a century, the term antisemitism has been narrowly defined to refer exclusively to prejudice and hostility toward Jewish people. While that usage is rooted in a very real and painful history—particularly the horrors of the Holocaust and the persistence of anti-Jewish sentiment across the globe—it is time to interrogate and expand the term’s definition.

Because Semitic people are not a monolith. And antisemitism, if we are honest, should not be either.

The Linguistic Truth

The term Semite refers to a broad group of people who speak or descend from speakers of Semitic languages—Hebrew, Arabic, Amharic, Aramaic, and others. This includes Jews, Arabs, Ethiopians, Assyrians, and more. The linguistic origin is clear. But over time, the term antisemitism has been exclusively applied to Jews, erasing the Semitic identity of millions of others who have also faced historic and ongoing oppression.

This isn’t just an academic oversight—it has serious ethical and political consequences.

A Weaponized Definition

Today, we see a dangerous misuse of the term antisemitism. Defending Palestinian rights, exposing war crimes, or criticizing the policies of the Israeli government can result in being labeled “antisemitic”—even when these critiques come from Arabs or other Semitic people themselves.

It is not only inaccurate to call Semitic people antisemitic for criticizing their oppression, it’s also morally absurd. The term has been twisted into a tool of suppression, used to silence legitimate resistance and shield systems of violence from accountability.

The Case of Palestine: Occupation, Apartheid, and Silence

Let’s be clear: what is happening to Palestinians under Israeli occupation is not a misunderstanding or a “complex conflict.” It is the deliberate displacement, surveillance, imprisonment, and dehumanization of an indigenous Semitic people.

• Gaza has been described as the world’s largest open-air prison. Today, it resembles a death camp.

• Between 500–700 Palestinian children are kidnapped by Israeli military forces annually, often taken from their homes at night, denied legal representation, and held in military prisons without charge.

• Palestinians are taxed by the occupying power, yet denied equal rights, legal protections, or meaningful political representation.

• Illegal Israeli settlers routinely attack Palestinian civilians under the protection—or participation—of Israeli forces.

And yet, when Palestinians speak out against this, they are told their resistance is antisemitic.

This is gaslighting at a global scale.

Expanding the Definition: A Moral Imperative

If we are going to fight antisemitism, then let us fight it in all its forms—against all Semitic peoples.

• Let us condemn the hatred and demonization of Jews wherever it occurs.

• But also condemn the dehumanization of Palestinians, Arabs, and other Semitic groups who are treated as second-class citizens, occupiable, bombable, and disposable.

This is not about minimizing Jewish suffering—it’s about recognizing that antisemitism cannot be a one-way street. When we exclude Arab Semites from the protection of this term, we reinforce a hierarchy of whose lives, whose languages, and whose lineages are worth defending.

Toward an Inclusive Framework

It is time for our language to reflect our values. The fight against hate must be principled, not political. If antisemitism means the hatred, marginalization, or violent erasure of Semitic people, then Palestinians must be included in that struggle—not criminalized for surviving it.

Reclaiming the full scope of antisemitism is not just about semantics. It’s about justice, solidarity, and truth.

And no liberation movement is complete if it erases others along the way.

[lowytavis]

i promised malek - garrick tavis x reader

warning: angst, violence, fluff at the end

Garrick Tavis tightened his grip on his sword, his breath ragged as blood dripped from the gash on his forehead.

The ambush had come swift and brutal, cutting them off from reinforcements, leaving only him and (Y/N) against impossible odds.

The air was thick with the scent of iron and smoke, the once-proud banners of King Aaric Graycastle now trampled in the dirt.

Garrick staggered, using his shield to block an incoming strike, but his body was slow, exhaustion clawing at him.

He stole a glance at (Y/N), equally battered, her face pale with blood loss.

They were both barely standing.

“We’re not making it out of this, are we?” (Y/N) murmured, voice hoarse.

Garrick let out a bitter chuckle, spitting blood to the side.

“Not looking good.”

Another enemy lunged, and Garrick moved on instinct, striking out with what little strength he had left.

His vision blurred. His limbs felt heavier. He wasn’t sure if it was his own blood or (Y/N)’s soaking the ground beneath them.

“You still with me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

(Y/N) gave a weak nod, raising her weapon. “To the end.”

And then the enemy surged forward once more.

Garricks POV

I woke up.

Or at least, I think I did.

My eyelids felt like stone, barely parting as I fought to pull myself back to consciousness. My body ached, every breath a struggle, and something heavy pressed against my side.

(YN).

I swallowed, my throat raw. “Hey, (YN),” I rasped. “Get up.”

No movement.

My pulse spiked.

I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.

The town around us was in ruins.

I forced myself to move, teeth gritted against the pain.

My fingers trembled as I reached for (YN), pressing against her throat, desperate for any sign of life.

"You cannot leave me like this," I muttered, my voice barely more than a breath as I pulled her closer.

My arms shook, whether from exhaustion or fear, I wasn’t sure.

Then—movement. A shallow inhale. A tremor against my chest.

“I told Malek about us,” she whimpered. Her voice was so faint I almost thought I imagined it.

Her eyes fluttered open—at least, one did. The other was swollen, dark and bloodied, and I knew then she might lose it.

But she was alive.

For now.

“What?” My voice was hoarse, rough with disbelief.

She tried to grin, though it came with a wet, sickening gurgle as blood pooled at the corner of her mouth.

“Malek said he’s not ready for us.”

She coughed, a broken sound. “We’re menaces.”

Her attempt at humor was weak, but it was her. It was her.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my forehead to hers. "Damn right we are."

But there was no victory here, only bodies and silence. I had no idea if help was coming.

If there even was help left to come.

I tightened my grip around her, determination steeling my spine.

"You’re not dying today, (YN)."

She let out a ragged chuckle. "I’ll hold you to that."

And so I held her, praying I wouldn’t have to break my word.

later

We woke up in the infirmary.

Took you long enough,” (YN) stated the moment my eyes fully opened.

She smiled, but there was an eyepatch covering one of her eyes.

My stomach twisted.

"Yeah, it's gone," she said, noticing my stare.

There was sadness in her voice, but then she smirked.

"Guess I’m only half as hot now as I used to be.

I huffed a breath, shaking my head. "You’re impossible."

“Scoot over,” she said.

And I did.

We’d always been just friends, but there was no denying the chemistry between us. It had been there for years, unspoken, ignored—but now, with death so close behind us, it felt impossible to push aside.

"You said something about speaking to Malek?" I muttered, watching her closely.

She sighed.

“Yeah. I feel like I died—I could’ve sworn I saw him. And you know what he did?” Her lips pressed together. “He rejected us. Said there’s something unspoken between us.”

I inhaled sharply. My pulse quickened.

There is.

“(YN)?”

My voice was quieter now, cautious.

“You know I feel more than friendship, right?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I do, Garrick.”

Her fingers brushed against mine, warm despite everything.

“But… same here.”

She scooted even closer, curling into my side, her hand slipping into mine like it belonged there.

I exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Maybe Malek had seen something before we did.

Maybe death had forced us to stop pretending.

But in this moment, lying here with her, I knew one thing for certain.

I wasn’t letting go.

[please-read-the-manga]

'Sasuke deserves to die in a ditch.' Actually, though?

Decided to make this its own post because truthfully I don't know the etiquette here, but someone posted something pretty laughably egregious in the 'Sasuke' tag (as far as character interpretations go) and I felt compelled to gather up some manga panels to try and figure out where they were coming from and if you could feasibly justify their take.

The initial assertion, from what I gather, is that Sasuke's supposed inaction towards Orochimaru's other prisoners/experiments is heinous and as a result has warped him into such an evil that even Itachi cannot/should not forgive him. I am summarizing, perhaps crudely, but the original post is not the most thought out concept lol. I did consider it, though... were we ever shown Sasuke participating or condoning Orochimaru's actions? Was Sasuke complicit and, if so, to what degree?

Now, I'll briefly caveat that I think it seems like the original post might have been more of a story request? Which, in that case, who am I really to judge what someone wants to write for their own fun/enjoyment? But taking it in good faith that that's all it is and the post wasn't actually bait (which I acknowledge I'm falling hook, line, and sinker for if it is lol), then that's still a pretty tall order for a story as it (imo) requires such a dramatic departure from the canon portrayals of multiple characters to make it work.

I mean, even the cognitive dissonance Itachi would have to employ in an act of ultimate hypocrisy to judge Sasuke's alleged inaction as any worse/less agreeable than his own active violence would be incredibly fascinating given he is the murderer of countless innocents, operated as a reliable agent in a terrorist organization for multiple years and faithfully did whatever it took to uphold the appearance of loyalty, and encouraged Sasuke to go to any length for enough power to defeat him/later be able to fend for himself post-assisted suicide.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's just check out some panels and reflect on what Sasuke was doing while he was under Orochimaru's control and see what we can extrapolate from there.

1.) We can start out easy with Sasuke's alleged interest/participation in Orochimaru's experiments to which we are blatantly shown that he actually has complete and utter disgust for Orochimaru's methods.

He is revolted by what Orochimaru does for his experiments, even (in the panels above) likening Orochimaru's cruelty to that of Itachi's, someone who (at this point in the story) Sasuke views as the ultimate evil.

The rest will be hosted under the cut because adding panels (and I apparently hit the limit of that) drags out the length of these posts to an absurd degree.

2.) Kishimoto makes a point of showing us that Sasuke has deliberately chosen not to kill or even give in to Orochimaru's cruelty during their time together, something Orochimaru even mocks him for.

Sasuke's sole goal at this point in the story is exclusively to kill Itachi so he can achieve justice for his family and bloodline. He even continues to reiterate this point post-Orochimaru's death (but pre-Itachi death/reveal of Konoha's atrocious betrayal of the Uchiha) to Team Hebi.

3.) Sasuke outright states that he was only able to kill Orochimaru while he was weakened. He is also well aware that Orochimaru wishes to possess his body (ie. genetics) and, given that he is prepared to face Orochimaru at this exact, pivotal moment when he is most weakened/Sasuke is most guaranteed victory (ie. Sasuke is not taken off guard at all), I think you can make the argument that he was keenly preparing to attack/kill Orochimaru as soon as he was able. If he didn't do so earlier, then perhaps it stands to reason he didn't believe he was capable of succeeding at any other point.

4.) Sasuke certainly has some degree of freedom and maneuverability that other captives of Orochimaru do not, but he is definitely not an equal to Orochimaru and that power dynamic between them is reiterated frequently. While he is sometimes referred to with respect, he is also referred to as a pet/experiment. A gilded cage is still a cage. The power dynamic of Orochimaru as the master and Sasuke as his captive/future vessel/object of desire is notably and routinely emphasized.

*Note Suigetsu's use of 'we' and 'us'. To me, this implies that Sasuke is viewed by other captives as 'one of them' and not someone operating alongside Orochimaru like, say, Kabuto and Karin. Also, I'm out of images, but there's a panel I had to delete for space which has Orochimaru referring to Team Taka + Sasuke as his 'superior lab rats' again emphasizing Sasuke's shared status.

5.) Speaking of Suigetsu (who we know was experimented upon), he appears to be quite familiar with Sasuke when Sasuke comes to free him. While we unfortunately don't get to see it, its obvious that a relationship of some degree has been formed between the two. Their familiarity with one another highlights that this is not the first time Suigetsu and Sasuke are meeting and from this we can (perhaps) infer that he and Sasuke bonded at an earlier point and, due to the lack of antagonism from Suigetsu towards Sasuke compared to his immediate dislike of Karin who he does state experimented on him, that Sasuke did not participate in his torture.

Keep in mind that, at this stage in the story, this is a hardened Sasuke who has fully embraced his role as the sole arbiter of justice that can do right by his family, but it's still Sasuke. This is still the same Sasuke who fed Naruto, violating Kakashi's rules, and risked never becoming a ninja. This is the same Sasuke who sacrificed his life for Naruto, who called Naruto and Sakura his precious people he wanted to protect, etc. This is the same Sasuke who a few chapters later goes out of his way to show great respect to the ninja cats and Nekobaa, thanking her for everything! Even if he may have been hardened, I'd argue we are almost always encouraged (as readers) to remember that Sasuke is fundamentally a good, kind child (like Naruto) that was horrifically tortured and manipulated by bad actors and the corrupt ninja system into embracing those more violent tendencies out of his deep love for others and a need for survival. Naruto, importantly, never lets this image of Sasuke fall from memory (even calling Sasuke out when Sasuke tries to fancy himself a villain) and, in my opinion, the reader would do well to remember who Sasuke really is as well.

And, in this vein, who is to say he never fed Suigetsu when Kabuto wasn't looking, igniting their bond? That he and Suigetsu didn't talk about their brothers? It's pure conjecture, but thoughts to consider that aren't the most braindead 'Sasuke is pure evil' nonsense you see out there lol.

*Also, 'I knew you'd show up' can imply so much. Did Suigetsu know of Sasuke's plans to overtake Orochimaru? Why was he so sure Sasuke would come rescue him? Much to consider there.

6.) Outside of Suigetsu, let's take a moment to look at how other prisoners/captives view Sasuke. We are directly shown that they, in some form or another, view him as one of them. Again, I interpret this to have emerged from an understood kinship that informs Sasuke's status as 'Orochimaru's next vessel' as not inherently divorced from the idea of him being just as much a captive/victim as them.

Sure, he is afforded some privileges as we've already mentioned (being at Orochimaru's side and not in a cell, for example) but this does not negate the fact Orochimaru always intended to use him, just as he used every other prisoner/captive under his watch. Also, as far as these privileges go, I find it interesting that it's also implied Sasuke was constantly (or at least a majority of the time) accompanied/monitored by Orochimaru and Kabuto given that his mere presence without Orochimaru/Kabuto breathing down his neck is notable enough that multiple people comment on it.

*Note the use of 'chaperone' here, it's an interesting word choice.

7.) Now, let's discuss the curse mark which is the sole reason why Sasuke is with Orochimaru to begin with.

Orochimaru deliberately coveted, targeted, and groomed Sasuke as far back as the Chunin Exam arc so that he could harvest his genetics. He forcibly placed a curse mark (again, read: CURSE, this was not some fun little power-up, it retains extremely negative drawbacks) on the body of a 12-year-old genin who was taking a state-sponsored meat grinder-style exam and found himself up against one of the Legendary Sannin, someone he couldn't possibly hope to defeat.

And we know that the curse mark Sasuke never asked for includes the following:

It debilitates him/constantly erodes his body.

It could have immediately killed him (multiple characters familiar with the curse marks are shocked he survived and continues to survive).

It amplifies and inflames his hatred (we see Orochimaru taunting him and inflaming his survivor's guilt while he is knocked out, ie. utilizing his horrific trauma against him).

And, ultimately, it is implied it would have eventually always required Sasuke to seek Orochimaru out to survive it.

Additionally Orochimaru is frequently shown targeting vulnerable children just like Sasuke and manipulating them for his own gain. This is standard practice for him and as far as extremely vulnerable children go, there are hardly any better examples than Sasuke. There was always an inherent power imbalance shown in the relationships between him and the children he is manipulating. He handles them in a way that is expressly individualized to exert ultimate control over the relationship and exploit their vulnerabilities/trauma tenfold.

8.) And, on top of the curse mark, Sasuke must contend with Itachi's conditioning of his psyche. At the ripe age of seven, Sasuke was actively encouraged by Itachi to give in to killing to try and strengthen his sharingan (ie. the infamous 'kill your best friend' directive). Importantly, Sasuke resisted this! Even though he had no reason not to follow the bloody path his brother laid for him, he refused to give into such cruelty. This is on top of the intense psychological torture and enormous weight that Sasuke had to bear in his quest for justice. Knowing you are the only survivor and no one else cares half as much as you do about avenging your annihilated family and culture is no small pressure to bear. To then actively choose to do it your way and stay true to yourself/values, is also commendable.

9.) I saved this one for later on as it's pretty well known among fans already and so directly refutes OP's concept of Sasuke holding no care for the other captives around him. But Sasuke goes on to free Orochimaru's prisoners as soon as he can. He straight up does not leave them hanging lol.

Side note: I love these panels, I wish a lot more had been done with them. It was around this time in the manga I really wish it had been renamed Sasuke, because everything going on here was x10 more interesting than anything happening with the Konoha crowd lol.

10.) Finally, as far as Sasuke goes, we have to acknowledge that Sasuke's ultimate goals always revolve around avenging the grave injustices done against those he loves/loved. Sasuke continually represents selfless love, he will sacrifice everything so his loved ones (his mother, father, brother, and clan) who have had all these wrongs done against them are given proper rest and justice.

He is deeply traumatized, he doesn't always fully know the entire story (as it's in the best interest of the bad actors around him -Itachi, Orochimaru, Obito- for him not to know everything/the entire truth), and he often struggles to express his thoughts/feelings in an adequate way that will afford him the help/answers he needs from others. So, Sasuke is not without his flaws/difficulties. But you'd have to be purposefully misinterpreting the text/his characterization to not see the good in him that Naruto, the main character, is loudly, constantly, directly shouting about at every chance he gets.

And let's end on the quick, again, laughable idea Itachi would ever 'put down' Sasuke. We have a couple of Itachi's to consider:

We have Itachi 0.0, a traumatized child who had far too much responsibility foisted upon him and who took Danzo's shit genocide deal that guaranteed ONLY Sasuke would be spared. At this stage (and again, we're talking a young, traumatized child soldier) Itachi would rather have his name besmirched for eternity and be the mass murderer to his own flesh and blood than ever put his baby brother in danger. The dilemma he was presented should also be coupled with the fact that Danzo is an incredibly manipulative, evil genocider who simply couldn't wait to mutilate some bodies/rob some graves for his own power/ambition while ruining countless lives (Itachi's included, and especially Sasuke's) as he knowingly shoved Itachi into a corner.

We have Itachi 1.0 that hoped traumatizing his brother and encouraging him to become as strong as possible (by any means possible) and avenge the clan/kill him so he could become this 'ultimate hero' to the village would lead his baby brother to theoretically (lifelong trauma notwithstanding) living a long, safe, productive life after he was gone.

We have Itachi 2.0 that wondered if Naruto might be able to help his (understandably) spiraling brother and was heartened when Naruto insisted he would never kill Sasuke and would always find another way - ie. reiterating the unconditional love Itachi has and always had for his baby brother. This, interestingly, resulted in Naruto being given Shisui's eye that would have forcibly brainwashed Sasuke into serving the state that sanctioned their clan's genocide, but let's ignore the horrible implications of that for a minute...........

And finally we have Itachi 3.0 who admits he was wrong to go about the early plans for Sasuke's life in the way that he did. He states, ultimately, he will love Sasuke no matter what. It's unconditional. He stops trying to forcibly alter his brother's lifepath and he states outright and blatantly that he will always love Sasuke, nothing will change that. His actions have always been influenced by his interpretation of love for Sasuke and that cannot be divorced (in good faith) from his character.

I'm being a bit facetious in some of these summarized points, but generally Itachi's stance on Sasuke's well-being never changes, he always loves Sasuke, only the way in which he offers guidance/expresses his love/thinks about what Sasuke's well-being looks like evolves throughout the story.

*Apologies, I have no idea why the font is so atrocious on these panels lol, but it says "And not matter what you do from here on out, know this... I will love you always."

Idk man, whoever is writing this story OP is asking for, is going to have a crazy uphill battle trying to convince readers that Itachi would ever give up on his brother (that he... directly encouraged this type of behavior in...) when Itachi exists to support and love his brother, when Itachi has always done everything for Sasuke. The debate about whether those actions were in any way good or healthy is wholly separate, but the text outright emphasizes that Sasuke has Itachi's entire, unconditional support and love no matter what. I know some people are allergic to the concept of unconditional love for some reason, but this is a crucial, critical, overwhelmingly highlighted point in the manga and these two specific characters' respective arcs that are known and cherished by many, many people lol, so, I don't know how you renege on that...

But I'd love to see a writer try, I guess. Why not? If you can keep both Sasuke and Itachi in-character and manga accurate, I'd be very interested in seeing a Itachi that not only abandons his beloved brother he has done everything for but also tries to kill him. I definitely wouldn't know how to go about making that convincing given all the direct evidence to the contrary presented in the manga.

Now, the stuff we don't know about Suigetsu and Sasuke's time together or spin-offs that maybe explore a Sasuke that continues on his trajectory to support and lead the people the shinobi world has abandoned? Like the kekkei genkai users (much like himself) who were abused by many in the shinobi world and further victimized by Orochimaru's vile ambitions? I'd, personally, be really interested in reading a faithful exploration of that. There is a lot to explore with Sasuke's time with Orochimaru, but I'd recommend reviewing the actual manga if you're after a realistic/authentic portrayal of these characters in your work.

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

The Wall

Cregan Stark x Reader

Summary: When Cregan is forced to bring his wife to the Wall, he tries to ensure her protection but does not hesitate to defend her honor when necessary.

Warnings: no use of y/n, canon level violence and language, crude language, slight sexual assault, slight smut, men being disgusting, misogyny, cregan being protective, death, killing

Word Count: 8k oops

Masterlist

Rays of warm sun streamed across the Lord and Lady of Winterfell’s chambers, a rare sight in the North so near to winter. An equally rare sight was the lord and lady lounging in bed past sunrise. Typically, the Warden of the North was out of bed before or along with the sunrise. However, longing for his wife of only six months' embrace, he had allotted himself extra time to just be with her.

The two lay, just facing each other for several moments, basking in the warmth and intimacy. Cregan broke the comfortable silence, his hand reaching up to cup his wife’s face. “I am going to miss this sight.”

The girl quirked a brow but smiled nonetheless. “Miss?” she questioned. “Where are you going?” It then occurred to Cregan that his wife was not Northern. She was unaccustomed to the Lord of Winterfell’s duties at the Wall at the beginning of winter, dragging him from the warm embrace of Winterfell.

Slipping a hand down from her face, his fingers found her shoulder, rubbing against the bare skin. “The Wall,” he informed gently. “I forgot you were not raised with our customs. At the beginning of every winter, the Lord of Winterfell must go to the Wall for a few months.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “A few months?” she repeated incredulously. “And I am not to come?”

Cregan shook his head, keeping his calm facade so as to not ruin the soothing atmosphere. However, inside he was incredulous that she’d suggest such a thing. The Wall was no place for a woman, especially one as lovely as his wife. “No, my love, you cannot. It is too dangerous.”

She laughed softly. Her chuckle was not mocking, although dismissive. “I believe I can handle the cold.”

Cregan laughed as well, neither mocking nor dismissive, more so endeared. “As much as I believe you could, it is far colder on the Wall than it is here. But that is not even the concern. You know the Night’s Watch? How a man faced with prison or death may choose the guard the Wall instead?” His wife nodded, her expression slowly being overcome with concern. “Well, that makes them…” he paused, trying to think how to put this delicately, “not the best group of men. Now, when a man joins the Night’s Watch their past is forgotten and forgiven. However, part of being a brother of the Night’s Watch means giving some things up. Including the companionship of women. Now, they are my men,” he assured, “I fight with and for them, but they are not my friends. I do not trust them with the most precious thing to me,” he explained, his hand briefly leaving her arm to cup her face for a moment.

Despite the disheartening answer and explanation, his wife could not help but blush at his adorations. “Should I be concerned with you going there?” she asked, her concern thinly veiled by a laugh.

“No,” he assured. “I trust them in battle with my life. My law gives them another chance at life.”

His wife nodded, still unconvinced. “When do you leave?”

“A fortnight,” he answered, satisfied that the matter of her wanting to go was laid to rest. “And I should like to savor every moment of being home,” he said, his voice gaining a teasing lilt as he leaned over to kiss her. She laughed as his arm encircled her waist, allowing him to pull her body on top of his.

~

Cregan did not think about their conversation again, considering the matter to be done. His wife did not bring up the topic again for a week. Until she strolled into his study lazily one day.

Cregan looked up from the documents on his desk, a smile gracing his face as he saw who the intruder was. “What are you doing here?” he asked pleasantly. Her visits were not uncommon as she sometimes just stopped by when she missed him so he did not expect much of a response from her.

“I just wanted to see you,” she said with a smile, buttering him up. She took a seat across the desk from him, eliciting a furrowed brow from her husband.

“Why are you sitting there?” he asked, feigning offense. “Come,” he waved her over. She complied, rounding the desk. As soon as she was in reach, Cregan grabbed her arm, practically yanking her into his lap. She fell into him with a laugh, allowing herself to settle into him. “There, I much prefer this.”

She laughed again before her expression fell. “Oh, I am going to miss you so much,” she professed, reaching up to cup his jaw.

Cregan’s own expression softened. “I know,” he conceded. “But it is only for three moons.”

Her eyes widened. “But that is half our marriage!” she cried.

Cregan sighed. “I’m afraid I do not know how to comfort you, my love.”

“You could always bring me with you,” she suggested coyly, to which her husband’s expression morphed into disapproval.

“My love, you know I cannot bring you with me.”

“But they are my people too. Or am I not also the Lady of Winterfell as much as you are the Lord?” she challenged.

“You are!” Cregan agreed. “But there are some responsibilities that are mine alone.”

Before anyone could argue further, there was a knock on the door. The lady attempted to stand from her husband’s lap for the sake of whoever wanted to enter. But a firm arm around her waist kept her planted. “Enter,” Cregan called, his grip on his wife’s waist still tight.

As the door opened, revealing Maester Kennet, he paused for a moment at the sight that greeted them. All of Winterfell knew how affectionate their lord and lady were, but he had not expected to enter to find this. After clearing his throat, the man greeted them. “My lord, my lady,” he began. “I’m afraid I bring you regretful news. Maester Alden of the Wall has passed. The Lord Commander is requesting you bring a healer to the Wall with you. He has already requested a new Maester from their Order, but it will be several months until one is sent from Oldtown.”

Cregan sighed, letting go of his wife’s waist to rub his eyes. It seemed there was always a problem. There were no other maesters that he could summon from the north. He could not imagine the uproar he’d receive for pulling a maester or healer from a village no matter how small. And Winterfell could not lose Maester Kennet who had yet to take on an apprentice. The closest thing he had to one was the woman sitting on Cregan’s lap.

The woman in question perked up. “I could go,” she immediately offered.

“No,” Cregan was quick to dismiss.

“My lord, if I may,” Kennet began simultaneously, “your wife is an excellent healer.” Being born a Hightower she was raised under the tutelage of the Order of Maesters who occupied The Hightower alongside the noble family.

“She is not going to the Wall,” he rebuffed, speaking as if she weren’t there yet grasping her waist even tighter than before. He sighed, before looking at the woman in his lap. “I have to speak with Maester Kennet alone,” he said softly.

Despite her wanting to argue she just nodded, seeing just how stressed her husband was. She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek before freeing herself from his grasp. As she stood, she nodded to Kennet before taking her leave, both men watching her go.

“Cregan,” the older man began, “I know what you are thinking but she is your only option. I cannot leave Winterfell, especially with you away. And with winter coming no one can afford to lose their healers. Nor could one be expected to travel between villages in the heard of winter.”

“I know,” Cregan mused. “But you have been to the Wall. It is no place for a woman.”

“You entrust her with the guards of Winterfell and bring many of them to the Wall as well. If she is not with you she can always be with them. Besides, the brothers of the Night’s Watch respect and fear you. I am confident they wouldn’t dare hurt her under your watch, or the watch of the guards.”

“But that is precisely my concern. What if she is left alone? You of all in Winterfell know she hates being shackled to someone, a guard or myself.”

“If you tell her protection is the condition of her going to the Wall I trust she will obey your wishes. I know she enjoys breaking the rules occasionally but if you express the importance to you she will listen to them.”

Cregan considered the older man’s words for a moment. He hated having his hand forced, especially when it became personal. The idea of bringing his wife to the Wall made it personal despite the lack of someone to blame. Still, he could not shake the image of the members of the Night’s Watch laying their eyes on his wife, the first woman that many would have seen in years. Gods, he could already predict their thoughts if he were in their shoes and they were not kind. They were the thoughts that only he should have as her husband.

“I will have an answer for the Lord Commander by the end of tomorrow. If I am unable to find another healer, Lady Stark may come,” he conceded. He let out a deep sigh. “Do you think there are any eunuchs that may be able to watch her?” he asked sarcastically.

~

Cregan reluctantly trudged down the hall to his wife’s study. He had spent all day wracking his brain for another healer that could make it to Winterfell in a week but there were none. And no one could even temporarily replace a village healer before the new one for the Wall would arrive. So he found himself reluctantly knocking at her door.

“Enter,” her voice came.

Entering the warm office that she had really just turned into a library, Cregan was greeted with his wife sitting by the fireplace. She turned to see who had knocked, a smile breaking out on her face when she was greeted with her husband. But that smile quickly faded when she saw his tired expression. “What is wrong?” she asked, turning in her plush seat to face him.

Her husband did not answer as he took a seat on the chair across from her, just looking in the fire. “I cannot find a healer to bring to the Wall,” he began reluctantly, the flames dancing in his tired eyes. Across from him, the flames seemed to make the light growing in his wife’s eyes dance. “So, you will come with us.” The lady gasped in excitement at his words but Cregan snapped his head to look at her. “But,” he dampened her excitement slightly, “there are some rules that you must follow if you are to come.”

“Cregan-”

“Don’t protest,” he reprimanded. “I love you, I could never forgive myself if you were harmed by anyone or anything on the Wall. Especially by the men who are sworn to me.”

The lady took a breath, finding the sincerity in her husband’s eyes. She could see just how scared he was of this, just how much the thought of her getting hurt scared him. And she could empathize, as she could not bear the thought of being without him for three moons. Much less that she now understood how dangerous the Wall could be. “Okay, I will obey your rules,” she conceded.

Cregan nodded, “Thank you. I do not intend to scare you but you should know these things. First, that there will be many men of Winterfell coming with us. If you are not with me or in our chambers, you are to be with one of them.” He paused, waiting for a response to which she just nodded in agreement. “Next, you will act as a healer so you will likely operate out of Maester Alden’s turret. Alden was an… experimental healer so do not touch anything unless you are absolutely sure you know what it is. And the Wall is cold, far colder than even here so ensure you bring clothes to keep you dry and warm. If you become too ill to care for yourself then all my men on the Wall are at risk.”

She quirked a brow at him. “Are you truly telling me to bring a cloak to the Wall?” she questioned.

“Well you brought practically nothing here,” he retorted lightly.

His wife just sent him a playful glare before he continued. “And finally, you are not to be in the common areas with the brothers. That includes places such as the dining halls, the practice yard, the brothers’ quarters, the stables, any place where they congregate. And, of course, you may not go beyond the Wall. Is that clear?”

“Cregan, you needn’t treat me like a child,” she chided lightly. But her soft smile wavered seeing his stony expression. “I understand,” she conceded. “I will be careful and stay with those you trust.”

“Good,” Cregan nodded. “I know you think me too protective. But it is my job to protect you, I swore an oath to the gods to it.”

“I know,” she acknowledged.

~~

Cregan grew more and more nervous as the Stark party drew closer to the Wall. Sending a glance to his wife, he found her just behind him, sitting side saddle wrapped in furs and cloaks. Despite the long, arduous journey to the Wall she had not complained once. It got to the point that Cregan was concerned something was wrong. She just dismissed his concerns as not wanting to be sent back to Winterfell.

“Are you alright?” he asked, checking in on her as he often did.

“Yes,” she agreed with a teasing rolled eye.

Cregan nodded, her amusement doing nothing to quell his nerves. “We are approaching Castle Black. Remember, many of these men have not even seen a woman in years. Stick close to me.” The amusement left her features as she nodded. Cregan looked over to one of the guards in front of him. “Garrat, ride ahead. Let the Lord Commander know we are an hour out.”

“Aye, my lord,” the man agreed, not even turning on his horse before taking off.

The rest of the trip was led in relative silence. The only person who had been remotely excited to go to the Wall was Lady Stark but that excitement had been quelled by the numerous grave warnings she had received from her husband and the men who had been.

Soon enough, she was staring up at the peaks of Castle Black as they approached the gates. She observed the fabled Wall she had heard so much about. In stories from her childhood and in preparation of this trip. To say she was underwhelmed was an understatement. She had heard fabled stories of a seven hundred foot wall made of ancient ice. Rather, guarding the fortress that monitored this Wall, were indeed ice walls, but they looked to be maybe fifty feet high at their peaks, along with some man constructed walls that served similarly to the walls of Winterfell, containing the fortress. She would have expressed her disappointment in a jest to her husband but did not for the sake of appearance.

As the gates of the fortress opened she felt just like when she had entered the gates of Winterfell. Compared to Oldtown in the south, Winterfell felt cold and cruel, with the local Northerners’ hard gazes making her skin crawl. But she had found a comfortable home there and made friends with many of the fortress’ occupants. Compared to Winterfell, the Wall was like the seventh circle of hells. Whilst the cold initially felt biting in Winterfell, she had grown accustomed to it. Here, it felt as if the cold was sinking into her bones as the gates closed behind them. She had thought Winterfell to be dirty and barbaric as if it was made for war and war alone. But here, she felt as if she had actually entered a war camp and was now trapped in by its walls and the miles of snow between here and her home. And when she had first felt the curious gazes of the Northern folk upon entering her husband’s home, she had taken them as hungry, sending chills through her body. Now she truly knew what it felt like to be looked at with hunger as their group approached a welcome party of men dressed in black. The lady resisted the urge to pull her hood up to cover her hair that gave her away, but doing so now would look weak.

Instead, she looked to the four men stood in the middle of the courtyard, separate from the rest of them. Whilst three of them kept flickering their gazes towards her, the man who seemed to lead them stepped forward, only looking to Cregan.

“Lord Stark,” the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch greeted him as he dismounted from his horse.

“Carron Vander,” Cregan greeted the man with a smile, shaking his hand.

“We appreciate you bringing your wife,” Lord Commander Vander said in a lowered tone. “Trust that I have told the brothers exactly what will happen to them if they harm her.”

Cregan thanked the man. “Might I get my wife inside? She was born a Hightower after all,” he laughed.

Vander let out a booming laugh, observing the girl wrapped in furs for a moment. “Of course,” he agreed. “You know where your chambers are,” he gestured to the Commander’s house.

Cregan nodded, going over to his wife who was still sat upon the horse. She was sure that if she jumped from this height, with her feet so cold, her toes would break off. Without a word, Cregan grabbed her waist, sliding her off the horse. A movement that for a reason that could only make sense in the minds of sex-deprived men, elicited several murmurs from the men. Cregan gave no indication that he noticed it but his wife’s eyes nervously flickered around the courtyard full of men.

Holding her close, Cregan whispered, “Come, let’s get you inside.” As the couple and their men were ushered in, the brothers of the Night’s Watch received pointed glares from their Lord Commander, First Ranger, First Steward, and First Builder.

As the shivering woman was quickly ushered into the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell, she let the warmth melt the cold from her body. She took a moment to observe the room, finding it constructed of stone with wood furniture and more than enough fur and cloth to keep her warm for the winter. Along with a crackling hearth that made the room warm enough for her to begin stripping off layers. “No windows?” she mused.

“No,” Cregan answered, also shedding his cloak. “The buildings were designed to hold as much warmth in as possible. Windows just allow the cold in.” She nodded, observing the room. Cregan could not help the sigh that left him as his wife wrapped her arms around herself. Going over to her, he wrapped his own arms around her. “Are you okay?” he asked, his chin resting on top of her head.

“Yes,” she dismissed. “Just a bit cold.”

Cregan still held her, unconvinced. “If anyone makes you uncomfortable please come to me or Vander, Weaver, Graen, or Staelle.”

“Who are they?” she asked.

Before Cregan could answer, there was a knock at the door. Reluctantly, he pulled away from his wife to answer the door. Opening it, he revealed the four men that had greeted them outside. The short door made all the men look huge, especially Cregan who stood taller than all four.

“My lady,” they all greeted, bowing their heads as they entered. She could not tell if that was out of respect or so they would not hit their heads on the low doorway.

“This is Lord Commander Carron Vander,” Cregan introduced the first man. Vander stepped forward, reaching for her hand to press a delicate kiss on her knuckles. He was tall, just like the others, with greying hair and a black beard littered with silver. “The First Ranger, Adian Weaver,” he introduced a slightly younger man who repeated the actions of Vander. His hair was cropped short unlike the rest of the men, but his beard was full and held no silver. “He leads the rangers who go beyond the wall. This is the First Builder, Karron Graen, he is responsible for maintaining the wall.” A man with purely white hair stepped up, taking her hand as well, his beard was so long the wispy tip reached where presumably his navel was. “And this is the First Steward, Myle Staelle, he is responsible for keeping this place operating,” Cregan introduced the final man who had no hair but a great bushy brown beard, and repeated the movements of the other men.

“Lovely to meet you all,” the Lady of Winterfell greeted, feeling a bit intimidated. “Thank you for welcoming me. I know you do not typically have women here.”

“We appreciate you coming. Without a healer we are only as strong as our ill,” Vander commended.

“If you need anything do not hesitate to approach any one of us,” Weaver welcomed.

“Thank you. Winterfell truly appreciates all you do. The entire realm does, although I regret that they don’t show their regard.” The men all laughed at her joke. “Although, I must say, I had thought the wall was larger. I never thought it was actually seven hundred feet but-” Her words were cut off by a resounding laugh. “What?” she questioned as the booming laughter died for a moment.

“That wasn’t the Wall you saw as we entered, my love,” Cregan said. “We are on the Wall as we speak. And it is in fact seven hundred feet.” He could not help but be endeared by her confused expression.

Despite the dedication of the four men from the Night’s Watch to their oaths, they could not help but also be endeared by her cute expression. Nevertheless, they pushed their feelings down as their lord turned to them, his arm slung across his wife’s shoulder. “Should we show her the Wall?” he asked.

“Aye,” they all agreed. This woman’s presence was by far the most amusing thing to happen here in a long time.

Throwing his wolf fur coat over his wife, Cregan eagerly steered her out of their chambers. She did not say a word as he led her out of the house, back into the courtyard. Fortunately, most of the men had dispersed, leaving only a few working in the yard. The group led her to a wooden structure that looked to be some sort of tower against the ice wall that formed the back wall of the fortress. Pushing her onto the platform, Graen uttered some words to a few men standing at some sort of crank.

“Lord Husband, what ar-” she began to question when the men started pushing the great pieces of wood. Her worlds halted as they were slowly hoisted into the air. She could only look at the slowly disappearing ground as they were lifted higher and higher into the air.

“This is the lift, my lady. There is one on the other side of the wall. It is how we get up and down it,” Graen explained.

She just nodded, looking at the horizon in awe. It was nothing but the white and green of the snow and the trees. But it became hazier the higher they were lifted. She did not even care about the cold as the wind whipped around them, too entranced by the magnificent scenery.

Cregan could not help but smile adoringly at his wife as she stared in awe at seemingly the entire North. But as the lift stopped, his smile grew wider as he suddenly turned her around, greeting her with the sight of beyond the wall. He actually quite preferred the sight of the North, but seeing just how high up they were would surely shock her mind. And he was not disappointed as she took in the incredible sight, the white of the snow stretching for miles contrasted against the brilliant blue of the sky. But the most impressive sight was just how high they were above the snow.

“Holy…” her awestruck voice came, eliciting chuckles from all the men as her eyes shone with the light reflected from the ice beneath them.

“Seven hundred feet, my lady,” Graen confirmed with a smirk. “It is a grueling trip up and down,” he gestured to a structure that peaked up from a slightly lower edge.

As the lady stepped forward to observe better, her husband kept firm hands on both her shoulders, ensuring she did not get too close and plummet down the wall. “So you do actually climb up and down this wall?” she asked in astonishment.

“Aye, my lady,” the man smirked proudly.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“Come,” Cregan said, pulling his wife back to the lift to return, “let’s get you settled in the maester’s turret. That is, after all, why you are here.”

Heading back down the lift and through the courtyards, they all headed to the maseter’s turret. It was in a tower connected to the dining hall and Cregan made a point of steering the in through the main entrance rather than through the hall.

“This was Maester Alden’s workshop,” Staelle explained, glancing around the room. Upon entering the rooms held by the old maester, Lady Stark could not help but wonder what was in the various bottles lining the shelves. She’d have to explore them further without Cregan there. “I’ll show you to the sickroom where you will be treating the brothers,” he explained, gesturing to a door housing a hallway.

Still holding his wife close, Cregan nudged her in that direction, leading them through the hall to a door and through to another room. It was large, made entirely of cold stone with two fireplaces on either end of the room working to keep it warm. There were a dozen or so beds lining the walls for men to rest after injury. But most alarmingly was the Winterfell guard suddenly standing up as the group entered.

“My Lord, my Lady, Lord Commander,” he greeted the three most senior in the room.

“Karden will be here in the infirmary at all times. And Drommen will always be outside this door as it leads to the dining hall,” Cregan explained. They were her two primary guards in Winterfell, always stationed outside their chambers or her study.

“Karden, I am so glad you will be with me,” the lady could not help but be overjoyed at seeing a familiar face. She knew they would be coming with them but it was nice to know that one of her most trusted guards was nearly always with her.

“I’m glad I can be of comfort, my lady,” he returned.

The atmosphere was then interrupted by a knock at the door. Drommen opened it without waiting, much to his regret as his eyes opened wide upon seeing his lord, lady, and the commanders of the Night’s Watch all before them. “Oh, my apologies. I had not realized you entered, my lady.”

“No apologies necessary,” she was quick to dismiss. “What is the matter?”

He opened the door wider, revealing a strange man of the Night’s Watch. “My apologies, my lords but I need a healer. You see, my—and I don’t mean to be crass—balls are quite sore and I think I might have an infection or something because my cock is leaking. My lady, if you don’t mind, as the healer, rubbing it to make the pain go away?” he dissolved into laughter.

Vander let out a growl, going over to the younger man, planting a large hand on the man’s head and pushing him out of the room. He then slammed the door shut just as the lady glimpsed Drommen dragging him away from the door. “My apologies, Lady Stark,” Vander began, turning to face her with a tired voice. “Trust that he will be dealt with.”

Cregan’s grip on her shoulder became impossibly tighter as she resisted the urge to shrink into his side. “It is alr-” she prepared to absolve Vander of responsibility.

“It is not alright,” her husband cut her off. “Stay here,” he said to her softly. “I am going to deal with him personally,” he declared, finally letting go of his wife. She just watched as he and the other men of the Night’s Watch all left through the same door Drommen guarded, leaving her with Karden.

She just turned to him slowly, clutching Cregan’s far too large cloak closer to her. Her guard watched her with concern. “Are you alright, my lady?”

She nodded, taking a breath to compose herself. “Yes, just a strange place, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” he agreed. “My first trip to the wall was two winters ago. I admit I did not enjoy it at first but you get used to it.” She just nodded, hoping that by the end of three months she would not be quite so eager to return to Winterfell.

~

At dinner, the brothers of the Night’s Watch all observed their lord sat at the head table. “Fuck, they bring Lord Stark to eat with us so we feel better about being on the Wall but not Lady Stark?” Kerith, one of the brothers of the Night’s Watch cursed.

“You really think they’d let her eat with you lot?” one of the Winterfell guards scoffed. “Especially after that one guy said to her in front of Lord Stark and all of them,” he gestured up to the head table.

“Yeah, well he’s an idiot,” another of the men answered.

“Tell us, what’s she look like under all those layers?” Kerith asked the guard. He just rolled his eyes, continuing to eat. “C’mon,” he begged. “You realize I haven’t even seen a woman in five years right? Tell me, has she got big tits?”

The man from Winterfell just sent a glare to all the horny boys listening in eagerly. “I’ll answer that if you are okay with me telling the Lord Commander you asked such a question.” All the boys just grumbled going back to their meals.

~

The Lady Stark had been up to her elbows in wounds all day. It seemed that ever since Maester Alden died, all training had ceased. And it seemed that, according to her patients, sparring and training was part of what kept the brotherhood of the Night’s Watch going. After weeks of no outlet for conflict, combined with the sudden influx of Winterfell guards who operated by different rules, and the presence of a woman—unbeknownst to the woman in question—things had become quite heated. With several scuffles breaking out in the training yard and the Lord Commander allowing them to occur as a form of catharsis.

Lady Stark had even made Karden into an assistant as he worked to bandage less severe wounds and run interference against the boys who simply wanted to come see a woman.

Venturing over to a bed held by a younger boy, just barely six and ten, she approached him with a kind smile. He had come in so sheepishly, clutching an arm to his chest and looking at her like an angel. “How are you feeling Clarreth?” she asked.

“Better, my lady,” he practically beamed up at her. He had not been at the wall long but it seemed the lack of women had gotten to him as his eyes never left her as she worked through all the beds of legitimately wounded men.

“That’s good,” she smiled, the boy practically melting under its warmth. “Do you feel well enough to return to the barracks? I’m afraid I’ll need this bed for one of the other men.”

Clarreth practically deflated at the suggestion. “But I’m still a bit sore.”

The woman could not help but contain her smile, the situation reminding her when her nephew was not even four years and had developed an affection for her. Yes, this boy was old enough to understand the boundaries he was breaching but at least he was not being disgusting about it as many of the other men had been. Plus, his round face and wide eyes made him look harmless.

She sunk down beside his bed, speaking to him as if he were a child despite being only three years younger. “Clarreth, someone else needs that bed.”

He sighed. “Fine,” he conceded, reluctantly getting out of bed.

He began reluctantly heading to the door just as a large figure entered. Lady Stark’s face visibly lit up as her husband entered the infirmary. “What are you doing here?” the joy clear in her voice.

All the injured members of the Night’s Watch could not resist glaring at their lord as he passed, jealous of his wife’s favor towards him. The only glare that Cregan noticed was Clarreth, but seeing that the boy was so young and unassuming, he did not bother to address it with him. “I thought I should check in on you,” he answered, settling a hand on her waist. “Who was that?” he asked, nodding over to the boy’s retreating form.

“Oh, that’s Clarreth. He was knocked over during sparring and insisted on having a bed. I think he holds some affection for me.”

“My love, all the men here hold some affection for you. Even the Lord Commander,” Cregan stated bluntly. His wife just blushed, especially as he absentmindedly tugged her fichu up, maintaining her modesty. “Well, I can see that you are busy and I am in the mood for some sparring. I will see you at dinner,” he bid, pressing a chaste kiss to her hairline before backing away from her, a grin on his face.

She just stood there, smiling after him for a moment. Her trance was only broken by repeated attempts to get her attention from wounded soldiers.

“My lady! My lady! Lady Stark!” a voice finally caught her attention. Surprised, she whirled around to find a man who she had previously treated lying holding his arm. “I believe my stitches tore.”

“Oh!” she cried, grabbing a rag to begin putting pressure on the wound. She held the man’s upper arm firmly. “Karden, come hold pressure,” she shouted across the room. The guard came running over immediately.

“Are you sure?” the man questioned. “I much prefer you to hold my arm,” he flirted.

The lady just rolled her eyes as she moved to grab some thread and the needle she had used earlier. Crouching by the bed she observed his arm, finding the first three stitches missing rather than torn. With a brow furrowed in confusion, she found bloody clumps of thread on the bed along with the man’s bloody fingers. Her jaw fell slack with disgust and surprise. “Di- did you rip out your own stitches?” she gasped.

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?” he smiled.

The woman looked at him like he had three heads. She took a breath, gritting her teeth. “I will stitch you up one more time and if you rip them out again, or even accidentally tear them, I will leave you to bleed. Is that clear?” she demanded.

The man only smirked. “Understood, my lady,” he smiled before settling back against the bed.

Reluctantly, the woman began stitching before looking to the new injury that stumbled into the room. Quirking a brow, she observed two men entering, one clearly not well as his arm was slung over the shoulder of another man, looking like he was near unconsciousness.

“Take him to bed three,” the healer directed. The man holding him complied, staggering under the weight of his friend. “What happened?”

“Said he wanted to spar with Lord Stark. He got him onto his knees and knocked him out with the hilt of his sword.”

“Mother,” the woman breathed, observing the large welt forming on the man’s hairline. “Here,” she said, grabbing a rag from a freezing bucket of water. “Can you have him hold this against his injury? Get it cold again as it warms but just keep him awake,” she asked.

“Of course,” the uninjured man agreed.

She thanked him before moving to check on the other wounded men occupying the beds. “Karden,” she called over her guard.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Can you bandage him up and kick him out?” she asked, nodding over to the man who had ripped out his stitches. But as she looked at him he winked, blowing her a kiss.

“Of course, my lady. Would you like me to report him to Lord Stark as well?”

She thought for a moment before shaking her head, heading over to one of the beds that held a bleeding member of the Night’s Watch, checking on his bandages. She made her rounds as Karden removed the man from the infirmary. Fortunately, he didn’t make too much of a fuss, just a few angry remarks before walking himself out.

After another hour of bandaging up injuries, many of them reportedly coming from Cregan as he seemingly sparred with every member of the Night’s Watch, Lady Stark was exhausted. But it seemed she had settled most of her patients. The men stopped coming as often and those who truly needed to stay in the infirmary were all resting, the rest having been sent back to their duties or the barracks.

Taking a seat at the desk set up in the infirmary, she took another moment to breathe. The door then opened again, revealing the side of Drommen as he allowed another man in. Reluctantly Lady Stark looked up at him with a polite smile. “What may I help you with?” she asked.

Feigning the best hoarse voice he could, Kerith spoke. “I was in the training yard and got knocked down and something feels wrong in my chest,” he rasped, holding his chest.

Genuine concern drew over the healer’s face as she stood. “Go over to one of the empty beds and remove your furs and tunic. I will come check on you in a moment,” she directed. The man nodded before going over to the furthest bed.

After giving him a moment to undress, the lady went over. “Okay, lie back,” she instructed. “I am going to listen to your breathing.” The man complied as she stooped down, placing an ear against his bare chest. “Take several deep breaths for me.”

Kerith did as instructed, his breathing sounding perfectly normal. Confused, the woman moved to his other lung, listening again, but before she could pull away, the man grabbed her head, pushing her down. She let out a yelp of surprise as he shoved her face into his fortunately still clothed crotch. But as she tried to pull away, his fingers grabbed a fist full of her hair, shoving her face further into his body.

Hearing the scream, Karden immediately ran over, a hand on his sword as he grabbed the man’s hand. “Let Lady Stark go,” he demanded. But Kerith just ignored him, savoring the feeling of something other than his own hand touching his cock. Unsheathing his sword, Karden brought it to the man’s throat. “Unhand her or I will kill you right here,” he threatened.

Reluctantly, Kerith let go, releasing the now crying woman who slumped down onto the floor next to the bed. Karden wasted no time yanking the man from the bed, his torso still bare, and marching him out of the infirmary.

Meanwhile, Drommen was rushing over to his lady’s side as the conscious men watched on from their beds. “Are you alright, my lady?” he asked, kneeling beside the weeping woman. She did not answer as she tried to make the tears stop but they just kept coming as she found her breath becoming shallow. “Come, I will bring you to Lord Stark,” he told her, helping her up.

Outside, Karden found his lord in the training yard, standing with the Lord Commander and First Ranger, observing a fight. Knowing that the Warden of the North would not let this transgression pass, he shouted across the training yard, “Lord Stark!”

The crowd fell silent, even the fighters ceasing as the Winterfell guard marched the half naked member of the Night’s Watch to his lord, throwing the man at his feet. “My lord,” Karden began, “this brother of the Night’s Watch has committed a transgression against you and your wife that I will not let go unreported,” he practically spat. “Whilst Lady Stark was attempting to help this man, he grabbed her by the hair and forced her face into his crotch.”

The yard was deathly quiet, no man daring to speak as the Lord of the North processed his loyal guard’s words. Inside, fury burned within Cregan as he stared down at the man like he was scum on his boot. He gifted these men with the thing most cherished by him and they disrespected him in such an egregious way? He could not allow that.

Beside him, the Lord Commander took a step forward to look at his man. “Is this true?” he questioned.

Kerith sat up on his knees, angrily spitting the dirt from his mouth. “Aye. Just because he is the Lord of the North, why should he get to bring a toy just to parade it under our noses?”

By now, Lady Stark had entered the training yard, under the arm of Drommen. Cregan observed his wife’s tear-stricken face, the rage inside him burning brighter but the words dying on his tongue as he looked at her across the yard.

“That is your liege lady,” Vander spat.

“Fuck her titles,” the man spat. “She’s meant to fuck. A man was meant to have the pleasures of a woman and well, she’s the only one around. I say, whoever beats her husband gets to fuck her.”

Several murmurs erupted from the crowd, with a few of Winterfell’s guards stepping forward to detain him. But Cregan just held up a hand, a cruel smile finding its way onto his lips. Stooping down, he got close to Kerith’s face. “You want to fight me for the right to fuck my wife?” he repeated incredulously. “Is that really your proposal?” he dared.

“Aye,” Kerith agreed. “I know we give up women when we take the oath but the way I see it, if I best the Warden of the North, then I am released from the oath and gifted his wife.”

Cregan wanted nothing more than to shove the measly little worm before him back into the dirt but kept his composure. The cruel smile once again graced his features as he stood. “Fine,” he agreed, releasing his cloak from around his shoulders and grasping his greatsword, Ice. “Someone get him a sword,” he called, his eyes never leaving Kerith. “I’ve been making quick work of your brothers all day.”

The murmurs among the crowd returned, louder this time. Next to Drommen and a few other Winterfell guards who had noticed their lady, Cregan’s wife let out a whimper. She moved to step forward but Drommen’s firm grasp halted her. “Don’t,” he warned.

In the center of the yard Kerith stood determinedly, a sword in hand. He had bested nearly every ranger here, surely the lord who spent his days cooped up in a cozy castle was slow and clumsy with a sword as large as Ice.

Cregan circled the man calmly, waiting for him to make the first move. It seemed he was quite slow as Kerith did not strike until Cregan had nearly completed the circle around him. But the Lord of the North saw it coming as the man’s body tensed in preparation to attack. He dodged the repugnant man easily, the flat of his sword swinging around to slap the man’s back, sending him crashing to the ground. Cregan created some distance between the man and himself, allowing him to recover.

Incensed, Kerith made another wild attack at his lord, to which Cregan met with a surprising defensive force. Bringing his sword up, he held strong against the watchman’s attack, his large frame easily pushing the smaller man back.

At the display of strength Kerith began to appreciate the gravity of the situation. The Lord of Winterfell was strong and trained in combat by the best swordsmasters the North had to offer. Perhaps a more erratic approach would throw the large lord off enough to earn him a victory.

So he approached the lord wildly, swinging his sword as if he were merely a boy again swinging a wooden sword. Cregan met it surprisingly well, managing to block all the man’s blows. Whilst he had merely been toying with the watchman before, as he came at him with a new ferocity, Cregan was ready to end the man that had so egregiously violated and dishonored his wife.

He met Kerith’s attacks with ferocity, finally putting his opponent on the defense. That was, until he got in close, giving advantage to the man with a shorter sword that allowed him to barely swipe the blade against his side. It was hardly a slice but a slice nonetheless. But ever the experienced fighter, Cregan did not let it hinder him, rather the rage that this man could defile his wife and then wound him fueled the lord. Drawing his arm down, his elbow knocked into his opponent’s blade before striking up again, his greatsword plunging into the man’s abdomen so far the Valyrian steel emerged from his back.

Cregan watched with cruelty in his eyes as the vanquished man’s eyes grew wide before his legs gave out, sending him crashing to the ground, his body coming free from the blade. The lord looked away from the dead man at his feet towards the men surrounding him. “Would anyone else like a go for my wife’s hand?” he shouted with such ferocity that even if he hadn’t just killed a man, the rest of them would be too frightened to approach.

After several beats of silence, the Lord Commander spoke. “Everyone back to your duties. Go!” his voice boomed across the yard. The men needed no reminder as they all quickly and quietly headed to various buildings.

Finally, Drommen relaxed his grip enough so his lady could reach her husband. She wasted no time ripping out of her arms and going to her husband’s large form, immediately placing a tender hand against his side, careful not to hurt his wound.

“Cregan, oh my gods,” she cried.

Disregarding her gentleness, he wrapped his strong arms around her, crushing her into his side but she was quick to pull away, far more concerned about her husband’s wound than he was. Turning, she found the guards that had surrounded her still standing there, “Prepare Lord Stark a warm bath in our chambers,” she requested before turning back to her husband again.

Cregan practically melted looking at her teary, concerned eyes. “I am alright, I have suffered worse,” he assured. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, although her sniffle was unconvincing. “I am. Come, let’s get you stitched up and in the bath,” she said, pressing herself against his uninjured side, meaning to support him but Cregan just walked with ease like the war tested hero he was.

Once in their chambers, they found a steaming tub of water. “Sit there,” she directed him towards a short stool that had been left.

Cregan complied as he watched his wife fretfully go over to her trunk, pulling out a sewing kit. As she came back over to him, kneeling next to him, he noticed her trembling hands and her distraught face. “Hey,” he stopped her, grabbing her shaking hands in his large, still ones. “Take a breath,” he advised her. She listened, letting out a shuddering breath. “There,” he praised softly, his hand running down her arm. “I do not mean to offend, my love, but I’d prefer if you weren’t shaking when you stitched me up.”

Fortunately she laughed at his teasing, nodding in agreement as she took shuddering breaths to compose herself. Reaching over, she grabbed a fistful of his tunic’s hem, pressing it up. Her husband took the hint, helping her to remove it. She then pressed on his shoulder so he would rest his back against the wall, stretching the wound so he would not be restricted with his stitches. But before he would let her begin, he tapped his fingers against her hip, urging her closer to him. He kept pressing, in a silent request, until she had climbed into his lap, but she moved herself to straddle his thighs, careful to keep her skirts away from his wound. She then sent him a teasing glare to his proud smile as she got to work stitching him up. By the end, he hadn’t complained or even moved once. The only indication that he was conscious as she stitched was his firm grip on her hip.

“Okay,” she said, climbing off of him. “I will bandage you after your bath,” she gestured to the still steaming tub that had probably cooled down to an appropriate temperature.

Cregan didn’t say anything as he stripped his clothes, getting into the bath without hesitation while his wife cleaned up. After he settled, she came over with a rag, intending to clean him but a strong yet gentle grip on her wrist stopped her before she could even begin.

Looking up at her husband in confusion she found nothing but pain on his face. “Please forgive me,” he begged quietly.

Shocked confusion ran through her. “What?”

“Forgive me,” he repeated. “For bringing you here where a man, one of my men, tried to take advantage of you and your kindness.”

“Cregan, it is not your fault,” she was quick to assure, pulling away slightly. “It is no one’s fault but his.”

Cregan looked unconvinced but nodded anyways. After a beat of silence he finally let go of her wrist. “Join me?” he asked. She hesitated for a moment making him think the worse. “If you want to,” he added. “I understand if you are uncomfortable wit-”

“No,” his wife was quick to dismiss her concerns. She just nodded, beginning to strip her layers off and untie her dress until she was bare before him. A sight Cregan had missed between all the travel and cold.

Seeing as her husband occupied the entire tub, she settled on his thighs, just below his hips. His fingers found her womanhood, teasing her in the way he knew made her putty in his hands. She let out soft moans as he tried to coax her to rest her chest against his but she just stayed upright, wary of his injuries.

As her husband’s fingers coaxed her closer and closer to the edge, she reached down, finding his already hard cock, her fingers giving it a few strokes before she moved her hips, making Cregan’s fingers pull away as she settled herself sinking down onto his cock. Her whine matched his groan at the intrusion, both missing the other’s body.

“Gods, Cregan,” she whined, her hips already falling into a smooth rhythm. “Tell me I’m yours,” she begged.

Cregan smiled softly, agreeing without any hesitation as his hips met hers. “You’re mine,” he confirmed, wrapping an arm around her to pull her even closer. “You’re mine,” he repeated, pressing a kiss to her temple before burying his face in her hair again.

Masterlist

[tatumrileyslover]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: vampire!AU, victorian!AU, strangers to lovers, slow burn, forbitten forbidden love, eventual light smut, angst, gothic,

Warnings: blood, death, smut, manipulation, possessive behavior, mild violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, gaslighting.

Word count: 30k

Summary: In a grand countryside estate, where roses bloom with unnatural darkness, a mysterious stranger appears seeking shelter. Park Jimin, with his otherworldly beauty and cultured charm, quickly becomes an intimate companion to the Baron's daughter. But as girls in the village begin falling mysteriously ill and strange dreams plague her nights, she discovers his dark nature - and must choose between the warmth of mortal days or an eternal night in his arms.

a/n: ok so this isn’t meant to be in two parts I just hit the tumblr limit so this is the first part. this was originally supposed to be out for Halloween but god did I get too into it and made it more than double the length I want it to be lol. anyway this is based of the gothic novel Carmilla.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬

The house sat like a slumbering beast against the autumn sky, its grey stone walls rising from mist-shrouded gardens that had long since forgotten their original design. What was once carefully manicured grandeur had softened over decades into something wilder, though no less beautiful - roses climbed beyond their trellises to embrace weathered statues, and ancient trees stretched their branches toward leaded glass windows that caught the dying light like caught tears.

It was the last great house for fifty miles in any direction, a fact that both the local townspeople and its inhabitants were acutely aware of. While other noble families had slowly surrendered to changing fortunes, selling their lands and titles piece by piece, the family had endured it all. Their walls remained strong, their cellars remained stocked, and their daughter remained safely tucked away behind iron gates and stone walls.

(Y/n) stood at her bedroom window, watching the road that wound through the valley like a black ribbon. Soon it would bring Bertha, her dear friend from the finishing school in Graz. The thought brought a smile to her face as she pressed her fingertips to the cool glass. Three years had passed since they'd last seen each other, maintaining their friendship through letters that grew increasingly infrequent as distance and time worked their inevitable magic. But now, finally, Bertha would be here - bringing with her stories of balls and suitors and all the life that seemed to exist everywhere except within these walls.

A rap at the door drew her attention. "Come in, Papa."

Her father entered, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. Though still handsome, years of solitude had etched themselves into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Since her mother's death twelve years ago, he had devoted himself to his studies and his daughter in equal measure, though the former often seemed to win out over the latter.

"Still watching the road, my dear? It will not make her arrive any faster."

"I know, Papa." (Y/n) turned from the window, her skirts rustling against the thick carpet. At nineteen, she possessed the kind of beauty that came from never knowing hardship - skin untouched by sun, hands that had never known labor, eyes that still held the bright curiosity of childhood. "But I cannot help it. The house feels different already, knowing she's coming. Less..."

"Less what, my dear?"

"Less like a cage," she said softly, then immediately regretted her words at the shadow that crossed her father's face. "Forgive me, Papa. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know everything you do is for my protection."

He crossed to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are all I have left in this world, (Y/n). Your mother..." He paused, as he always did when speaking of her mother. "She made me promise to keep you safe. The world beyond these walls grows more dangerous with each passing year."

(Y/n) nodded dutifully, though her heart ached. She knew every inch of this house, from the wine cellars with their dusty bottles to the attic where her mother's belongings still sat in trunks, untouched since the day she died. She knew which floorboards creaked, which windows caught the morning light, which corners held shadows even at midday. The servants were kind but distant, treating her with the careful reverence one might show a precious object in a museum.

Her world was contained within these walls, and while she could not truly miss what she had never known, sometimes she felt like a character in one of her beloved novels - the imprisoned princess waiting for life to begin. Her only real glimpses of the outside world came from her books, filled with adventures and romance, and from her occasional trips into town with her father for Sunday services.

Even those brief excursions felt like stepping into another world. The townspeople would stare and whisper behind their hands - not unkindly, but with the sort of fascination reserved for rare creatures. The family's wealth and isolation had bred countless rumors over the years, though none came close to the simple truth: they were just lonely, the three of them. Father, daughter, and the great house that held them both.

From her bedroom window, (Y/n) watched the winding road that cut through the valley below their estate. Even at this early hour, she could make out the occasional carriage making its way through the autumn mist. Each distant movement caught her eye, her heart quickening before inevitably sinking as they passed the turn that would bring them up towards the Manor.

"Mademoiselle, you're fidgeting again," Madame Perrodon's gentle reproach came accompanied by a firmer stroke of the hairbrush. "How can I be expected to tame these waves if you cannot sit still?"

"I apologize, Madame." (Y/n) forced herself to be still, though her eyes remained fixed on the distant road. It had been three years since she'd last seen Bertha - three years of letters describing balls and suitors and a world so different from (Y/n)'s carefully contained existence. She could still remember their last afternoon together, huddled in this very window seat, Bertha's eyes bright with excitement about the finishing school that awaited her in Graz.

"Your mother's roses are particularly beautiful this autumn," Madame Perrodon commented, her fingers working deftly to pin (Y/n)'s soft hair into an acceptable style. "Though Marcel lets them grow wild as wolves these days."

The mention of her mother drew (Y/n)'s attention to the familiar portrait hanging opposite her dressing table. The smile seemed to hold secrets, her hands painted delicately among the same roses that now grew unchecked below. Sometimes, in certain lights, (Y/n) thought she could see herself in that smile, though her own felt considerably more practiced.

Through the open door came the excited whispers of maids passing in the hallway. "The kitchen's been baking since dawn..." "All the best linens..." "Miss Rheinfeldt's room is prepared..."

On any other Sunday, they would be preparing for their weekly journey into town for services. (Y/n) felt a twinge of disappointment - she would miss her brief exchanges with Catherine and Marie, the milliner's daughters. Their whispered conversations about books and fashion during the fellowship hour were one of her few connections to girls her own age, even if her father and Madame Perrodon watched these interactions with careful eyes.

"There," Madame declared, securing the final pin. "Now you look-"

But (Y/n) had already risen, drawn to her window by the sound of wheels on gravel. Below, she could see Marcel and Emma in the gardens, their heads turning toward the sound as well. How she envied their easy companionship, the way Emma could freely kneel in the dirt beside her grandfather, learning the secrets of the gardens that had once been her mother's pride. On warmer days, (Y/n) would often sit on the stone bench nearby, watching them work while pretending to read. Marcel would share stories of her mother's passion for the roses, how she would spend hours tending them herself despite her station.

The old house creaked and sighed its morning song around her, floorboards protesting beneath thick carpets as (Y/n) made her way down the grand staircase. Carved angels watched her descent from the bannister, their wooden faces worn smooth by generations of trailing hands. Her mother had once told her they were guardians, keeping watch over the family. Now their blank eyes seemed to follow her, as if they knew something she didn't.

The morning light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. Preparations for Bertha's arrival had stirred up the house's usual stillness. Somewhere below, she could hear Mrs. Klaus, the housekeeper, directing maids about the proper arrangement of fresh flowers. The scent of baking bread and autumn spices wafted up from the kitchen - Bertha had always loved Cook's cinnamon cakes.

Memories of their last visit together surfaced as (Y/n) paused on the landing. They had been sixteen then, sharing secrets in the library's window seat while rain drummed against the glass. Bertha, already worldlier despite their same age, had whispered about a young man she'd danced with at her cousin's wedding. (Y/n) had listened, enraptured, trying to imagine what it would feel like to waltz in someone's arms.

The great hall below bustled with unusual activity. Curtains had been drawn back fully, allowing autumn light to illuminate the family portraits that lined the walls. Generations of ancestors stared down at her, their painted eyes holding the same careful reserve she saw in her father's. Her mother's portrait was different though - hung separately near the library doors, captured in the garden she'd loved so dearly. Sometimes (Y/n) would catch her father standing before it, lost in thoughts he never shared.

The morning air had turned peculiar as (Y/n) stepped out onto the terrace. What had started as a bright autumn day now held an odd heaviness, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. The roses swayed in a wind that carried the first real bite of winter, their late blooms scattering crimson petals across the gravel paths.

Marcel and Emma were working near her mother's favorite fountain, their quiet conversation carrying across the garden. The old gardener looked up as she passed, touching his cap with soil-stained fingers.

"The weather's turning, Miss," he called, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Best not stay out too long."

But (Y/n) was already moving toward her favorite spot - the ancient oak that stood sentinel by the pond. Its branches spread like protective arms above the water, creating a private world beneath its canopy. Here, she had spent countless hours reading, dreaming, watching the play of light on water. Here, she and Bertha had shared their last goodbye, promising to write every week.

The oak's massive roots created a natural seat, worn smooth by years of use. Settling herself against the trunk, (Y/n) opened her book but found herself watching the drive instead. The mist had thickened rather than burning off, unusual for this time of day. It crept up from the valley like something alive, wreathing the gardens in white tendrils that seemed to reach for her with ghostly fingers.

The mist continued to thicken, unusual for this time of day, creeping up from the valley like something alive. A chill wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"Please hurry, Bertha," she whispered, pulling her shawl tighter. The weather seemed determined to spoil their reunion. Already the bright autumn morning had given way to something more ominous - clouds gathering above the estate like mourners, the air heavy with unshed rain. If the Rheinfeldts didn't arrive soon, they risked traveling these winding roads in a storm.

The sound of approaching hooves cut through her thoughts. (Y/n) straightened, heart leaping - but no, this was a single rider, not the Rheinfeldts' carriage. Through gaps in the mist, she could make out a figure in a dark coat, riding with the urgent purpose of a messenger rather than a social caller.

From their position near the roses, Marcel and Emma paused in their work to watch the rider's approach. A servant hurried out to meet him, and even at this distance, something in their exchange made (Y/n)'s stomach tighten. The messenger's stance, the careful way the servant accepted what appeared to be a letter...

"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Emma's voice carried softly across the garden.

"Hush, girl," Marcel replied, but his tone held worry rather than rebuke.

(Y/n) turned back to the pond, forcing herself to dismiss their concerns. Perhaps it was simply business for her father - he often received correspondence from his associates in Vienna. The water's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting the gathering clouds. A few fat drops of rain began to fall, creating perfect circles that spread and disappeared.

Footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. Her father approached slowly, his usual brisk stride replaced by something heavier, more measured. Without speaking, he lowered himself to sit beside her on the oak's roots - an intimacy so unusual that (Y/n) felt her breath catch.

"Papa?" Her voice sounded very young suddenly, even to her own ears.

He didn't speak immediately, his hands working at something in his lap. When he finally turned to her, she saw he held a letter. The broken seal bore the Rheinfeldt family crest.

"My dearest," he began, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to cover her ears. "I have news about Bertha."

With trembling fingers, (Y/n) accepted the letter. The paper was fine, expensive - the kind Bertha's father always used for his correspondence. But as she unfolded it, the familiar letterhead seemed somehow more formal, more foreboding:

From Baron Rheinfeldt

Castle Rheinfeldt

October 15th, 1872

My Dear Friend,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must write to you, bearing news that has shattered our household and will, I fear, bring great sorrow to your own - particularly to your dear (Y/n), whose friendship meant so much to my beloved Bertha.

I know you were expecting us within the week, and I cannot express the pain it causes me to instead send this letter. My darling daughter, my only child, has been taken from us in circumstances so peculiar and distressing that I can scarcely put them to paper. Yet you must know, if only to spare your household the anxiety of waiting for an arrival that can never come.

Three weeks ago, Bertha began to speak of strange dreams. She would wake in the night, claiming visitations from a dark figure that left her weak and frightened. We dismissed these as mere fancies at first - you know how imaginative she could be. But soon she grew pale and listless, her strength declining day by day. The local physician could find no cause for her malady, though she complained of a sharp pain in her breast and a gradual suffocation that seemed to worsen as each night fell.

Two nights ago, she woke screaming that the figure was in her room, but when we rushed to her aid, nothing was amiss. By morning, she could barely speak, her pulse so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Before the sun set that day, my beautiful child, my darling Bertha, had left this world.

The doctors speak of a mysterious illness, but can offer no true explanation for how a young woman in the bloom of health could decline so rapidly. I write this not only to explain our absence but to warn you - there have been other cases in our region of young women suffering similar fates. Perhaps it is some fever that has yet to be understood by medical science.

Please convey my deepest apologies to (Y/n). I know she and Bertha had been planning this reunion with great excitement. The thought of their joy makes this tragedy all the more bitter to bear.

Your friend in profound grief,

Baron Frederick Rheinfeldt

The letter trembled in (Y/n)'s hands, its meaning somehow both clear and incomprehensible. She read it again, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less final.

"But," she said finally, her voice small, "we've prepared her room. Cook made cinnamon cakes."

Her father's hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture only made everything feel more wrong.

"The roses," she continued, the words spilling out like water. "They're beautiful right now - Bertha always loved them in autumn. She said they looked like sunset caught in flowers. We were going to press them in books, like we used to. I saved that collection of poetry she wrote about in her last letter - the one with the blue binding she described. It's on her bedside table, waiting..."

Tears came then, not in great heaving sobs, but in silent streams that seemed to surprise her. She touched her cheek, looking at the moisture on her fingers as if she couldn't quite understand where it had come from.

"She can't be..." (Y/n) smoothed the letter in her lap, focusing on removing every crease. "We were going to show her the new kittens in the stable. She doesn't even know about them yet. And her room - we put fresh lavender in all the drawers, just as she likes. The blue guest room, Papa. Her favorite. Madame Perrodon helped me arrange dried flowers just as she described seeing at that ball in Vienna..."

The afternoon light had begun to fade, the mist curling thicker around the garden's edges. Her father shifted uncomfortably on the oak's roots beside her.

"My dear, perhaps we should-"

"And the piano," (Y/n) interrupted, her voice taking on a peculiar, singsong quality. "We've had it tuned specially. That new piece she mentioned - the Mozart sonata. I've been practicing it for weeks so we could play it together. She was so excited about showing me how her technique has improved since finishing school. She said..." Her voice cracked. "She said we would play it for you, after dinner on her first night here."

A cool wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending dead leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"(Y/n)." Her father's voice was gentle but insistent. "The weather is turning. We should return to the house."

But she shook her head, clutching the letter tighter. "Just a little longer. She might still... There could be a mistake. Baron Rheinfeldt is older now, he could have become confused. If we just wait..."

The hours crept by, marked only by the gradual darkening of the sky and the periodic attempts of servants to coax them inside. First Marcel, pausing in his work to suggest rain was coming. Then Emma, sent by Cook with a tray of tea that grew cold, untouched. Finally Madame Perrodon herself, wringing her hands in distress at the sight of her charge sitting so still in the growing dark.

"Mademoiselle, please. You'll catch your death."

"You see?" (Y/n) seized on the common phrase with desperate hope. "People say that - 'catch your death.' But they don't really die. It's just something people say."

The sun had long since disappeared behind heavy clouds, the mist thickening into true darkness. One by one, lights began to appear in the house windows, warm squares of yellow that seemed to emphasize the gathering gloom in the garden. The pond's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting nothing now but the occasional ripple of rain drops.

Her father had remained beside her throughout, his silence both a comfort and a terrible confirmation. Now he stirred again, his joints surely aching from sitting so long on the hard roots.

"My dearest," he began, but stopped at the sound of distant carriage wheels on the road below.

(Y/n)'s head snapped up, hope flaring painfully in her chest. Through the mist, she could make out the bobbing lights of carriage lanterns, weaving their way up the treacherous road that led to their estate.

"You see?" she whispered. "You see? I knew if we just waited-"

The crash, when it came, was distant but unmistakable - the splintering of wood and the high, terrible scream of frightened horses cutting through the night air. The lantern lights jerked violently, then disappeared altogether.

Father and daughter sat frozen, straining to hear through the darkness. The silence that followed seemed to stretch eternally, broken only by the soft patter of rain on leaves.

"Papa?" (Y/n)'s voice had lost its childish insistence, fear creeping in at last.

(Y/n) was moving before her mind could catch up with her legs, her skirts gathered in trembling hands as she rushed toward the road. Behind her, she could hear her father's voice calling out, "(Y/n)! Wait!" but the sound seemed distant, unimportant.

The path down to the road was treacherous in daylight; in the gathering dark it was nearly impossible. Her boots slipped on wet leaves, branches caught at her hair and dress like grasping fingers. The mist had settled thick between the ancient trees, turning familiar paths into something alien and forbidding. Behind her, she could hear the gathering sounds of pursuit - servants calling out, the bounce of lantern light, her father's increasingly urgent voice.

It wasn't until she reached the road itself that doubt began to creep in. The fog here was even thicker, seeming to swallow the weak moonlight whole. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a dark canopy overhead that blocked what little light remained. Every sound seemed muffled, wrong - as if the fog itself was drinking them in.

"Miss (Y/n)!" Marcel's voice, accompanied by approaching lantern light. "Please wait for us!"

She paused then, her heart pounding, suddenly aware of how far she'd run and how dark it had grown. The crash had sounded closer. Or had her fear made her imagine that?

Her father caught up to her first, slightly out of breath. "Reckless girl," he muttered, but there was relief rather than anger in his voice. Behind him came Marcel and two other servants with lanterns, their light creating strange, shifting shadows among the trees.

A horse's frightened whinny cut through the fog, much closer now. (Y/n) moved forward more cautiously, her father's hand firm on her arm. The lantern light caught something metallic ahead - the gleam of an overturned carriage wheel, still spinning slowly.

As they drew closer, the scene emerged from the fog like a painting being unveiled. The carriage lay on its side, one wheel completely shattered. The horses, still partially harnessed, stamped and snorted nervously, their breath visible in the cold air. This was not the Rheinfeldts' familiar family carriage - this was something altogether grander and stranger, its black lacquered surface gleaming wet in the lantern light, its gilt trim suggesting foreign wealth.

"Hello?" her father called out. "Is anyone hurt?"

A movement near the carriage door drew their attention. A woman's voice, low and melodious, called back in accented French. "Ah, thank heaven. We've had quite the accident, as you can see."

The door, now facing skyward, opened with some effort. A figure emerged - a woman, elegant even in disarray, her dark traveling clothes of the finest quality. There was something striking about her face, though (Y/n) found she couldn't quite focus on its details in the shifting light.

"Allow me to assist you, Madame," her father stepped forward, helping the woman climb down from the tilted carriage. Marcel and the other servants moved to steady her descent.

"You are most kind," the woman said, switching to perfect if accented English. "We were on our way to visit friends in the next county when our driver took ill suddenly. The fog..." she gestured eloquently at their surroundings. "The road proved more treacherous than expected."

"Your driver - is he-?" her father began.

"Gone, I'm afraid. Fled into the woods in some sort of fit. But my greater concern is my son." Here she turned back to the carriage, genuine distress entering her voice. "He was thrown rather badly when we overturned. I haven't been able to wake him."

"Several of my men might assist in extracting him, Madame," her father offered, already gesturing to the servants.

The elegant woman nodded, stepping aside with a grace that seemed out of place in their dire circumstances. The lantern light caught her features strangely - one moment sharp as cut glass, the next oddly indistinct, like a painting seen through water.

Marcel and Thomas, one of the stronger footmen, approached the carriage carefully. The fog seemed to curl around their feet as they worked, making their movements appear dreamlike and sluggish. From within the dark interior came the sound of shifting fabric, a soft groan.

"Gentle, if you please," the woman called out, though her tone held more courtesy than real concern. "He is all I have in this world."

The words were right, (Y/n) thought, but something in their delivery rang false, like an actress reciting well-rehearsed lines. She found herself watching the woman's face, trying to fix its details in her mind, but each time she looked away, the memory of those features seemed to slip like water through her fingers.

"Carefully now," her father directed as the servants began to lift their unconscious charge. The lantern light swept across the scene, and (Y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat.

The young man they carried was beauty made flesh - there was no other way to describe him. His face, unconscious and unguarded, held a quality that seemed to transcend mere human comeliness. Dark hair fell across his forehead in elegant disarray, and even in the poor light, his skin held a luminous quality, like moonlight on fresh snow. His clothes, though disarranged by the accident, were clearly of the finest quality - black velvet and silk that seemed to drink in the lantern light.

There was something about his face that tugged at (Y/n)'s memory, something tantalizingly familiar that danced just beyond her grasp. She found herself moving forward without conscious thought, drawn by an impulse she couldn't name.

"(Y/n)," her father's warning tone brought her up short. She realized she'd nearly reached out to touch the unconscious stranger's hand.

"He will be well, I think," the woman said, watching (Y/n) with an expression that might have been amusement. "Just stunned by the fall. What fortune that we should crash so near to such a grand house." Her gesture encompassed the manor, barely visible through the fog above them. "I don't suppose..."

"Of course," her father said immediately, nobility's obligations winning out over any hesitation. "We can offer shelter while arrangements are made for your onward journey."

"You are too kind." Again, that perfect courtesy that somehow felt hollow. "I hate to impose further, but I find myself in something of a predicament. I have urgent business that cannot wait - a matter of inheritance that requires my immediate presence. My son, however, is in no condition to travel."

(Y/n) watched in growing amazement as the woman outlined her request with elegant precision. Might her son remain here, under their care, while she attended to these pressing matters? She would, of course, send word within a day or two of her return date. She had friends in the region she'd been traveling to visit - though oddly, she didn't name them - who would vouch for their character.

"I cannot ask you to take on such a responsibility," she said, in a tone that suggested she expected exactly that.

"Nonsense," her father replied, though (Y/n) detected a slight unease in his voice. "We can hardly turn away those in need, especially of our own class. Your son will be well cared for until your return."

"You ease my heart," the woman said, though (Y/n) noticed she hadn't once looked back at her unconscious son since the servants had lifted him. "I can arrange alternate transport from the next town, if one of your men might assist me that far?"

It was all happening so quickly. Even as her father gave instructions for a groom to accompany the mysterious woman, even as Marcel and Thomas began their careful ascent toward the house with their unconscious burden, (Y/n) found herself struggling to understand how smoothly it had all been arranged. It was only when the woman stepped close to bid her farewell that a chill ran down her spine.

"Watch over him for me, dear one," the woman said softly, her fingers brushing (Y/n)’s cheek in a gesture that felt both intimate and alien. This close, her eyes seemed to hold a peculiar depth, like wells that went down forever. "He can be... difficult when he wakes. But I'm sure you'll manage him beautifully."

Then she was gone, disappearing into the fog with their groom, leaving behind only the overturned carriage and her unconscious son - and a lingering sense that something momentous and terrible had just been set in motion.

The house seemed to stir with nervous energy as they made their way back up the path, lanterns bobbing like will-o'-wisps through the fog. Marcel and Thomas carried their unconscious guest with careful precision, while Madame Perrodon hurried ahead to prepare the blue guest room - Bertha's room, (Y/n) thought with a sudden pang that felt almost like betrayal.

The entrance hall's warmth was a shock after the chill fog, the familiar space somehow changed by the evening's events. Servants whispered in corners, stealing glances at the beautiful stranger being carried up the grand staircase. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, ancient wood creaking under strange footsteps.

"The blue room, sir?" Madame Perrodon called down from the landing, her face pinched with concern.

(Y/n) felt her throat tighten. "Papa, not-"

"It is the most suitable guest room," her father said quietly. His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. "And it is... available."

The blue room had always been the grandest of their guest chambers. Its walls were painted a soft cornflower blue that caught the morning light beautifully, making the gilt-framed mirrors dance with reflected sunshine. Now, in the flickering candlelight, those same walls seemed almost grey, the mirrors reflecting only shadows as they carried his limp form through the doorway.

The bed was already turned down - prepared that morning for Bertha, (Y/n) remembered with another stab of grief. The very sheets that had been aired with lavender for her friend would now cradle this strange young man. She watched as they laid him carefully on the blue silk counterpane, his dark hair stark against the pale pillows, his face ethereally beautiful in the candlelight.

"Mademoiselle," Madame Perrodon touched her arm. "Perhaps you should retire. It's been a trying day."

But (Y/n) couldn't move, transfixed by the scene before her. Mrs. Klaus had appeared with hot water and cloths, presumably to tend to any injuries. The housekeeper's usually efficient movements seemed hesitant as she approached the bed, as if she too sensed something not quite natural about their mysterious guest.

"He appears unmarked," Mrs. Klaus said finally, her voice holding a note of surprise. "Not a scratch on him, despite the violence of the accident."

"Providence," her father murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

(Y/n) found her gaze drawn to his face again. In the better light, she could study his features properly - the elegant arch of his brows, the perfect curve of his mouth, the almost translucent quality of his skin. There was something about him that nagged at her memory, like a word trapped on the tip of her tongue.

"Look how peaceful he sleeps," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "Like a painting."

"(Y/n)." Her father's tone was sharper now. "To your room. It's not proper for you to..."

He trailed off as the boy stirred slightly, his head turning on the pillow. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze, watching, but he didn't wake. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and again (Y/n) felt that maddening sense of familiarity.

"Come, mademoiselle." Madame Perrodon's grip on her arm was firmer now. "You've had a shock. First the news about poor Bertha, and now this excitement. You must rest."

The mention of Bertha's name seemed to break whatever spell had held (Y/n) in place. She allowed herself to be led from the room, though she couldn't help glancing back one last time. In the moment before the door closed, she could have sworn she saw his lips curve in the slightest smile.

Sleep proved impossible that night. (Y/n) lay in her bed, listening to the house settle around her with unfamiliar creaks and sighs. Even Madame Perrodon's usual soft breathing from the adjoining room provided little comfort. The events of the day swirled in her mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind - Bertha's letter, the crash, the strange elegant woman, and most persistently, the beautiful unconscious young man now sleeping in what should have been her friend's room.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, hauntingly perfect in the candlelight. That maddening sense of familiarity tugged at her thoughts, like a half-remembered dream. There was something about the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow...

A floorboard creaked in the hallway - probably just Mrs. Klaus making her nightly rounds, but (Y/n) found herself holding her breath, straining to hear. The blue room was just down the corridor. Was their mysterious guest still sleeping? The woman - his mother, though something about that relationship felt odd - had said he might be 'difficult' when he woke. What had she meant by that?

The wind picked up outside, branches scratching against her window like skeletal fingers. The sound reminded her of the carriage crash, of the fog-shrouded road. How strange that the woman had left so quickly, abandoning her supposedly beloved son to the care of strangers. And where had the driver gone? The more (Y/n) thought about it, the more questions arose.

She must have drifted off eventually, for she found herself in that strange space between sleeping and waking, where reality blurs at the edges. The moonlight through her window seemed to pool like silver water on the floor, and in its glow, she thought she saw a figure standing at the foot of her bed. A beautiful face looking down at her, familiar yet wrong somehow...

(Y/n) jerked awake, her heart pounding. The room was empty, the moonlight now nothing more than pale squares on the carpet. But the sense of a presence lingered, making her skin prickle with unnamed awareness.

"Madame?" she called softly, but only silence answered from the adjoining room.

Sleep proved even more elusive after that. She lay awake until the first grey light of dawn began to creep through her windows, bringing with it the usual morning sounds of the household stirring to life. She could hear servants moving below, their muffled voices carrying up through the floorboards. The smell of breakfast began to wind its way up the stairs - fresh bread and coffee, the normal rhythms of the house attempting to reassert themselves after the previous day's disruption.

A knock at her door made her start. "Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, come in."

The French woman entered, already dressed for the day, her face carrying an odd expression. "Your father requests your presence at breakfast. Our... guest still sleeps."

The morning light in the breakfast room seemed too harsh, too ordinary after the strangeness of the night. (Y/n) picked at her toast, aware of the unusual tension around the table. Her father sat at his customary place, the morning paper untouched beside his coffee cup. Even the servants seemed to move differently, their usual efficient routines interrupted by frequent glances toward the ceiling - toward the blue room above.

"Has anyone checked on him?" (Y/n) finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

"Mrs. Klaus looked in at dawn," her father replied, frowning slightly. "Still sleeping, apparently. Quite deeply."

"It's nearly ten o'clock," Madame Perrodon observed, her usual calm manner betraying a hint of unease. "Should we perhaps summon Dr. Werner?"

"The mother said he would sleep unusually long," her father said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Something about a previous illness making him sensitive to travel."

"Did she?" (Y/n) asked, trying to recall the woman's exact words from the night before. But like so much about their mysterious visitor's mother, the details seemed to slip away when examined too closely.

The breakfast room fell silent again, broken only by the clink of silver against china and the tick of the great clock in the hall. Through the windows, (Y/n) could see Marcel in the gardens, seemingly intent on his work but positioned suspiciously close to the section beneath the blue room's windows.

Hours crept by with excruciating slowness. (Y/n) attempted to focus on her needlework, but found herself counting the chimes of the clock instead. Eleven. Twelve. One...

It was well past two in the afternoon when Mrs. Klaus appeared in the drawing room doorway, her usually unflappable demeanor slightly disturbed. "Sir," she addressed (Y/n)'s father, "The young gentleman is awake. He's asked to pay his respects to the household."

Something in the housekeeper's tone made (Y/n) look up sharply. Mrs. Klaus's face held an odd expression - not quite fear, but something adjacent to it.

"How does he seem?" her father asked, setting aside his book.

"Most..." Mrs. Klaus paused, seeming to search for the right word. "Most elegant, sir. Though perhaps still somewhat affected by his ordeal. He's asked to dress properly before receiving visitors."

"Of course," her father nodded. "We shall receive him here when he's ready."

The next half hour was torture. (Y/n) found herself smoothing her skirts repeatedly, hyper-aware of her reflection in the drawing room mirrors. That nagging sense of familiarity had returned, stronger now that their guest was awake.

When the drawing room door finally opened again, the late afternoon sun had begun to slant through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In that golden light, their guest appeared like something from a painting - perfectly composed, unnaturally beautiful. His dark clothes were immaculate, showing no sign of the previous night's accident. His face...

(Y/n) felt her breath catch. In the daylight, that sense of recognition was almost overwhelming.

He moved into the room with impossible grace, every gesture deliberate yet fluid, like a dancer marking steps to unheard music. His dark eyes found (Y/n)'s immediately, and something passed between them - recognition, connection, a current of awareness that made her hands tremble in her lap.

"Sir," he addressed her father with a slight bow, his voice musical and deeply cultured. "I must express my profound gratitude for your hospitality. My name is..." Here he paused, almost imperceptibly, "Park. I find myself indebted to your kindness."

"Not at all," her father replied, though (Y/n) noticed he seemed slightly dazzled by their guest's presence. "We could hardly leave you in such circumstances. I am the Baron, and this is my daughter, (Y/n)."

Those dark eyes returned to her face. "Mademoiselle." He took her offered hand, his fingers cool against her skin. "Your beauty rivals the stars in their midnight dance"

(Y/n) felt herself flush, acutely aware of how forward such a comment was - and how, strangely, no one seemed to mind. Even Madame Perrodon, usually so quick to enforce propriety, appeared captivated.

"You must still be recovering from your ordeal," (Y/n) found herself saying. "Please, sit." She gestured to the chair nearest hers, then wondered at her own boldness.

He smiled - a subtle thing that seemed to transform his entire face - and accepted the seat. "You are too kind. Though I confess, the accident itself is somewhat... hazy in my memory."

"Not unusual, given the circumstances," her father said. "Your mother mentioned you'd been unwell recently?"

Again that barely perceptible pause. "Yes, a recurring condition that makes travel... challenging. Which makes your generous offer of shelter all the more appreciated."

"How fortunate that you were so near when the accident occurred," (Y/n) said, then immediately worried it might sound accusatory.

But he only turned that devastating smile on her again. "Fortune indeed. Though I believe some meetings are destined, don't you? Written in the stars, as poets would say."

The way he looked at her as he said it - as if they were sharing a private joke, as if they'd known each other forever - made her heart flutter strangely. That nagging sense of familiarity grew stronger.

"Do you read poetry, Mademoiselle?"

"(Y/n)," she corrected without thinking, then blushed again. "And yes, I'm particularly fond of the Romantics."

"Ah!" His entire face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Then we must discuss Byron. 'The Dream' has been much in my thoughts lately." He began to recite softly:

"'Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world...'"

His voice seemed to caress each word, giving them new meaning. (Y/n) found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by his presence, his passion for the poetry she loved.

Her father cleared his throat, but she noticed his expression had softened. It had been weeks since he'd seen her truly engaged with anyone, she realized. Not since the excitement of planning Bertha's visit...

The thought of Bertha should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant compared to the magnetic presence of their guest.

"Perhaps," her father said carefully, "you might show our guest the library after tea? I understand you share a love of literature."

Tea had been a strangely intimate affair, their guest, displaying impeccable manners while barely touching his cup. Now, as (Y/n) led him through the manor's winding corridors toward the library, she found herself acutely aware of his presence behind her, the way the air seemed to change when he moved.

The library had always been her sanctuary, its floor-to-ceiling shelves creating the impression of a forest made of books. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden snow in the air. She turned to gauge his reaction and found him already watching her, that same knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Your home is remarkable," he said, moving past her to trail his fingers along the spines of nearby books. "These volumes... quite a collection. Your father's?"

"Many were my mother's," (Y/n) replied, watching as he pulled out a volume of Byron. "She had quite passionate opinions about literature."

"Had?" He glanced up, those dark eyes suddenly intent.

"She passed when I was seven."

"Ah." Something flickered across his face - understanding? Recognition? "My condolences. Though I suspect she left you her love of poetry?"

(Y/n) moved closer, drawn by the way his fingers caressed the book's leather binding. "You quoted Byron earlier - 'The Dream.'"

"Yes." He turned toward her fully then, and she realized how close they'd gotten. His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You must call me Jimin. Somehow 'Park' feels... inadequate. Too formal for what I sense between us."

The way he said it - as if they shared some profound secret - made her breath catch. That nagging familiarity surged again, stronger than ever.

"Have we..." she started, then hesitated. "This may sound strange, but I feel as though..."

"As though we've met before?" His smile held something dangerous now, thrilling. "Perhaps in dreams?"

The word triggered something - a memory trying to surface - but before she could grasp it, he was moving again, graceful as a cat, pulling another book from the shelves.

"Ah, Coleridge. Another poet fascinated by dreams and the boundaries between worlds." He began to read, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality.

The library had grown darker around them, the sunset painting the sky beyond the windows in shades of blood and gold. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken things. His closeness should have made her uncomfortable, yet somehow it felt... inevitable.

"I hardly slept last night," (Y/n) found herself confessing, her voice barely above a whisper. "There was something... strange."

Jimin's expression shifted subtly, a flash of intense interest quickly masked. "Strange how?"

"I thought..." she hesitated, aware of how foolish it might sound. "I woke in the night - or perhaps I was still dreaming - and there was a figure, standing at the foot of my bed. Just... watching me."

His fingers, still lingering near her face, stilled completely. "And this frightened you?"

"No," she realized, surprised by her own answer. "It should have, shouldn't it? A stranger in my room. But it felt... familiar somehow. Like a half-remembered lullaby."

The last rays of sunlight caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "Dreams have their own truth," he said softly. "Sometimes truer than what we think we know when awake."

Something in his tone made her shiver, though not unpleasantly. She found herself studying his face in the fading light, trying to catch that elusive sense of recognition that kept dancing just beyond her grasp. "Do you dream, Jimin?"

His smile held secrets. "Oh yes. Though sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between dreams and memories. Don't you find them remarkably similar? Both grow hazy around the edges, both feel real while we're in them..." He shifted slightly closer. "Both can haunt us long after we think we've forgotten them."

The library had grown so dark that his face was now mostly shadow, yet his eyes seemed to catch what little light remained. (Y/n) was acutely aware of how improper their situation had become - alone in the growing dark, sitting far too close. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"Tell me about your life here," he said suddenly, his voice gentle. "This beautiful cage of yours."

She started at his choice of words - so similar to her own thoughts. "How did you-?"

"I recognize the look," he interrupted softly. "The way you watch the road from your windows. The hunger in your eyes when you speak of your friend... Bertha, was it?"

The name should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant in the face of his overwhelming presence. "Yes, she was... she was to visit. Before..."

"Before fate intervened," he finished for her. "Perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps I was meant to find you instead."

The presumption of such a statement should have shocked her, yet she found herself nodding. "I've never been able to talk to anyone like this," she admitted. "Even Bertha... there were always proper things to say, proper ways to be. This feels..."

"Different," he supplied. "Real. As if we've known each other forever." His cool fingers found hers in the darkness. "As if we've met before."

That nagging sense of familiarity surged again, stronger than ever. There was something about his face in the shadows, something about the way he looked at her...

The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the spell. They moved apart just as Madame Perrodon appeared in the doorway, carrying a lamp that made them both blink at its sudden brightness.

"Mademoiselle, it's nearly time to dress for dinner." Her tone held a gentle reproof. "And the lamps should have been lit an hour ago. It's not good for your eyes, reading in such dim light."

(Y/n) stood, suddenly aware of how long they'd been secluded together, how improper it must seem. But when she glanced at Jimin, he appeared perfectly composed, as if they'd been discussing nothing more intimate than the weather.

"My fault entirely, Madame," he said, rising with fluid grace. "I'm afraid I quite lost track of time, enchanted by your charge's conversation."

Something in the way he said it - so perfectly proper yet somehow suggesting deeper meanings - made (Y/n)'s cheeks flush. Madame Perrodon's expression suggested she caught the undertone as well, though she said nothing.

"Will you join us for dinner?" (Y/n) asked, not ready for their conversation to end.

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I fear I'm still somewhat fatigued from yesterday's... excitement. Perhaps tomorrow? The daylight hours particularly tax my strength."

"Of course," she said quickly, concerned. "You must rest."

He caught her hand as she passed, his touch cool and electric. "Dream of me," he whispered, too soft for Madame Perrodon to hear.

Something about the way he said it - half playful, half command - sent another shiver down her spine. As if she could dream of anything else.

Dinner that evening felt like a strange performance where (Y/n) couldn't quite remember her lines. The familiar rhythms of the household - the clink of silver against fine china, the measured steps of servants, her father's occasional comments about estate matters - seemed to come from very far away. Her thoughts kept drifting upstairs, to the blue room where Jimin now rested.

"(Y/n)?" Her father's voice broke through her reverie. "You've been pushing the same pea around your plate for ten minutes."

"I'm sorry, Papa." She forced herself to take a bite, though the food held little interest. "I suppose I'm a bit tired."

Her father studied her over his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. "Our guest seems... interesting. You spent quite some time in the library today."

Something in his tone made her glance up sharply, but his face held only mild curiosity. If anything, he looked pleased - the first time she'd seen such an expression since Bertha's letter arrived.

"He's very well-read," she offered carefully. "We discussed poetry, and..."

"And?" her father prompted when she trailed off, remembering the intensity of Jimin's gaze in the falling darkness.

"He understands things," she found herself saying. "About feeling... isolated. Different." The words came out before she could stop them, more honest than she'd meant to be.

Her father's face softened. "I know these past years have been lonely for you, my dear. Perhaps it's providence that brought him to us, especially after..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Bertha's death hung between them, an invisible weight.

"Yes," (Y/n) whispered, though something about suggesting providence in connection with Jimin felt strange, almost blasphemous.

"Still," Madame Perrodon interjected from her place at the table, "proper chaperoning must be maintained. A young man, however well-bred..."

"Of course, of course," her father waved off the concern. "But surely some companionship would do (Y/n) good. And he seems a perfect gentleman."

Perfect. The word echoed in (Y/n)'s mind. He was perfect - too perfect, perhaps. Like a painting of a person rather than a person themselves. Even now, she found she couldn't quite recall the exact details of his face, though she'd spent hours studying it. It was as if his features shifted slightly in her memory, like reflections in moving water.

"Mademoiselle?" One of the maids - Anne - was at her elbow. "You've gone quite pale. Are you unwell?"

"Just tired," (Y/n) repeated, though tired wasn't quite the right word. She felt... anticipated, as if she were waiting for something to begin. "Perhaps I should retire early."

"A wise choice," Madame Perrodon said, rising to accompany her.

As they climbed the grand staircase, (Y/n) found her eyes drawn to the blue room's door. No light showed beneath it, but she had the strangest feeling that behind that heavy oak panel, in the darkness, Jimin was awake. Waiting. Thinking of her as she thought of him.

"Sweet dreams, my dear," Madame Perrodon said as they reached (Y/n)'s room. Something in her tone suggested she'd noticed the lingering glance at the blue room's door.

Alone in her room, (Y/n) moved to her window. The night was clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamond dust. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale began to sing. The sound made her think of Jimin's voice, the hypnotic way he'd spoken of dreams and memories.

Her reflection in the window glass looked strange to her - pale, eyes too bright, as if she were already half in a dream. Behind her, shadows gathered in the corners of her room, and she could have sworn they moved like living things...

That night, sleep came to (Y/n) like a creeping tide. The moon hung full and low outside her window, casting strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, time began to slip and stretch like pulled taffy.

She first became aware of her paralysis when she tried to turn away from the moonlight. Her limbs felt leaden, refusing to obey even the simplest commands. The air in her room grew thick, heavy with an invisible presence that seemed to press down upon her chest.

Then came the smell - that peculiar sweetness she'd noticed about Jimin, like roses on the edge of decay mixed with something older, something that reminded her of ancient books and midnight gardens. Instead of frightening her, the scent brought an odd comfort, making her mind drift deeper into that strange half-conscious state.

The mattress dipped beside her, as if someone had sat down with infinite care. Cool fingers seemed to brush her cheek, trail down her neck with exquisite tenderness. She should have been terrified - would have been, in any other circumstance. But there was something achingly familiar about the touch, about the presence that filled her room like smoke.

A weight settled over her, not crushing but encompassing, as if she were being embraced by the night itself. That sweet, strange scent grew stronger, and with it came a sensation of being cherished, desired, consumed - all at once. The moonlight caught something moving above her - a face perhaps, beautiful and terrible in equal measure - but before she could focus on its features, consciousness began to slip away entirely.

The last thing she felt was a sharp, sweet pain just above her breast - two points of exquisite sensation that sent waves of pleasure-pain through her increasingly distant body. A voice might have whispered something, ancient words in a language she didn't know but somehow understood, but by then she was falling into deeper dreams...

Morning came with strange heaviness. (Y/n) woke feeling as though she'd been drugged, her limbs weighted with an unfamiliar lethargy. Sunlight streamed through her windows, yet she felt none of its warmth. There was a peculiar sensation in her breast - not quite pain, but a presence, as if someone had pressed their hand there and the pressure lingered, though nothing showed.

"Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you unwell? It's past nine..."

"Just tired," (Y/n) managed, though 'tired' wasn't the right word. She felt simultaneously drained and oddly euphoric, as if she were floating just slightly above herself.

The morning passed in a dream-like haze. She found herself drifting off during breakfast, her father's voice fading in and out like a poorly tuned piano. The tea tasted strange in her mouth, the toast turning to ash on her tongue.

"Perhaps you should rest today," her father suggested, watching her with concern. "You're quite pale."

But the thought of returning to bed held no appeal. Instead, she found herself drawn to the upper corridor, to the blue room where their guest presumably still slept. The door, she noticed, was firmly locked - Mrs. Klaus's knocking going unanswered as she attempted to deliver tea.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Jimin finally emerged. (Y/n) had taken refuge in the library, attempting to read but finding the words swimming before her eyes. His entrance was silent - she looked up to find him simply there, watching her with those dark, knowing eyes.

"You look tired," he said softly, settling into the chair opposite hers. In the fading daylight, his own face held a similar languor, as if he too were recovering from some midnight exertion.

"Strange dreams," she found herself saying, though she couldn't quite remember them. Just impressions remained - a weight on her chest, cool fingers against her skin, a presence both terrifying and beloved.

Something flickered in his eyes - interest? Recognition? But he only smiled that secretive smile and began speaking of other things. As darkness fell, his lethargy seemed to lift. By evening, he was almost vibrant, his movements acquiring that fluid grace she remembered from their first meeting.

That week settled into a strange pattern. Each morning, (Y/n) woke feeling increasingly drained, yet somehow lighter, as if she were slowly becoming less substantial. Jimin's door remained locked until late afternoon, no amount of knocking drawing response. Their conversations, when he finally appeared, grew more intimate, more intense.

"Tell me about your dreams," he would say, his voice holding that hypnotic quality that made her want to confess everything. But the dreams remained elusive - just fragments of sensation, of presence, of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

News came, carried by Marcel who'd been to the village, that Catherine - the milliner's daughter - had taken ill with some mysterious malady. "Weak as a kitten," the gardener reported, "and her sister Marie looking hardly better."

The information stirred something in (Y/n)'s mind - a half-formed connection she couldn't quite grasp. But then Jimin would appear, beautiful in the gathering darkness, and all other thoughts would fade away.

Their early days together fell into a strange rhythm. Though Jimin never appeared before late afternoon, the house seemed to hold its breath waiting for him. (Y/n) found herself drawn to the library as the sun began its westward descent, knowing he would eventually materialize in the doorway like a figure stepping out of a dream.

On this particular afternoon, autumn rain drummed against the windows, creating a cocoon of grey light and shadow. (Y/n) sat in her usual window seat, a book open but unread in her lap, when she felt rather than heard his approach.

"You're watching for me now," he observed, his voice holding that mixture of amusement and satisfaction that made her cheeks warm. "Do I make such entertaining company?"

"You make interesting company," she corrected, marking how the rain-light seemed to make his skin almost luminous. "Though you never speak of yourself."

He settled beside her with that fluid grace she'd come to expect. "What would you know? My histories are long and dark - hardly suitable conversation for a young lady."

Before she could press further, voices in the entrance hall drew their attention. Through the library's open door came the sound of her father greeting someone - a man's voice, educated but unfamiliar, speaking with urgent authority.

"The deaths in the neighboring village..." the voice was saying. "Most concerning patterns... Similar to cases I've studied..."

(Y/n) felt Jimin tense beside her, though his face remained perfectly composed. Something shifted in the air between them, like the pressure change before a storm.

Their visitor proved to be Father Laurent, a scholar-priest from the nearby monastery. He carried himself with the confident air of a man used to being heard, his dark robes still beaded with rain. But it was the wooden box he carried that drew (Y/n)'s attention - ornately carved with symbols she didn't recognize.

"My dear," her father gestured her forward as she and Jimin entered the drawing room. "Father Laurent has brought something he thinks might interest you. Given your recent... fatigue."

The priest's eyes moved between her and Jimin, something knowing in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. "Yes, indeed. Though I see you have a guest...?"

"Park Jimin," her father supplied. "A temporary addition to our household after an accident on the road."

"Most fortunate," Father Laurent murmured, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. His attention returned to (Y/n). "My child, I've brought something that might help with your... affliction."

From the wooden box, he withdrew a necklace - a simple leather cord from which hung a small silver charm. The metal caught the grey light strangely, seeming to hold it rather than reflect it.

"An old blessing," the priest explained, moving to place it around her neck. "For protection against... night terrors."

(Y/n) was acutely aware of Jimin's presence behind her, the way the air seemed to crackle with some unnamed tension. As Father Laurent's fingers brushed her neck, securing the charm, she heard the softest intake of breath from Jimin - something between a hiss and a sigh.

"How kind," Jimin's voice was perfectly modulated, yet somehow held an edge she'd never heard before. "Though surely a young lady has no need for such... medieval trinkets?"

In the days following Father Laurent's visit, the charm around (Y/n)'s neck grew to feel like both comfort and burden. Though she often caught Jimin eyeing it with something like distaste, he never mentioned it directly. Instead, his attempts to occupy her attention seemed to grow more focused, more intense.

One particularly languid afternoon, she found herself drawn to the blue room. The door, usually so firmly locked, stood slightly ajar - an invitation she couldn't resist. Inside, Jimin lay across the bed fully dressed, one arm thrown elegantly across his eyes.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said without moving, as if he'd been waiting for her. "The sun is so harsh today. Draw the curtains?"

She did, watching how the heavy blue velvet transformed the room into a twilight world. When she turned back, he had shifted to make space beside him on the counterpane.

"Come," he said softly. "Lie beside me. Like we used to."

The words struck her oddly - they'd never done this before - but she found herself moving forward anyway. It wasn't proper, she knew, to be here without Madame Perrodon's supervision, but Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable.

"Why do you always lock your door?" she found herself asking as she carefully settled beside him, the question that had burned in her mind finally finding voice.

His smile widened slightly, though his arm remained over his eyes. "Do I? Perhaps I sleepwalk. Perhaps I have secrets I must keep." His free hand found hers, fingers intertwining with that unnatural coolness she'd grown used to. "Perhaps I'm afraid of what might come visiting in the night."

"You mock me," she said, though without heat.

"Never." He turned then, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. The dim light caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "I would never mock your curiosity. It's one of the things I find most..." he paused, seeming to taste the word before speaking it, "...delicious about you."

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, though not entirely unpleasant ones. They lay in silence for a moment, his cool fingers tracing abstract patterns on her palm.

"Tell me a story," he said finally. "Something from your childhood. A memory you hold dear."

She thought for a moment, and then, "I had the strangest dream once, when I was very young - perhaps six or seven. Though sometimes I wonder if it was a dream at all..."

His hand stilled in hers. "Tell me."

"I woke in the night - or thought I did. There was a figure standing by my bed, the most beautiful being I'd ever seen." As she spoke, the memory became clearer, details she'd forgotten surfacing like bodies in dark water. "They knelt beside me, stroked my hair. I felt... loved. Cherished. But also..."

"Also?" His voice had taken on an odd quality, intense yet somehow distant.

"Afraid. Not of them, exactly, but of how much I wanted them to stay. They spoke to me, though I couldn't understand the words. And then..." She touched her breast unconsciously, just below where the charm now lay. "There was a sensation, like being pierced by ice and fire at once. I screamed..."

"And the servants came running," Jimin said softly. "With candles and concerns. But found nothing amiss, save a very frightened little girl."

(Y/n) sat up slightly, looking at him with surprise. "How did you know?"

His smile was dreamy, distant. "Because I had the same dream at that age, watching over you, caressing you. Strange, isn't it? How some souls are destined to meet, how some moments echo across time until they find their mirror?" His cool fingers brushed her cheek. "Perhaps that's why I feel as though I've known you forever."

The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with sudden warmth, but she found herself leaning into his touch despite it. Something about his words rang both true and false, like a bell with a hidden crack.

"How strange," she murmured, settling back against the pillows. "That we should share such a similar dream."

"Perhaps not strange at all," Jimin replied softly. His fingers had moved to trace the line of her jaw, touch whisper-light but somehow burning cold. "Some meetings are written in the stars, dear one. Some souls call to each other across time itself."

The room had grown darker, though she couldn't remember the sun setting. In this half-light, Jimin's beauty took on an almost painful quality - too perfect to be quite real, like a painting that moved and breathed. His dark eyes seemed to drink in her face with an intensity that should have frightened her.

"You're trembling," he observed, his cool hand sliding down to rest over her heart. "Are you afraid?"

"No," she whispered, though her pulse raced beneath his palm. "I should be, shouldn't I? Everything about this is..." She gestured vaguely at their position, at the impropriety of lying together in the growing dark.

"Everything about this is exactly as it should be." His face was very close now, his sweet, strange scent making her head spin. "You're mine, (Y/n). You've always been mine, since that dream, since before that dream. Can't you feel it?"

The charm at her throat seemed to burn, but she couldn't focus on its warning. Not with Jimin's cool fingers trailing down her neck, not with the weight of his gaze holding her like a butterfly pinned to velvet.

"Mine," he murmured again, the word carrying a weight that made her shiver. His fingers traced patterns on her skin that felt like ancient writing, like secrets too old for human understanding. "My sweet, innocent girl."

The endearment should have felt patronizing, but instead it made her feel precious, cherished. His touch remained gentle, yet there was something possessive in it that stirred feelings she had no names for. The charm at her throat felt like it was burning now, but she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is this? What are we to each other?"

His smile in the darkness was beautiful and terrible. "Everything," he breathed, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear. "We are everything to each other. Past, present, future - all flowing together like rivers to the sea."

The poetic words made her head spin, or perhaps it was his proximity, the sweet-strange scent of him overwhelming her senses. His cool fingers had found their way into her hair, loosening pins until soft strands fell around her shoulders.

"Beautiful," he murmured, watching the way her hair spilled across the blue silk of the counterpane. "Like night itself made tangible." His thumb brushed her bottom lip, the touch so intimate it made her gasp. "So innocent, so pure. Do you know what you do to me, dear?"

She shook her head, unable to form words. Her whole world had narrowed to his touch, his voice, the way his dark eyes seemed to glow in the gathering shadows. This was improper - beyond improper - but propriety seemed a distant concern, as unreal as the world beyond this room.

"Everything about you calls to me," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel as though she were drowning in honey. "Your innocence, your trust, your..." he pressed his hand against her rapidly beating heart, "...life.

The room had grown darker as they lay together, the heavy blue curtains transforming late afternoon into premature dusk. (Y/n) knew she should leave - everything about this situation defied propriety - yet she found herself sinking deeper into the feather mattress, hyperaware of Jimin's cool presence beside her.

His fingers continued their delicate exploration of her palm, each touch sending little shivers up her arm. The simple contact shouldn't have felt so intimate, yet something about the deliberate way he traced each line made her breath catch.

"Your hands are always so cold," she murmured, watching his pale fingers contrast against her skin.

"And yours so warm," he responded, bringing her wrist to his lips in a gesture that walked the line between courtly and something else entirely. His breath ghosted across her pulse point, making her shiver. "Like you've captured sunlight beneath your skin."

She should pull away. A proper young lady would never allow such liberties. But Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable. When he tugged her closer, she found herself yielding, turning to face him on the blue silk counterpane.

"Sometimes," he said softly, his free hand moving to brush a strand of hair from her face, "I wonder if you know how extraordinary you are." His touch lingered at her temple, traced the curve of her cheek with exquisite slowness. "How rare it is to find someone who sees the world as you do, who understands..."

"Understands what?" she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes. The room seemed to be growing dimmer still, shadows gathering in the corners like conspirators.

Instead of answering, he let his fingers trail down her neck, each touch precise and deliberate. The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with warning heat, but she could focus only on the delicious contrast of his cool skin against her flushed warmth.

"Your heart is racing," he observed, his hand settling over the rapid beat. "Are you frightened of me, dear?"

"No," she answered truthfully. She should be - everything about this situation should terrify her. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking shade. "Though perhaps I should be."

His smile in the gathering dark was both beautiful and strange. "Wise girl." His fingers had found their way into her hair, carefully removing the last of the pins setting loose luscious waves that spilled across the pillows. "Though I prefer your trust to your wisdom."

The impropriety of her loosened hair struck her suddenly - this was something only a lady's maid or husband should see. Yet when Jimin's fingers carded through the strands, sending pleasant shivers down her spine, propriety seemed a distant concern.

"Like silk," he murmured, watching the way her hair caught what little light remained. His touch became more possessive, one hand tangling in the strands while the other traced patterns on her neck that felt like ancient writing. "Everything about you is so..."

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he shifted closer, until she could feel the strange coolness that always emanated from him along her entire body. His face lowered to her neck, just beside the charm, and she felt rather than heard him inhale deeply.

"Jimin," she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice. It came out halfway between protest and plea.

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his lips now brushing her throat with each word. "I love how my name sounds on your lips."

"Jimin," she whispered again, the name falling from her lips like a prayer. His mouth pressed against her pulse point in response, a kiss that felt more like worship.

The room spun slowly around them, or perhaps it was just her head spinning. Everything felt dreamlike - the deepening shadows, the cool press of his body against hers, the way his fingers traced arcane patterns down her arms. She was dimly aware that she should maintain some semblance of propriety, but propriety seemed to belong to another world entirely.

His hand at her waist pulled her closer still, grip possessive yet somehow reverent. "Do you know," he murmured against her skin, "how long I've waited for this? For you?"

The words made little sense, yet sent shivers down her spine nonetheless. His lips traveled up her neck with exquisite slowness, each kiss a point of delicious cold that made her gasp. When his teeth grazed her earlobe, she found herself clutching at his shoulders, unsure if she meant to push him away or draw him closer.

"My innocent girl," he breathed, his free hand now trailing down her side, following the curve of her waist. "So responsive to every touch." As if to demonstrate, his fingers splayed across her ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath her breast. Even through layers of clothing, the touch felt scandalously intimate.

She should stop this. Should remember her position, her reputation, all the careful lessons in propriety that Madame Perrodon had instilled. Instead, she found herself arching slightly into his touch, craving more of that wonderful chill.

"That's it," he encouraged softly, his nose trailing along her jaw. "Trust me. Let me..." His hand slipped higher, and she felt rather than heard his satisfaction when she gasped. "Perfect. You're perfect."

The charm at her throat burned in earnest now, but she barely noticed. Not when Jimin's mouth was leaving a trail of frost down her neck, not when his hands were teaching her body sensations she'd never imagined. Everything felt heightened, dreamlike - the silk beneath her, the weight of him beside her, the sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him now filling her lungs like incense.

His touches grew bolder, more demanding. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat while the other...

Footsteps in the corridor snapped through their private world like breaking glass. Voices approached - servants doing their evening rounds, discussing dinner preparations with comfortable familiarity.

Reality crashed back with stunning force. (Y/n) jerked away, suddenly aware of her state - hair loose and wild around her shoulders, dress rumpled, lips surely swollen from his attention. What had she been thinking? What had she allowed?

"I should..." she stumbled to her feet, face burning with shame and lingering desire. "I need to..."

"Go," Jimin said softly, still lounging on the bed with casual grace, as if nothing untoward had happened. But his eyes burned in the darkness, and his smile held something that made her shiver anew. "Dream of me."

She fled the room just as the servants' voices passed by, straightening her dress with trembling fingers. Behind her, she heard the distinctive click of his door locking once again.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔴𝔬

[definitelynotshouting]

saw this post assigning devastating quotes to each life series members, got incredibly inspired, and decided to try my own hand at it but specifically with snippets of the poetry ive personally written throughout the years :] thoughts and musings on several of my choices will be under the cut if you're interested in that sorta thing!! Enjoy<3

Bdubs: "it's all so blue. so blue, so wet, so cold, but you've got a fire in your heart like a hundred rockets. you aren't hungry, but you could eat the dead, / cut your teeth on a rotting corpse."

BigB: "SOMETHING HAS FRACTURED HERE AND IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. EACH DAY YOU WILL CHASE THE FAULT LINES LOOKING FOR A BRIDGE ONLY TO FIND IT ALREADY BURNT."

Etho: "I am above myself, hovering, pressing pale fingers into the dull bruise of yesterday to test its lingering ache. Is this all that's left?"

Gem: "what are gods if not the mothers of our own inventions. we are the avatars of violence and love and hope and fear in equal measure."

Scar: "I think I want to live. I know one day, I must die. In the cosmic wheel of fortune, I am a gamble in the making, gentle breath washing a little luck over the dice."

Grian: "Within the shape of my clawed fingers are knives: scrabbled dirt; scarlet lines; the escape route / Between a fence and / Tall grasses."

Impulse: "Life's bitter, stilted offering / Is that every person we meet / Will one day become a perfect stranger."

Martyn: "Dangerous beasts must earn / Their survival. / You are no different than a knife / In the hands of murderers."

Lizzie: "When I think of the egg-tooth, / I revel in purple glass; the lightning; the shatter; the knife-slip between / Death, and a wake."

Mumbo: "This is your life now, / Found in the cracks and crevices, scraps pried between laughter and reckless abandon."

Pearl: "I am begging, raw in the face of absolution— do not hate me. Please, keep watering me in your garden, / Despite how closely my heart resembles a weed."

Ren: "— and sometimes hearts are forged in violence /— and sometimes blood cannot form scabs / — and sometimes wounds carry half-hearted sutures / — and we are all but living fragments / —"

Skizz: "Just a little longer. Please. / There is light pooling at the bottom of the flower vase."

Scott: "I can only hope that with the rising of the dawn / I will pass through darkness and return to day, / Where I am a solar ray blinding— teeth and claws sharpened, the stretch of my skin carrying gold / Above the dull, dug out earth"

Joel: "Tamed by nothing, no one, I lose myself to the shattered chains; / Yes, there is a loss."

Jimmy: "for year after bloody year, i clung to life with aching fingernails, grasped at every straw, took every scrap of double-barrelled hope and shot myself in the chest with it."

Tango: "every time you claw yourself from the ashes you insist it will never happen again. every time you reach the breaking point, it happens a little bit faster."

Cleo: "It's about catharsis, not letting go. / Because a part of me wants to hold this, / A swelling hurt deeper than tides, / Hotter than stars. The kind of rage / A mother might raise against her own child."

I dont share my poetry on here very often, partially because it tends to end up coming from a very personal part of me, but since this was actually a lot of fun maybe i'll start posting my poems more often here :]] i think what i found most interesting about this exercise was that as i scrolled my notes app and cherry-picked quotes for each character, it felt like the ones i chose naturally became part of a larger conversation-- as if the characters were speaking to me through my own words about their lowest points, about their ultimate views on the games filtered through the lens of a red life.

It felt enlightening; i dont often feel like im speaking to characters or being informed about their plots/preferences, etc. the way many other writers discuss in workshops or casually online, but by the end of this exercise i felt like i just... understood them, better than i had before. There's something inexplicable about reading your own words and consciously finding ways to apply them in a way that encapsulates them down to a character's core that just... truly highlights the specific qualities that resonate most with you. And i think stumbling upon that organically was a very vivid and incredible experience for me

Admittedly, i did struggle on Scott, Ren, and Etho a lot-- im not as familiar with them as characters, and for a while i couldn't quite pinpoint what exact themes they tend to carry with them throughout all their life seasons. But when i started to really look at everyone's quotes as a whole, i realized they felt like a story, like the response to a question-- as if i was being TOLD what they felt and how, and that that was how i needed to frame the rest of my selections. So Scott's ended up being about control, and the desperate hanging onto of it; Ren's is about the acceptance and bitterness of what he cannot change; Etho's is a quiet resignation rounded out with softer disbelief. The more i looked at these choices, the more they felt correct to me-- and while i still think i have a ways to go before i fully understand these characters, i feel like this has helped me a lot with that ultimate goal :]

Of all these poetry snippets, though, i think Scar, Skizz, and Joel's are my absolute favorites. Skizz's poem is actually the whole poem in its entirety (as is Cleo's, funnily enough)-- it's a short, very simple poem that is incredibly close to my heart for many reasons, but the main one being because it was written at one of my lowest points a few years back. Its about clawing for hope when there isnt any, and finding even the smallest of beautiful things to hold onto, and begging yourself to keep holding onto that at any cost. The pure, clean beauty of watching light refract through a vase of flowers, and knowing that sometimes, that's all there is to live for-- I felt like that really spoke to Skizz's life series character as a whole: finding the beauty in every tiny thing, no matter how small, and scrabbling for more time to appreciate it.

Scar's snippet comes from a much longer poem of mine about the difficulty of reconciling the idea of a future when you havent had to think of one before (incidentally, Etho's snippet comes from this poem as well). I think out of everyone, this quote encapsulates him the best; i like how it subtly references that inner well of vivacity he draws from that many other characters struggle to find, and how that in turn ties in with the lore that he never died a final death during Secret Life. And i love how it simultaneously manages to encompass the way he utilizes the social game in each season as well-- Scar's an incredibly intelligent social player, and i think the imagery of a gambler breathing their luck over the dice as they cast it, and as he casts himself at others for alliances and enemies, truly does fit him.

As for Joel, the full poem his quote comes from is one im particularly proud of, especially for its final lines. I think, quite honestly, i can let this poem stand for itself in its entirety:

They say transformation is letting the light in, But in my mind it's a violence. A coarseness, a fracturing, the bloody vowels between a scream And a howl. How do you transform without killing yourself? When I am a lion, my hands and feet Grow claws; my teeth sharpen. No longer do I spark— I ignite. Tamed by nothing, no one, I lose myself to the shattered chains; Yes, there is a loss. To transform is to leave behind a body And eat its still-breathing corpse.

I find myself referencing this poem a lot even in my daily life-- as longterm readers of mine already know, one of my favorite themes is that of replacing yourself and permanent transformation. This poem really is just about how changing, in any shape or form, alters you forever; how you can look back on yourself from even just a few months ago and feel like a completely different person despite remaining the same. Connecting it with Joel's character, and how he acts during his red lives in each season, was a natural and intuitive progression once i really sat and thought about it.

Alright thats enough yapping from me 😂😂😂 im not used to writing meta nor delving into my poetry on here, so this was a bit of an experimental post for me. If youve read up until this point, i both applaud your patience and really hope you enjoyed this window into my personal works and thoughts on them :]] cheers, and thanks to @/chipperchemical the op of the original post for inspiring me!!!❤️❤️❤️

[animeyanderelover]

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, stalking, manipulation, blackmailing, threats, controlling behavior, isolation, torture, violence, death, spoilers

Makima Hc’s

⛓️The very core of Makima’s existence is the aspect of domination for she is the Control Devil. Adored by lots of people, feared by even more. Any meaningful bonds cease to be when Makima gets involved as the very nature of her abilities and her entire being would never allow for a flourishing relationship based on a free will. So the woman who can have everything yearns for the one thing that she can’t have. That makes for one unique obsession when her all-seeing eyes land on you. Makima wants you and she is always ruthless and ready to sacrifice others for her own goal yet at the same time she doesn’t want you either. Not too willingly at least. There are too many people working for her who adore her as a result of her powers and she doesn’t want you to fall immediately into that same category. No, this is a game that she will play slowly for she has the luxury to do so. Those feelings within her chest are unfamiliar in their intensity as she has only ever experienced fragments of what is coming to life within her now. Makima gambles as she decides to put her hope for a meaningful relationship into you as only your existence elicit such intense emotions out of her.

⛓️There is an illusion of freedom. There is always an illusion of freedom. The truth couldn’t be further away though. For there is always someone or something watching you. The very fabric of Makima’s existence will always feel the need to dominate and to control, you are of no exception. Black crows follow you like the sign of doom that they are, rats weasel around your feet and even the fly on the wall listens closely to everything that you say. There’s never a moment in your life where you aren’t watched and there is never an action of yours that Makima doesn’t know of. An entire web of spies all listening to her. With all the information that she has on you and with her eerie gaze that seems to slowly take you apart it is of no surprise that Makima is effective in manipulating you. It is always an enticing mixture of gentle seduction and honeyed threats that doesn’t allow you to fully recognise her as the terrifying devil that she truly is. After all how does one gather hatred and anger when none of it is reciprocated? Makima doesn’t hate nor does she despise as those are emotions only a human can create. She is no human though and for that those are feelings she cannot experience.

⛓️Jealousy is yet another emotion Makima isn’t quite familiar with. It is something she will most likely never make full acquaintance with either. Not when all is doomed to fall under her control. People within your surroundings fall soon under her spell as she thinks of none of them as her equal, dooming all of them to become puppets on her strings. Everything falters within her presence as she is an unyielding and confident being who is fully aware of her abilities. Such serenity doesn’t shatter nor crack ever, not even if someone were to flirt with you in front of her. There’s that drop within the atmosphere every time though, one that prickles the back of your neck and even makes the other person visibly uneasy. Nothing ever escalates yet that makes the tension perhaps more unbearable as Makima calmly asks the stranger a few questions. It all seems like nothing but small chitchat yet there is an underlying loom of dread. It’s in the way she scrutinizes them more intently than she would otherwise ever bother. They soon fade from her mind though as they too fall under her control afterwards. With no one to challenge her control on you, how could she ever feel jealous?

⛓️Puppets. Pawns. Dogs. Everyone exists to assist her in achieving her goals. Makima always gains something even if she loses as the only losers are those who work for her. Human life is of fleeting value of her as her morals do not coexist with those of humans. Perhaps morality is a concept that doesn’t count for her altogether. The only value she places is in you though it will spare you your life, it will demand other great costs from you. Everyone else that you love and value you is seen as a chess piece and if her victory demands it, Makima will sacrifice them all as long as she gets to keep you. There are seemingly limitless possibilities how she can get rid of people though the bloodiest of them are only reserved for her enemies. You symbolise a weak spot that the Control Devil didn’t have before, a target humans naïvely believe they could use to force her into submission. No amount of begging could ever save them even if they were to realise their fatal mistake though. It is when you are sitting tied to a chair, covered from head to toe in the blood of your abductors who died in the most gruesome way possible that you truly realise that Makima is indeed the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

⛓️Every path will always lead you back to her. She already holds all of the leashes in her hands that tie you to her yet she has no urge to keep you tight and close to her side. There is something that fascinates her which motivates her to allow you the little space to take those few steps away from her. It is no benevolent grace that she hands to you on a silver plate though. It is actually yet another testament to the utter control that she has over your life. She can afford to let you roam around a bit as she can always just pull on the metaphorical chains that bind you to her to have you back by her side. Her army of little spies, whether they have wings or crawl on the ground, always keeps her informed about your current whereabouts and there is no moment where she doesn’t know where you are. As devils are known to wreck destruction within the cities, the one thing that Makima most likely sees through is to place you in a safer area where she can easily and effectively evacuate you from. You live in your own apartment though as she doesn’t have you moved in with her. Everything can change one day though but for now she prefers to observe where you two are headed.

⛓️You test her in strange ways that Makima has never experienced before. What you exactly are for her remains a mystery to her, no matter how much she analyses you and watches you. You aren’t someone that she truly sees as inferior to herself. You aren’t someone beneath her yet simultaneously you are neither equal to her nor above her. It puzzles her yet she cannot deny that this is exactly what makes you so incredibly fascinating for her. She doesn’t want to control your feelings or emotions as much as she seeks to control most others yet as the embodiment of control she is unable to let you roam around freely either. This all leads to a situation where you are aware of the grip that she has around you eventually yet it isn’t enough to cut off your ability to still breathe. It has never happened before that she has given someone the freedom to feel and think of her without her actively influencing them, especially if she wanted something from them. There are going to be moments where she goes back to her nature of course, it can be hardly avoided, but you have far more room to navigate through. True freedom shall never be yours again as this is all she can give you.

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Bakugou Katsuki (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: Mentions of Child Abuse (with domestic implied in association), Bullying, Intense Violence, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. - Usual friend/partner format is absent to denote character's complicated relationship with intimacy!

"Friend" is a word he would never use, as it implies a degree of closeness and equal standing that Bakugou struggles to accept, that eats up the freedom and control he refuses to surrender, although others apply it for him.

Despite the enforced distance, Bakugou is quick to harass and torment any who claim intimacy with you or wish to establish such. This stems less from any clash with such feelings in Bakugou and more from the simple fact that attention divided is attention lost. Additionally, letting some extra into your life is another way of calling him incapable of fulfilling that need, a grave insult that rouses him to sever this dead weight on the battlefield.

Whomsoever has the gall to take that mantle from him, a death match will settle the undying question of whether his passion can conquer theirs. If they manage a desperate escape or a swift rescue, Bakugou will forever brand them a coward and challenge them on sight to let him finish the job.

It is difficult to overstate the amount of enmity he feels for those who intrude on the relationship. All who came before him, with the superior bond of time, cluck their tongues and sneer at his efforts to surpass them; all who come sniffing after him, he refuses to see as anything other than leeches in need of plucking and destruction.

A volatile household has imbued in Bakugou a hypersensitivity to all forms of criticism. He wishes to never again feel so trapped and powerless as the loser of a fight, so he exerts a similarly aggressive level of control over others, believing violence to be the one reliable way of coming out on top.

After all, no relationship is without contest as far as Bakugou was taught: compromise and compassion are tools for the weak, who cannot stand alone and serve only to elevate the strong. Some opponents, such as his teacher Aizawa, present a challenge not undertaken without first suffering heavy penalties to his dream, and thus this battle of wills is relegated here to a more passive defiance.

Through strength and superior force of will, a connection with Bakugou can only be a deterrent to other bullies and all the Minetas of the world. It is a pathway to unmatched companionship, performance, and success. All other relationships are transient, but with Bakugou, the results are entirely concrete and, by extension, reliable. You don't need nebulous concepts like "good company" preached by lesser individuals when Bakugou will ensure the identification and erasure of all vestigial weaknesses.

Additional elements in your life are, at best, a source of concern as dead weight or, at worst, actively prohibiting your well-being by limiting your time with him. Anyone who refuses to exact their pound of flesh in the relationship is either a liar or an idiot. Lies mean danger and warn Bakugou to expect an attack; idiots are not long for this world and therefore are unworthy of his time save for the occasional heckling.

Bakugou drives himself to excel at his every pursuit, trusting in such a "mastery over all" persona to cover his weak spots and allow for nothing that others could point at as his one failure. If he wins in all contests, then who could legitimately claim he is wrong?

Bakugou thrives on any chance to flaunt his strength — but abhors the idea of being used in the same manner as a lowly foot soldier; that is, presented as cannon fodder and expected to die a forgotten tool. Such requests are seen as an attempt at controlling him, which in and of itself is indicative of disrespect and cannot be tolerated.

Any advances from another in your life, he assumes, are a deliberate slight against his pride; and the knife must be stuck in a thousandfold lest he be remembered as the simpering coward who showed his belly at the first glare of competition.

Bakugou expects a mountain of boasting and gushing at the supposedly generous act of bestowing upon you his undivided attention; he, however, remains silent on the affair so as not to suggest any emotional dependence, an achingly true reality he is certain others will prey upon with mockery and invasive questioning. The loss of control over his attachment is a long-kept secret, for once it goes beyond his immediate control, it becomes a potentially gaping vulnerability, one readily exploited by his many enemies.

Despite his best intentions, Bakugou is much like the mother he fought so hard to survive and escape, a fact he both resents and considers necessary to protect himself. Only through being the strongest, and king of the hill, will his voice and his desires never again be ignored.

Bakugou often re-enacts these fights on his own terms, where the opponent is hopelessly outmatched and he can assume the position of power, subconsciously spewing the same insults and threats that were used against him to eke out a sense of worth and control in his life.

As a youngster, Bakugou is ripe to demand participation in all group activities. He frames his team as the one for whom success is guaranteed and assures you he only partners with winners. Any who step in or challenge with another word are blown away.

Among classmates, Bakugou has made a habit of targeting your favourites and any more who dare to dream they can take his place, unable to cope with a future where he is unnecessary. He must be essential, for anything less is an insult to his capabilities and a potential source of vulnerability.

In combat exercises, no one else is allowed to engage you. Those who land even a single blow, he puts through the wall. Bakugou himself is noticeably milder with his attacks on you, taking aim at less vulnerable areas and shooting to stun rather than kill. Training with you is fundamentally still a competition, but he won't allow you to be harmed by any of the lesser candidates and would-be heroes.

For the opposing team, Bakugou displays an enduring hatred and arms his attacks with power enough to blow through the human body and split the concrete wall behind it. This is no longer a game to him, but something deeply personal.

He leaves a slot open on his team and chases away any who seek to fill it, convinced that with an ample enough show of force, you will realise the error of your ways and switch sides to the clear winner. Still, he cannot let slip that he hopes for such a thing and would be hurt by its absence. If anyone asks, the slot was left open because his team, having him as a leader, did not require full manning.

At the peak of junior high, Bakugou's emotions spiral: lunging for perceived rivals, pummeling them, and teasing an explosion down their throat. Teachers, victims, and spectators alike keep quiet, half in fear for their own safety, half in the hope that he will grow out of it. The threat of death in such encounters is quite high, but any follow-through is likely to occur after the school day ends, where no one can block Bakugou from his prey.

Still at the peak of junior high, Bakugou is king of the schoolyard, and yet, has just as little power at home as he did before. This constant failure demands more showboating and greater performance at school, lest Bakugou be unacceptably rejected as another lost cause. He will never realise his goals if the world is not reshaped as it must be.

With age comes more power, and with more power comes more wins; and soon enough, Bakugou turns his hostilities on teachers. While in grade school, the few who tried to coax him into letting his "special friend" play with other kids were dismissed as copycats of his mousy father and roundly ignored; but in high school, the many who resort to lectures and threats sound all too like his mother and trigger a host of aggression.

Calls are made to his home about increasingly violent behaviour, which in turn leads his mother to scream profanity for hours and lay hands on him as punishment. His father, shut out of the loop by a dismissive wife and an equally hostile son, mistakes the vicious cycle taking root for general delinquency. He tries to talk Bakugou into standing down, but risks his own life in the process and so remains resigned to the background.

These well-intentioned but ineffective efforts, in a tragic twist of irony, feed Bakugou's attitude that no one has his back, and he must fight to keep hold of his one safe spot in life. As his "special friend," you must see his excellence and, only in continued and ever-greater reminders, be motivated to stick with him as you should. When he decides to grace you with his presence, there will be no distractions, only recognition for the inner weakness of all who fall short of his towering standards.

Well into his formative years, Bakugou retains a growing distrust of adults, viewing them as inherently antagonistic figures who seek to smother his freedom and cannot be relied upon when it counts. They are, at best, effete annoyances and, at worst, monstrous obstacles to be endured only until they may be properly annihilated.

Conditioned to see a potential foe in everyone, only once stout trust has developed can Bakugou turn his back and not fear the glint of the blade come swinging to make him regret it. These innocuous displays remind Bakugou of how much would be at stake if the intensity of his true feelings were revealed or, worse yet, surreptitiously exposed by some gossip-prone dunce.

In the event Kirishima turns the wrong phrase, Bakugou allows him to escape with a comparatively light thrashing, whilst everyone else is subject to the uncorking of years of rage and belligerence. Only his "special friend," worth more than all others, is spared the worst of his wrath.

Nothing riles him so as a battle with an audience, and when Bakugou has someone in particular to impress, what remains of the enemy is carted off the field on a stretcher. Through an excessive response, Bakugou simultaneously asserts his dominance as the premier hero, crushing his villainous opposition, and unambiguously demonstrates why choosing him in lieu of all the others was the only sensible conclusion. Everything is right in the world, at least until the next challenge presents itself.

Strength is the greatest virtue, and nothing says "superior dedication" like dropping your worst enemy at your feet after everyone else cautioned forgiveness. Bakugou sees a downed enemy as a current and future threat, but he sees a broken and crushed one as a sign of power.

Climbing to the top rung is his way of proving, both to himself and to the world, that Bakugou Katsuki is no longer the little boy who only dreams of victory and cannot face his mother. All opponents, today or tomorrow, will be summarily crushed, and Bakugou will prove, definitively, that any opposition was wrong to contest his will. In the heat of battle, he charges to conquer, afraid only of the feeling of smallness that comes with loss.

Raised in an environment where violence was the only way to be heard and respected, backing down from any kind of challenge is tantamount to cowardice; and the cowardly have no hope in this world, merely asking to be walked over and trampled. Pity and mercy are insults from the lips of those who look down on him, who see him as no threat and wish to deepen the wound of his mistakes.

Bakugou shapes his value on what he can accomplish rather than who he is. The rage and panic after a failed exam, the violent jealousy — it all stems from one core belief: if he is less than the best, he is nothing.

[verysium]

『01』 呪術廻戦: jujutsu kaisen recs

五条悟: gojo satoru

i know you still think about the times we had by @saetoru

satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling. notes: satoru is so desperate and pathetic here it is just delicious; has the right amount of angst to cause tension but a good ending to soothe my poor heart; traditional rich boy and disapproving mother/father scenario but implemented relatively well; miscommunication and feelings of inadequacy; reader realizing the extent to which satoru loves them

pretty eyes by @quirklessidiot

in which the right eye is mine and the left eye is yours and when we meet for the first time, you see your own eyes staring back at you. notes: takes tragic star-crossed lovers to a whole new level; riddled with parallels and symbolism; idea of illness and loving someone at their worst; right person, wrong time at its finest; fate being unnecessarily cruel; surprising moments of humor

minazuki by @quirklessidiot

In which Y/N L/N is placed under a union she has no choice but to partake for the sake of her survival. notes: this series needs to be scientifically studied; it is just that good; halfway in and i fell in love with the reader instead of gojo; strong and somewhat morally grey characters; dark themes around femininity in a patriarchal society but concept was executed flawlessly

21: only by @tenjiiku

“What do you want, Satoru?” You do not use his last name or any honorific to address him despite his age. He was older than you by a few years — but certainly did not act the part — so you do not think he deserves your respect. Your host father told you he does — something about his being from a prominent private school as an educator, which you cannot possibly fathom being the truth — but only in front of you is Satoru Gojo an inane, odd man with a need for clean, dry-cleaned clothes that, for some strange reason he has conjectured in his equally baffling mind, that only you can provide. He smiles at you, placing his cheek in his hand. “You.” notes: this fic embodies the duality between gojo and satoru; he is easy-going until he isn’t and you realize he actually has a considerable amount of depth; the plot twist did it for me; satoru being a loud-mouthed tease but secretly harboring feelings

soulswap by @orphxus (impxria)

this is where the evening splits in half, love or death. grab an end, pull hard, & make a wish. notes: short but realistically describes everything wrong with jujutsu society; poetic voice; gojo being serious for once; disillusionment and tragic hero archetype; being the strongest yet being unable to save anybody; geto would read this fic and feel seen

両面宿儺: ryomen sukuna

nocuous by @quirklessidiot

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I knew how this was going to end but I’m still terribly hurt by it.” notes: the heian era setting is so complex and established even through dialogue and subtle description; reader strikes me as older and able to deal with sukuna’s chaotic nature; sukuna being an absolute menace is sending me; tragic angst but almost didn’t notice it due to how beautifully the images are presented

avīci by @rotpeach

Several years ago, Satoru Gojo was involved in the exorcism of a uniquely stubborn curse. The official report states that one of Ryomen Sukuna's fingers was recovered from the scene, and nothing else. Only the two of you know the truth. notes: gore, gore, and even more gore; boy was this fic a wild ride; imagine a work that condenses the ugliest and most revolting parts of human nature yet presents them so elegantly you start questioning the blurred lines of morality; cannibalism, violence, and love triangles; japanese mythology & folklore; heian period references; cursed spirit reader tries to grapple with the idea of self after being created for the sole purpose of serving others; themes of existentialism, identity crisis, obsession

[oppropro]

Chapter 2 of my fanfic

I am so happy to receive the positive feedback on my story inspired by @jttw-monkeybusiness. I had a hard time writing this chapter as it is from the perspective of different pilgrims. I want their thoughts to be believable and true to their nature, while also being true to @celestialkiri 's vision of these characters in her AU. I got a bit overly ambitious with this chapter and had to cut it short; the rest of the story will continue in a 3rd chapter. This has a better narrative flow.

So without further ado; I present chapter 2 of Monkey Business based on the creations of @jttw-monkeybusiness all credit goes to her.

********

CHAPTER 2- Here's your sign

            Sun Wukong, King of Mount Huaguo, Great Sage equal to heaven, was losing his patience. His master, the monk Tripitaka once again avoided near death thanks to the valiant efforts of his disciple, Sun Wukong. The very same disciple he chose to ignore when he warned the monk of the dangers of the demon hoard that had laid a trap to kill and eat the monk. A trap so obvious even Pigsy should have seen coming. That is, if Pigsy could ever think with his brain and not his stomach.

            And what thanks does Wukong get for saving his master and his pig-headed brother? Another lecture on how violence does not solve every problem. Well, violence certainly solved that problem. Besides, if his master had simply listened to him in the first place, they could have easily avoided the demon’s trap and Wukong wouldn’t have to resort to violence.

            “Hardships we face on our pilgrimage are simply a test of faith, and it is through our faith that we will ultimately persevere.” Monk Tripitaka spoke in a slow and deliberate manner.

            “Well then start showing more faith in me!” Wukong replied.

            “This journey is not just about you.”

            “And yet it is I, once again, coming to everyone’s rescue.”

            “I appreciate that you were able to rescue us, but that does not change the fact that you do not get to dictate the path we must follow, or default to wanton violence as a solution to every obstacle.”

            “Those demons were going to eat you and the pig alive! They weren’t even coy about it! If everyone just listened to me, it wouldn’t have even been an obstacle.”

            “We cannot avoid every danger, or burden, or obstacle we face on our journey.” Tripitaka’s tone conveyed a clear message: this conversation was over. “Even if such a challenge were to fall from the heavens and land directly on us. We will face whatever lies before us head on and accept the fate that has been ordained by Buddha.”

            “Well then, Master, you can find somebody else to save your ass because I am tired of being the only one around here who-” Wukong’s sentence was cut short as, apropos of the monk’s declaration, the heavens had opened up and a strange blonde woman fell upon the angry monkey’s back.

********

            Sandy, Pigsy, and Bai Long stood at the side of a clearing and watched their brother and their master argue back and forth. They had seen this exact same scenario played out before; it was safe for them to assume that it wasn’t going to be the last. The novelty of these fights had worn off and now they simply wished they would get to the point where Wukong would learn his lesson about self-control, humility, and acceptance so they could move on with their journey. For all the talk about other people slowing him down, Wukong sure liked to waste time arguing moot points.

            However, a girl falling from the heavens and landing on their elder brother’s back was new. They and the monk stood agog staring at the unforeseen spectacle before them: the woman had hair the colour of summer sun, and her clothes were foreign. The sack that she carried on her back had fallen off, that too was made of some strange and heavenly material not found on earth.

            Her face had landed in the dirt, her legs tangled amongst the limbs of Sun Wukong, and she moaned as she cradled her temples in her arms, nursing whatever wound she incurred from her less than graceful decent from heaven.

            Tripitaka was the first to break free from his spell. Still unable to process what had just happened, he rushed to the side of the stranger in an attempt to help her sit up an regain her composure. Pigsy followed his master’s lead and the two of them were able to prop the woman up and assess her for any injuries: some bumps and scratches, all superficial. That didn’t rule out the risk of any serious, or even deadly, head wounds.

            “Little sister, are you hurt?” the monk asked. “Do you understand me? Can you open your eyes?”

            The woman replied with a whimper, as she slowly blinked her eyes several times trying to purge her tears. Pigsy watched her blue eyes dilate and constrict in an attempt to regain focus. They had never seen a foreigner before. He knew that humans in other countries looked different, and that they were bound to meet foreigners on their journey to India, but the difference in eye colour was striking. This wasn’t something to dwell on, however; the woman needed help.

            “Good, good, little sister, you’re going to be alright. Let us help you. Just keep breathing nice and slowly.” Pigsy spoke to the woman in a low, slow voice and began to exaggerate his breath in so that the stranger might mimic him.

            “HOW ABOUT THE TWO OF YOU QUIT FAWNING OVER THAT STUPID SKY WOMAN AND HELP YOUR BROTHER OUT!”

            Wukong’s voice hit the stranger like a slap to the face. She gasped as her eyes widened and she finally focused on her surroundings. Pigsy was familiar with the expression on the stranger’s face: shock, confusion, fear; a primal fight or flight reaction that all humans experience when face to face with a demon.

            The stranger’s breath became quick and shallow, Pigsy could sense her heart rate bounding. There may still have been hope that Tripitaka may calm her down, but as she looked down at his elder brother, the demon monkey trapped between her legs, flashing his fangs as he scowled at the woman, he knew what was about to happen.

            He let go of the stranger as she screamed and began kicking wildly at Wukong until they were finally untangled. As the terrified woman struggled on all fours to get up and make a mad dash into the forest, Wukong jumped up with an unwarranted sense of accomplishment. Congratulations you stupid monkey; you successfully scared a woman.

            Tripitaka went to mount Bai Long. “Sandy. Pigsy. Please, help me look for our new companion. Monkey, you stay here and watch over our camp.”

            Whatever pride Wukong felt fled his body as soon as his master spoke. “What? Why are you chasing after her? She means nothing to us.”

            “Where you not paying attention to what our master had said?” Pigsy spat.

            “Yes. Even if such a challenge were to fall from the heavens and land directly on us. Well, I just passed buddha’s test. I overcame that challenge and didn’t even resort to violence. I guess I have learned my lesson now and we can all continue on our way. Oh thank you great and wise buddha! You have made me a better monkey.”

            “You have learned nothing,” Tripitaka snapped. “Now we have to go find this woman lest a fate worse than crashing into you befalls her.”

            The monkey growled. His blood was beginning to boil.

            “Then I will bring this challenge back to you, master.”             Wukong took off in the same direction as the woman before the monk could object. beginning to boil. He raced through the canopy following the stranger’s trail. The path she left was easy enough to follow. Even if it wasn’t glaringly obvious, Wukong could smell her: her scent; her blood; her fear. He could hear her: her ragged breath; her racing heart; her pitiful cries for help. The great monkey king would catch up to this pathetic whelp in no time and return her to his master so he can figure out what he wants to do with her. But before he brought her to his master, Wukong had some questions of his own to ask the woman. At the very least, this stupid woman owed Sun Wukong an apology.

[hwanchaesong]

┗🖋️ Fun, was it, when the poor smile / A wooden home has gone senile / Its soil is nothing but fertile / Yet the fruits are declared as an exile 📖

🎧: Taylor Swift - The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

wc: 1.7k

genre & warnings: angst, forbidden love au, historical/royalty au, mentions of death, revenge, violence, like.. just pure angst for this one, fluff if u squint ig, etc etc

a/n: this is a part of The Tortured Poets Department series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

"Lower your head, peasant." a guard kicked Jungwon's back, making him stumble on the carpeted floor of the throne room.

His whole body shakes in pain, bruises and dirt covered most of his skin, and there may be some broken bones due to his previous struggles against the royal knights last night.

He deserves the agony, but being presented to you like this is plain torture.

Jungwon knew that the weight of his treason was equals to death. The minute he accepted the mission of espionage to the royal family of his own country, the grim reaper himself had been following him since.

The clacking heeled-steps of a person echoes throughout the room, getting nearer his filthy, disheveled form.

His eyes remain downcast, still, he is able to make-out the golden fabric of your gown as you cease movements a mere inches away from him.

"Everyone, out." you ordered, the guards hesitated at first and were about to protest but your sharp glare made them shut their mouths, opting to follow your directive.

The head knight, Jay, went on one knee before withdrawing, "Please be careful, Your Majesty."

You smile at him, waving him off, "I will. Thank you, Jay."

The male got up but not without giving Jungwon a nasty stare down, one that sent shivers down his spine due to the incredible loathe that it holds.

Several rushing footsteps faded away, then the door was shut, leaving you alone with the man that you, unfortunately, still love despite his treachery.

"Jungwon, you may raise your head." you say in a gentle manner, allowing him some freedom.

"I believe I cannot do that, Your M-"

"Do not make me repeat myself, Viscount Yang Jungwon."

He gulps, finally tilting his head and meeting your eyes. A facade of indifference covers your entirety, but he is not foolish enough to discern that you are breaking from inside and out.

"Your fate rests on my hands." you mumble and he can only nod in response, waiting for further instructions, "I have some inquiries for you, and you have no choice but to answer honestly."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

You take a deep breath, crouching down and matching his height. That made his eyes widen, coming face to face with you is something that he did not expect.

He stares at your gorgeous face but he prefers your natural one, no make-up, just you. The one that he gazes at during the nights where you sleep in his arms, huddling you closer to his body for more warmth.

You finally asked your first question, "Why did you approach me that night?"

It was a beautiful soirée, the night is young and you enjoy watching your citizens dance and eat as you sit in peace.

Suddenly, a young man appeared in front of you. He elegantly bowed, introducing himself as the son of the great Yang family.

You observed him for a minute. He is dressed in the finest fabric of a suit, hair styled to perfection, and he seems like a clean-cut type of boy.

"Good evening Your Majesty, I have come to ask for your hand for a dance. If I may?" he politely asks and you were shocked at his boldness.

Most people wouldn't dare to do what he just did, too scared to disrespect the unmarried queen of their country. You must applaud him for his bravery.

"All right then, Viscount Yang, I shall accept your invitation." you got off your seat, motioning for the servants to calm down and that you can handle the situation.

The man held your hand delicately, guiding you to the dance floor. The others gasped at the interaction, an uncommon sight of their queen dancing with a man.

As his hand went to your waist, yours on his shoulder and the remaining free hands remained intertwined, you two began swaying to the classical music performed by an ensemble.

You gaze into his cat-like eyes, his sweet smile giving you a sense of comfort.

At that moment, you can't help but think; is this your destined man sent by the heavens?

"It is my mission to get close to you. Such an order was given to me by my employer." he responds, avoiding your eyes as he does so.

"Who is your employer?"

"My apologies, Your Majesty. As part of my integrity, I could not tell you my employer's name." Jungwon closes his eyes, fists clenched so hard that his nails are digging through his palms.

Your hands went up to cradle his face, forcing him to look at you once more.

"Just Y/N. You, calling me 'Your Majesty' is not.. it does not bode well with me." you chuckle a bit, peering into the chocolate orbs that you have grown fond of.

It is astounding how he manages to be this stunning regardless of his unfastidious appearance.

Jungwon is silent for a while, opening his mouth to speak, "I do not h-"

"I am your queen, I command it." you said with finality, using your power to submit to you.

Jungwon inhaled, his sweaty palms shaking as he refrains from covering yours that are still warmly placed on his skin, "I understand, Y/N."

Your eyes soften, feeling joy at hearing your name roll off his tongue, "Now then, tell me why you decided to betray our kingdom. Why would you go through this trouble even when you were born from a noble family?"

He flinched at the straightforward question, but ultimately decided to tell you the truth. Voicing out his hostilities and childhood.

"I am a mere bastard from a maid." he starts and there is no stopping now, "My father needed to save his image. Since he was an acquaintance of the former king-"

"My late father?" you interject and he nods, continuing his story afterwards.

"They conspired together. Killed my mother, adopted me just to belittle me. I was only truly respected by those vermin when I became successful in life. Thus, everything that I did was for revenge. I wanted the royal family to suffer like I did."

A few seconds of pause ensued, letting his narrative sink in. And you sympathize with him, thankful that he opened this to you, trusting you with this valuable information.

"Very well." you then wiped a smudge of dried blood on his cheek, staining your porcelain and clean thumb, "Lastly, did you sincerely love me?"

Jungwon's eyes widened, completely forgetting about the invisible barrier and grasping your hands in his.

He is a raging liar, a traitor, the lowest of the low but when he told you— when he promised you under the stars that he loves you with all his heart, that was the truest sentiment that he could ever muster.

You can doubt his whole being, his existence, even his background but god forbid your dubiety for his love.

It was not in his agenda to fall in love, but with you, harboring such burning feelings was so easy as breathing itself.

Jungwon would rather die than to see or feel your lack of confidence in his affections.

"I did, god I-I do. I still do," he clutched you harder, wanting to get his emotions across you, "I love you so much. Y/N, my eternity, I may be a snake in the grass but my devotion for you is out there in the open, under the sun with the blooming flowers."

It's his love for you that caused this mess in the first place. He was so distracted by the rainbows that a simple slip-up turned his blue skies into rain.

The corner of your lips quivered, his outburst was enough confession, leaning closer to him to press a sweet, lasting kiss on his forehead, mumbling against his skin, "That is all I need to know, my Won."

You abruptly stand up, detaching yourself from Jungwon and tilting your head towards the giant door, speaking in a louder voice while you steeled your expression into one befitting of a queen.

"You may now all come in."

The servants rushed inside the room, positioning themselves in their respective former spots.

You cleared your throat, facing the majority of the people.

"By the power bestowed upon me. I, L/N Y/N, hereby proclaim the accused, Yang Jungwon, to be banished from this sacred land."

You focused on his surprised expression, your teary eyes speaking more than a thousand words to him, "You may never step foot in this country ever again. Once you do, I will have your head presented to me."

You turn to your most trusted knight, ordering him to escort the defector.

Jungwon stands on his feet as well, giving you a tender, longing smile. You see it, the way he mouthed 'I love you', and you have to fight back the tears. You have to be strong as you watch him exit the throne room.

Your eyes landed on your fingers, the gleaming coronation ring next to the jewelry that Jungwon gifted you seems to be mocking you. No matter how sky high your desire is to spend the rest of your life with Jungwon, the fact that you are the grand sovereign of your kingdom will forever tie you to your duties and priorities. 

First and foremost, you are married to the nation. Therefore, your wilting heart is nothing more than a nightmare that you shall forget.

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

Jungwon continues walking through the dim, torch-illuminated tunnel, when suddenly a cocking sound is heard.

It doesn't take a genius to know what it is, and it made him chuckle in disbelief.

"Yang Jungwon, Her Majesty might have wanted you to be banished. But I wanted you dead."

Jungwon seethes, not having the mood to do child's play, venturing to face the perpetrator who is currently threatening him.

"Are you still vexed that Her Majesty chose me and not you? It's amazing to witness how bitter you are, Jay." he raised an eyebrow, further aggravating the knight.

"Oh?" the older smirks, "I can dispose of you right here without anyone knowing, and you dare speak to me like that?"

"I am not scared of you." Jungwon declares with hardened eyes, flashing orange due to the fire from the torches, staring through Jay's soul, "I am not scared of anything anymore."

Not when he had already lost the person that he treasures the most.

Jay gnashed his teeth, "Then, I'll gladly send you to hell."

"Go ahead," Jungwon shrugs, fully challenging an equipped man, "kill me and go against your queen's orders."

taglist

@ramenoil @shakalakaboomboo @slutforjeno

[steveyockey]

As I watched people online debate the models of anti-colonial struggle, raising comparisons to Algeria and North America and South Africa, I found myself returning to the foundational Jewish liberation myth: the Exodus. It was hard not to think about the moment in the Passover seder when we lessen the wine in our full cups with our pinkies as we recite the plagues. This ritual has materialized as an indispensable touchstone, insisting that to hold onto our humanity we must grieve all violence, even against the oppressor.

But I also thought of the plagues themselves, particularly the final one, the slaying of the first born—children, adults, the elderly. It seems that hiding in our liberation myth is a recognition that violence will visit the oppressor society indiscriminately. I know that I have many friends, and that Currents has many readers, who are asking themselves how they can be part of a left that seems to treat Israeli deaths as a necessary, if not desirable, part of Palestinian liberation. But what Exodus reminds us is that the dehumanization that is required to oppress and occupy another people always dehumanizes the oppressor in turn. For people who feel like their pain is being devalued, it’s because it is; and that devaluation is itself a hallmark of the cycle of the diminishing value of human life. As the abolitionist geographer Ruth Wilson Gilmore has said, “Where life is precious, life is precious.” We are seeing the ways that Jews as the agents of apartheid will not be spared—even those of us who have devoted our lives to the work of ending it. (I am thinking of Hayim Katsman, zichrono l’vracha, killed by Hamas, an activist against the expulsion of the West Bank community of Masafer Yatta, and Vivian Silver, a hostage in Gaza, who is known to many of its residents as the person they meet at the Erez Crossing who advocates for and facilitates their transfers to Israeli hospitals for treatment.)

That question of how we recuperate this humanity is ultimately an organizing question. People have repeated over and over again over the last few days that you “cannot tell Palestinians how to resist.” To me, it seems there is a very literal dimension to this axiom: They are not asking. Part of what has made the experience of this event feel so different from the status quo—and so different to Palestinians and Jews—comes from the fact that Palestinians were undeniably the actors, for once, not the acted upon. The protagonists of the story. I consider it an enormous failure of our movements that we have not been able to build a vehicle for that kind of reversal in any other way thus far. Our Jewish movements for Palestine were not powerful enough to stop other Jews from gunning down Palestinians in peaceful marches at the Gazan border fence, or to keep Palestinians from being fired, harassed, and sued for speaking the truth about their experience or—God forbid—advocating the nonviolent tactic of boycott. And now, we do not have a shared struggle able to credibly respond to these massacres of Israelis and Palestinians. With all of the work that many Jews and Palestinians have done to reach toward each other over the years, I believe at heart it is this failure that is now driving us apart. There is no formidable political formation that I know of that can hold the political subjectivity of both Jews and Palestinians in this moment without simply attempting to assimilate one into the other. No place where Jews and Palestinians who agree on the basics of Palestinian liberation—right of return, equality, and reparations—are poised to turn the synthesis of these two subjectivities into a coherent strategy.

One of the most terrible things about this event is the sense of its inevitability. The violence of apartheid and colonialism begets more violence. Many people have struggled with the straightjacket of this inevitability, straining to articulate that its recognition does not mean its embrace. I am reminding myself that it was from Palestinians, many of them writing and speaking in these pages, that I learned to think of Palestine as a site of possibility—a place where the very idea of the nation-state, which has so harmed both peoples, could be remade or destroyed entirely. And it was Palestinians who opened my thinking to multiple visions of sharing the land. On the left, I hope we do not mistake the inevitability of the violence for an inescapable limit on our work or the quality of our thought. Even if our dreams for better have failed, they must accompany us through this moment to the other side. We need to imagine a movement for liberation better even than the Exodus—an exodus where neither people has to leave. Where people stay to pick up the pieces, rearranging themselves not just as Jews or Palestinians but as antifascists and workers and artists. I want what Puerto Rican Jewish poet and activist Aurora Levins Morales describes in her poem “Red Sea”:

We cannot cross until we carry each other,

all of us refugees, all of us prophets.

No more taking turns on history’s wheel,

trying to collect old debts no-one can pay.

The sea will not open that way.

This time that country

is what we promise each other,

our rage pressed cheek to cheek

until tears flood the space between,

until there are no enemies left,

because this time no one will be left to drown

and all of us must be chosen.

This time it’s all of us or none.

Arielle Angel, “‘We Cannot Cross Until We Carry Each Other’,” Jewish Currents, October 12, 2023.

[gloomwitchwrites]

An Unexpected Catch: Boromir x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical violence

Word Count: 3.1k

Chapter Two

While investigating an attack on a Gondorian settlement, Boromir finds himself run through with a sword and tossed into a nearby river. When death seems dangerously near, Boromir’s body washes up to shore, tangled in a fishing net. A young woman living alone finds Boromir and brings him home to care for him. As Boromir physically heals, he finds that his heart is also missing something important.

ao3 // main masterlist // an unexpected catch masterlist

Boromir

The rains that come in the Night bring early morning mist and low clouds.

Upon his horse, Boromir observes the hazy horizon. The tall grass around his horse’s legs is dew-kissed and wet, darkening the horse’s coat until it appears black. The mist clings to his armor, creating a slick covering on the metal. When Boromir returns to Minas Tirith, the royal blacksmith will need to inspect it, cleaning it properly to avoid potential rust.

“Captain!” Brennan, one of the men that is accompanying Boromir trots forward, pulling up beside him. “The scout has not reported in.”

Boromir briefly glances at him before returning to scan the horizon. Even with the low clouds and mist, he can see enough.

Something dark stirs in these lands—awakening with malicious intent. It is palpable like the way butter sits salty and thick on the tongue when not evenly spread. It is heavy in the air and lungs, a vice around throats and hearts. It is a battering ram. It is everywhere.

Faramir is in Osgiliath.

The city conquered. Retaken. Conquered again. Mostly in sections, but it’s continuous. Unending. A brutal task that Boromir is only fighting because his father wants it so.

All who lived there are gone, moved to Minas Tirith. Boromir doesn’t know when it’ll be safe to return.

It might never be.

The orcs grow bold. A shadow is at their backs, spurring their forward momentum and bloodlust. As if they are sucking the darkness into themselves, they are relentless, fueling themselves on whatever drives them ever onward.

“What was the original report?” asks Boromir.

“Raids, sir,” answers Brennan. “Corsairs along the river. Mercenaries from the East. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” counters Boromir. “What other beings move along the Anduin?”

Brennan shakes his head. “Report didn’t say. Only that the Corsairs come and go. They advance and retreat in equal measure.”

“No pattern?”

“None that’s been revealed.”

Boromir nods, but there is no comfort. Acting on little information is a risk, and they are few in number.

“We will forge ahead,” replies Boromir. “Slowly. Keep to the trees. Avoid open ground.”

Boromir does not intend to engage. This is to gain information to relay back to Minas Tirith, to figure out a path forward.

The party is only ten in number on horseback. Boromir gathers the reins, and they depart, descending from the large hill they look out on to draw up next to the tree line. On the other side is the Anduin. It’s far enough that they cannot see it but close enough that Boromir swears he can hear the water.

They follow the tree line for several leagues. The day does not lighten. The skies remain grey and gloomy.

Boromir raises his fist, and the group halts.

He narrows his gaze, unsure of what he’s seeing.

“Do any of you see what I see, or do my eyes deceive me?”

“Looks like smoke,” replies Brennan.

“Or dark clouds,” adds Alden, scratching at his beard.

Boromir frowns. “Is there anything in that direction.”

“Likely a settlement,” answers Brennan. “Or a small village. Might not be on any maps expect local ones.”

Turning toward his men, Boromir keeps his tone even. “We will approach from the forest. Move slowly. Stay alert.”

Turning their steeds toward the forest, they enter one by one, trudging slowly through the undergrowth. The canopy swallows them up like a leviathan. Around them are large trees, and Boromir feels small—as if everything is tight and cramped.

To move through the trees, the group has to split, forming two lines.

At the edge of the tree line, Boromir brings everyone to a halt.

There is a town. A small settlement of a couple dozen buildings. To the left is the Anduin. The dock there is empty expect for a few fishing boats.

Some of the buildings still smolder. The rest are just blackened carcasses.

Boromir sees no bodies. Orcs would leave plenty behind. They rarely—if ever—take prisoners. Corsairs certainly kill but they tend to withhold their blades for profit. Living souls mean income. They can exchange hostages for coin, or take them to faraway places to sell them. Everything is a profit for them.

But there may still be bodies. Boromir just can’t see them.

It is he that takes the first step out of the trees. The others follow behind at the same pace, their hands on their weapons as they enter the settlement.

It is incredibly quiet. Hardly any noise. No birds or buzzing of insects. Only the occasional crackle of singed wood falling in on itself.

Moving like ghosts amongst a graveyard, they find themselves at the center of it all, and still, there are no bodies. Only blackened buildings.

“Captain,” murmurs Brennan. “Look.”

Boromir follows Brennan’s outstretched arm in the direction he indicates. There he finds a partially collapsed building. The door is open, hanging on its hinges, ready to fall off at the slightest gust of wind. Draped across the threshold is a pale arm, hand pressed into the earth as if the person tried to claw their way to freedom.

As a group, they approach, but it is Boromir who dismounts first. Brennan and Alden follow his lead while the others remain where they are. Cautiously, they examine the door and pale arm. Boromir leans in, only to find more the arm and who it is connected to.

It’s a woman.

Brennan kneels beside her, fingers pressed to the inside of her wrist before checking her neck.

Without speaking, Brennan turns in Boromir’s direction and shakes his head.

She’s gone. There is nothing that can be done.

Boromir nods his head, indicating that they should enter. He takes the lead, Brennan at his heels as Alden lingers back a bit near the door. They step around overturned furniture and over fallen beams.

“Touch nothing,” whispers Boromir.

It’s a small space, and reveals little. Bending at the knees, Boromir leans in to examine scorch marks along the floor that look like claw marks.

Behind him—distantly—there is a soft whoosh of air like a change in the wind.

A brief shout—quickly cut off.

Brennan and Alden draw their blades and charge toward the door.

“Wait!” says Boromir but they’re gone.

More shouting. The ringing of metal striking metal.

He sidesteps a beam and comes up short.

“Come out! We know you’re in there!”

Beyond the door are Corsairs. Not a handful. No. There are at least five of them to every one of Boromir’s men. But there aren’t many of his men left.

Most are down.

Boromir can only see about five of them on the ground in front of the house. He doesn’t see the others, but with how calm and unbothered the Corsairs are, they’re likely gone.

“Come out! Last chance. Won’t be lenient if we have to come in there.”

Muttering under his breath, Boromir exits, sword raised high, ready to swing.

The Corsair at the front of the group laughs. His black hair is thick and slightly tangled in a knot at the back of his head.

“Put your sword down. No use fighting.”

Boromir does not relent. He does not lower his weapon.

“A soldier of Gondor does not bow down to those poised to do evil.”

The Corsairs blinks, and then bursts out laughing again. He points, hand gesturing vaguely toward Boromir. “Armor is shiny. Fetch a pretty price.” He tilts his head to the side. “Bring it to me.”

Boromir is alone. Utterly alone.

Five Corsairs descend on him, and Boromir swings, hacking through two and ducking a third blow. This is easy. This is nothing. All the training is now natural, and Boromir is only an extension of his blade.

Until he isn’t.

Until there are far too many to fend off.

He lifts to swing again, but there is resistance in the swing. A pinch that becomes a sting and then bright, blinding pain.

Boromir glances down.

Impaled.

The Corsair holding the sword that sticks from his side grins wickedly before yanking it out.

Red comes with. Surprisingly dark.

The world spins. Boromir lands on his knees, and then all he sees above him is the grey sky.

“Take the armor. Then toss them all in the river.”

Reader

“I know. I know. Quit chiming. Giving me a headache.”

The bell does not cease. It continues to ring—loud and sharp in the small room.

That is its one job. It’s singular purpose. Your father designed it to be so.

The string that connects to the bell runs along a small tube in the ground which leads out to the fishing nets by the dock. Whenever the weight shifts past a certain amount, the bell will ring, indicating that it’s ready to be checked.

Depending on weight, the bell will give a soft chime or a loud one.

Right now, it’s loud. Angry.

And your father isn't here. He's been called away to serve in Gondor's navy. It's just you keeping it together.

When it was just the two of you, the amount of work didn’t seem so bad, but now that it’s just you, checking the nets consistently simply isn’t possible. It takes up too much time in your day, and hauling them up is a two-person job.

But with the bell ringing like it is, you’re going to have to check, even if you know it’ll take up far too much time.

Pushing your hair back and out of your face, you put on a fresh dress for the day. It’s simple. Meant to get dirty from garden work and wet from checking the nets. Grabbing your apron off the back of a chair, you tie it around your waist, exiting into the garden.

Opening the coop first to allow the chickens out, you then pop your head into the small barn.

“Hello, Daisy,” you coo, rubbing the cow’s side. She replies with a soft croon of contentment.

The two pigs snort in your direction but remain where they are. The sheep attempt to stick their heads through the wood slats to reach you.

“Behave,” you scold, pushing Tulip’s head back into the pen. “You’ll get stuck again and I’m not spending my day removing the boards to free you.”

Tulip baas a sharp reply.

Even in the barn you can still hear the bell from inside the house.

It’s misty out. A bit chilly.

The animals need space. They need to walk around and graze, but with the weather like it is, they might prefer to stay inside. Lightly chewing on the inside of your cheek, you decide to open the pens.

“Have at it,” you mutter, knowing you might regret this later when you try to round everyone up.

Following the stone path to the river, you gaze out across the landscape. There are dark clouds in the distance. At first, you think them storm clouds, but they appear far too dark for that.

Everything is odd now. There are whispers. Rumors of a spreading darkness.

But you are completely isolated. You are near no villages or settlements for a league or two at least. Whatever you have heard, it’s from passing travelers on the roads to said villages. When your father was called up, he didn’t know until he took a trip to town. They sent no one to fetch him, and the summons had come months ago.

“Strange,” you murmur, frowning at the dark spot in the sky.

Heading for the lever to raise the fishing nets, you sigh heavily, not wanting to do this at all. This is the part you hate the most. It takes an extreme amount of upper body strength, which is why it is a two-person endeavor.

Without your father to help you, you have to put your full weight behind each downward push.

Wrapping your fingers around the handle of the lever, you go up on your toes, and then allow your body to naturally fall downward, using your weight to crank it.

Everything moves. Turns. Creaks loudly.

You repeat the process until you’re sweating and the coolness of the air no longer kisses your skin with a chill.

Eventually the net begins to rise. Sticks and twigs and dead leaves appear. Not unusual, but there is typically movement in the water at this point. The fish don’t want to be dragged to the surface. They will flop about, the water around them churning with their wiggling bodies.

But there is nothing.

Not—no.

Not fish. Something…else.

Pausing, you step closer to the edge. Falling to your knees, you reach down into the water and push leaves and sticks out the way to get a better lock.

“Uinen’s tears!” you exclaim, jumping back.

It’s a man.

There is a man in your net.

Frantically, you reach out. Using the water’s natural buoyancy, you turn the man over. He is pale, and twisted in the twigs, hair a dark fan around him.

There are no fish. Just him.

With an urgency you didn't possess before, you go back to the lever, heaving yourself against it over and over again until your feel the wood biting into your skin. Once the net is high enough, you unclasp the lock, pushing forward, the net swinging toward you as it comes to hover over the dock.

You reengage the lock, and then the net settles, expanding outward to rest against the wood, opening wide to reveal everything inside.

The man tumbles out. Unresponsive.

Falling to your knees next to him, you push his wet hair of his face. Fingers pressing to his throat, you pray that you will find live beneath them.

There is nothing. Only silence. Not even a flutter.

As you reach up to remove twigs and leaves from his hair, there is a soft brush of breath against the inside of your wrist. Pausing, you bring your hand back, hovering your palm above his mouth.

Waiting.

Nothing.

And then—

It comes again. Soft, but there.

He is alive. This stranger is alive.

With both hands pressed to his chest, you shove down, over and over again. His body convulses, and you dart backward, turning him on his side and he purges brackish water from his lungs.

Coughing, the stranger groans, and you rub his back in an attempt to soothe him. He leans forward a bit, one hand pressed into the wet wood beneath him, cheek firmly squished against the dock.

He’s wearing nothing but plain pants and a tunic. He does not wear boots. Not even socks. From what you can tell, there is nothing that identifies him as belonging to any one person or place.

A stranger in your net.

An unexpected catch.

The stranger takes in big gulps of air, eyes still closed. His hand shakes slightly before he pushes himself onto his back. That is when his eyelids start to open, and you lean over him.

You don’t dare touch him.

“Do I behold an angel?”

You blink, stunned. “A—what?”

Eyelids fluttering, the stranger slips back into unconsciousness.

“Wake up,” you plead, grasping the sides of his face, checking for awareness. “Please.”

His breathing is even, but he’s out again.

Releasing the sides of his face, you survey the rest of him. His clothes are completely soaked, clinging to his skin. They reveal a muscled body beneath. But that isn’t all. On the stranger’s left side, there is a large dark spot in the fabric, and a small tear.

Slowly, you pull it up.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

The wound in his stomach is red and swollen. It’s bad, but might not yet be fatal. You’ve seen far worse. Helped heal worse. A wound like this will take time though.

While part of you wants to understand who this man is, it’s far from the most important thing.

“How am I to carry you?” you ask, as if he can answer.

If he were conscious, the stranger could help. But the man is out cold, and no matter how you try to rouse him, he won’t wake.

You don't want to drag him but you can't carry him.

“Oh, Uinen. Help me.”

Not that you expect an answer. You have to do this on your own.

Leaving the stranger on the dock, you rush back to the house. Grabbing a sturdy blanket, you head for the barn, bridling the horse, and attaching the contraption your father built for towing large objects.

Returning to the stranger, you do your best to push him onto the blanket. You half yank, half roll him onto the blanket before tying everything up.

“All right, Bessie. Forward now. Slowly. That’s it. Good girl.”

Bessie begins her ascent up the path. With the incline and oddly placed stones, she takes it slow, and you stay behind her, taking care to protect the stranger’s head. The process is slow, and takes up precious time, but Bessie makes it to the top.

From there, you guide her as close to the door as possible. Pushing the door wide, you return and detaching the makeshift sling. Bessie is too big to fit into the house, and this is the part where you have to drag the stranger into the house.

At least the blasted bell isn’t ringing anymore.

Your bed is too small. Choosing your father’s, you change course, dragging the stranger into your father’s bedroom.

You bring the stranger to a rest next to the bed. Taking a deep breath, you hook your arms underneath his armpits, and attempt to lift.

You fall right on your butt.

“Angel,” murmurs the stranger.

Leaning to the side, you gently cup his cheek. The stranger’s eyes are slightly open, awareness returning.

“I can’t lift you on my own,” you murmur, unsure if he’ll understand.

But he does.

The stranger nods. He’s a little out of it, but he assists in draping his arm over your shoulders, shifting his weight as you lift his upper half off the ground.

Groaning, you manage to get him partially onto the bed. Grabbing his feet next, you lift his legs, and then he’s in.

The stranger sighs, then winces, eyelids closing yet again.

His clothes will need to be removed and changed. Skin will need to be cleansed and any wounds checked over. The one in his side will likely need to be stitched closed. You’ll need blankets. A fire to keep him warm.

Already, he shivers.

Are there people looking for him? People searching? Or is he utterly alone? No family to speak of.

Lightly, your fingers brush the edge of his hairline. His hair is starting to dry. Small patches have turned auburn. It’s a lovely color.

“Whoever you are,” you murmur. “Wherever you come from. I’ll make sure you return.”