#Must. Paint. Dirt...

[executables-sims]

Cemetary ponds redux; lost in 2018, rebuilt in 2022, and still being procrastinated on well into 2024!

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

~~ Maul Week 2024 Day 3: Dathomir & Nightbrothers + Alt Prompt: Dolby 1998~~

Contrary to expectation, Maul has always had a complex relationship with light.

Green light, when he was young, was something forbidden. Nightsisters could use the gift, making magick at their whim, exploring the world around them with ever stronger, more creative abilities. Maul was a boy. Nightmagick was not for boys. The green mist that could heal or harm was denied him, and so like any stubborn child scorned, he decided he did not want it anyway.

When Sidious took him away to the gloom of Mustafar, that was not so bad, but then came visits to Naboo, where his master was an important political figure. Naboo had a bright yellow sun that hurt his eyes, and gave him headaches. Unfortunately, stars came in lots of colors, but most of them were just as terrible. White? Blue? Yellow? He squinted everywhere he went for years, wishing for something more like the soft red light of his homeland.

Years on Orsis, with its bright sun, were spent trying to find shady, quiet places to do his homework. It was no surprise that one of the few other students who preferred low light -usually of the deep ocean- was his most frequent companion. There were no other nightbrothers or dathomirians on Orsis. Kilindi was as close as he came to someone who understood.

His relationship with light only became more complex with time.

As a teenager, he grew to love nothing more than running through the forms of juyo, his lightsaber in hand. When everything else was difficult, swordforms were always there to lose himself in, his burning red blade a luminous blur around him. Nightbrothers trained, every day. They enjoyed it. This was normal for his kind. It felt nice to be very good at something. Maul thrived with a blade of light in his hand.

As an adult, he was also maimed by a lightsaber, though even that could not steal what juyo meant to him.

Then came the darkest days, ironically on a planet with a sky so dulled by pollution that he did not have to squint. The sunlight of Lotho Minor was a weak orangey color, every hour of every day. The closest thing he'd seen to Domir's red hue. He lived with that as some small comfort, until his brother came with a glowing amulet to take him home. He hid on Savage's ship even after they landed, convinced they had only gone in a circle and he was still trapped on the trash world... until the Nightmother lured him out with a will 'o whisp spell.

Returned to Dathomir, the green light of nightmagick was used to heal him. Put back the broken pieces of his psyche, into something a little more like stained glass than a single frame, but still a good deal functional than it was before.

The story doesn't end there, it doesn't even end when he dies the first time, but you get the picture. Darth Maul, despite his darkness, had just as much -if not more- of a relationship with light than anyone else in the galaxy.

[wingedfuncomputer]

The Outskirs of Town

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: Living far from town with a father who treats you more like a maid instead of a daughter proves itself exhausting. Secluded like a bird in a cage, a boring cycle life becomes until a random man shows up one night striking up an innocent deal. In name of your chicken coop you accept letting him in. Though as time passes & whispers of violence roughing a sweet couple up around town has you rethinking this weird relationship you have created with the Irish stranger who seemed to come out of thin air.

WarningsNSFW: slow-burnish, naive!reader, if you squint fluff, racist undertones, racism, reader has a mean father, manipulative! Remmick, blood, dub-con, fingering, oral (fem!receiving), corruption kink?, somnophilia, No actual P in V, violence, vampirism, death!, nightmares, injury!, biting, Angst, spit, !reader is not black due to family dynamic

Word count: 14.6k Fic playlist!

From a far his eyes locked on her. Right as the sun set tending the little chickens, ushering them into the coop. Softly, she tried her hardest to close the door as if not wanting to scare them. A regular passer by wouldn't glance an eye she was a normal little thing, but not to him, not to Remmick.

It was primal how he always found himself being dragged back to her every time the sun decided to hide behind the horizon. Her sweat, her skin, her pulsing blood enticed him as if he'd known her before. She was too sweet to ravish like all those ol' people he had left a mess of before. He let himself get enveloped in the idea that his human mind,what little of it remained had.Affection. With that utterly disgusting revelation he decided to knock on her door to put an end to the feeling once and for all. Heavy, knuckles contacting the chipping paint of the wood.

You had been sweeping the floor when you heard a noise coming from the front door. A little startled you had halted confused by who would be visiting your father so late at night. Most people weren't out after sun down. "The floors ain't gon' sweep themselves keep at it girl". His gruffy voice made you grip the wooden stick tighter negating the fact it caused splinters to get stuck to your skin. It was old, long due to be thrown away but your voice was nonexistent in this house. With a small creak a hesitant humble very male voice spoke, "good afternoon... sir". You whipped your head around intrigued but found your father's body blocking the man behind the door. "State your business". He had never learnt kindness, it was a foreign thing to him. "I'm just a lowly traveler going on by, was wonderin' if you could offer some hospitality". A huff emitted from your father as the man continued. "My wife she's no longer with us.. I must find myself across the state but the sun is beating and unforgiving". Your heart ached for him, he sounded defeated. Your father surely would say mean ol' things to him and get violent. But suprisingly he laughed barking your name then orders at you, "fetch this man a cup of water". Only for a split second when he turned were you able to capture a glimpse, the man already looking directly at you. His features resembled your father's, except for his frame he looked thinner his face covered in what seemed to be a mix of dirt and sweat. You nod and quickly keep your eyes down. Whilst you grab a tin cup and fill it with water by the sink you hear the small hushing of their conversation asking where he was headed to and why. Your steps are weary making sure you don't spill the water.

"The Catholics did a number on my people kindness is hard to come by. Could you let me in don't want to bother the young lady ?" His first comment is what makes your father's demeanor change, you see it from a few feet away as his back tenses. He ignores the man's request, "Where you from boy?". Once only a few inches away you decide to lay down the cup by a piece of furniture near by. Eyes creeping behind your father's shoulders it was obvious to see the man was not a boy. There's a glint of a smirk in the strangers lips as he glances at you, "Ireland". That's when your heart drops, with poison your father spits "get your filthy Irish ass off my f*cking property". 

"I don't mean no disrespect, I'd still appreciate that water" he takes a step forward which makes your father push him. You yelp afraid they'd have a full brawl and the innocent man would end up in his grave. "You won't get nothin' here ! Leave my property". Your hands goes up to your fathers arm as you can see his anger exalted, his fist itching to make contact with the Irish man's face. "Father please..." his face full of anger weighs in on yours before shoving your hand away and instead drags you inside once more. "It's best if you learn to keep away from men like that ." He speaks as if the man wasn't there, you can't help but take a look once more offering a look of apology.

That whole night you couldn't bring yourself to sleep tossing and turning, imagining what that poor man was going through. You didn't hear about him the following day or day after that until you found yourself reluctantly putting yet another dead bird into a sack. They were being ripped to shreds, you made sure the coop was secured each night so what could be killing them? It was sundown, the night air hitting your skin in a way that made your hairs stick up. " 'coyote... or fox" your body jolts hearing someone break the silent spell in the air. Immediately letting the bag fall and taking steps back as you twist to see who the voice belonged to. "Apologies I didn't mean to scare ya". It was hard to see in the darkness but the moonlight along with your small lamp on the ground allowed you to see enough to say, "your the man from a few days ago". He was standing behind the fence that surrounded your chicken coop. "Guilty as charged" you couldn't help but laugh along with him. "I'm Remmick" he extends his hand towards you which you can only just stare at. It would've been appropriate to say your name and envelope his hand but you don't. Remmick. "My Irish hands too dirty" he murmurs to himself which makes you start to ramble in apologies insuring his heritage nothing to do with your lack of a response. " of course not It's just that, no offense sir your a- your a...." Your stuttering makes heat flood your cheeks. "A stranger?" He says it so casually no anger laced in between his words just light heartedness. You both stare at each other in an awkward pregnant pause before you find the courage to nod. Guilt weighs in your soul after reflecting "I'm truly ashamed about what happened last time... that is no way to be treated". He just smiles a little huff of air being exhaled as he leaned into the fence, "it happens more than you know darlin' nothin' personal". His deep voice grumbles nicely when he calls you by that little pet name making your stomach flutter. It must've been as clear as the night sky you weren't allowed around men often let alone other people.

Remmick seems intrigued by you growing quiet, tilting his head to the side as he quirks , "the way across the state ain't an easy one.. staying around these parts is easier. would help if I had a place to rest... ". You would offer him your home in a heartbeat but you knew how your pops wasn't fond of him, let alone yourself. He could barely tolerate you. The strangers eyes are trained on your every twitch, chest constricting and trembling hands playing with the loose fabric of your skirt. It was quite nice really it felt like you were a lil' rabbit troubled by your surroundings. Yet You were unaware that the greatest danger wasn't your father, no not your father. It was the devil himself looming over you in this instant.

He smacks his lips making you look back at him once more. His pointer finger is near his mouth faking thought, "well I might just got a deal that could work for both 'f us". Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you still hear the poor man out. "I can help ya with the lil' chicken problem... in exchange I get a piece of shelter". His eyes nudge at the forgotten sack beneath you then trail up your frame to your face. Your teeth grind trying to thinking If he helped manage the death of these chickens father would probably lay off my back, let me go back out in town for food or what not for he farm.

"So what da ya, say? You gon' let me in?"

You still hear it even after many days of accepting. The way his finger nail clicked on the fence doors metal handle, his words not menacing or inviting just there looming behind your brain and the stillness that overtook the night. He was your secret, like a little frog you hid beneath your bed covers from your father when you were younger. Except he took cover in the coop with the chickens and he was no frog... just a man with everything he'd lost weighing on top of his shoulders. And like those slimy little animals you gave him food and water usually late at night when your father wouldn't suspect a thing, not that he cared much for your safety.

The arrangement went well the chicken massacre was over in just short of days. You were given permission to go back in town and here you found yourself in the shop owned by colored folk. Your pops would be yelling at you through the top of his lungs but he wasn't here who would scold you then? He couldn't tell the difference between the white peoples and the not so white peoples food. It was all the same. You got a few stares here and there but didn't pay much mind your eyes were encapsulated by a nice pocket watch. Not too big to cost lots of money but still a good size your sure Remmick would benefit from this for his travels. "Well well don't tell me the fine lady got a man now?" You clutch the fine piece of metal in your hands but relax once you realize it's Genevieve a worker of the shop you've grown fond of. You shake your head trying to fight the blush surging on your face, "oh no nothin' of the sort just for a friend!". Her arms cross in front of her chest giving you that look of suspicion. "That's how it starts then next thing ya' know you'll be popping those babies out like a damn industrial machine". She speaks with a reminiscent tone. She was a mother of a new born with a doting husband they didn’t have much they were all she ever needed.You can't help but stifle your giggle, the idea of being that way with the Irish man hiding in your barn seeming much too far. Not that it hadn't cross your mind you were just a woman after all and he was a handsome man. "I barely even know him, just a  few days n' countin". Her eyes widen with a smirk, "so there is someone!". You both walk towards the register that seemed to be isolated from the other part of the establishment. "He must be real handsome to be worth all this money. A real dream," she says sarcastically while she has the watch in her hand. You lay the rest of your groceries on the isle next to the register. It was pretty but out of your tax bracket maybe not your fathers but You're sure he'd notice right away on your big spending when the plentiful groceries were baren when you'd bring them back. "...your right, I'm dreamin' far too big " you let out self deprecatingly

"Aint nothin' wrong with dreamin' big, though I have to admit this gift is more of a husband typa gift. Unless... he be your husband?". "No...". She can see you grow a bit ashamed so she puts the watch back in a secure place before she brings out a straw cowboy hat. "You don't see these round here much, but very good for hard workin' men. Keep the sun out their face n' everythin'. Less than the watch... I'll even give ya a deal". If Remmick was traveling by foot your sure the sun would be unforgiving, could be easier to disguise the buy for yourself. Pops wouldn't bat an eye. "You make a good bargain I can't resist Genevieve".  Well most bargains you fell victim to. As you pay for your  things she puts the food in your home bag and places the hat a bit too big for your size on your head, flicking the edge. "Now go tell your man he'll have to make you a wife after this gift" you both laugh as you start walking away until her voice calls out to you right as your a few inches from the door. Turning around she gives you a tight hug which you try your best to return, "stay safe alright people goin' missing round here don't be one of 'em".

Her voice was soft and dripping with concern you thought about her warning as you walked back home. Still an hour or two till sun down which meant your father would be home soon. So quickly you got to cookin' dinner, a potato soup with corn on the side. Not the most cohesive plate but enough to fill the stomach up. With a rumble of an engine coming to a halt you knew he was home. Not so long after dragged in your father with no words exchanged sitting down to eat, you joined him in silence. Your heart was palpating as the sun finally set, in excitement of being able to see Remmick and giving him the hat you had bought him currently tucked away in your room. "Serve me 'nother plate" gruff cut and dry. "Yes sir" you got up going to the too small to even be considered pot with his bowl serving him more. As you placed it on the table there was no gratitude so you went back to your own bowl which you ate slowly. Once he was finished he left his plate deserted going upstairs to the washroom, the trickling of water alerted you to pass by the same room he was in to grab his clothes. The cold bucket of water outside was a perfect contrast to the slight humidity in the air. You tugged the large pants and shirt against the makeshift slab of wood and metal that helped scrape the clothes new. Even with the hair tie a few pieces of hair got in front of your face which you tried your best to shoulder out of the way. Maybe one day you'd run far from these grounds and start living not just slaving away doing chores. You squish the clothes riding them of the water extending them before laying them up in the clotheslines. With a deep breath you take a chance to intake the sweet oxygen. the small sweat building up proving the job was just a bit harder than it seemed

He was watching from the darkness in the trees, the adrenaline once fresh in his veins now soothing and left nothing but a linger. It became a ritual he could never get enough of. Having kept you alive was fun. Not something that only lasted a few minutes but could be dragged on for as long as he liked. He was the reason you were standing there right now tired from your chores. Your pulse seeming to call him like some sort of siren in the ocean. His feet silent beneath the summer grass.

You pondered of what Genevieve had said earlier about the towns folk going missing. The hollowness in the air along with the hanged clothes obstructing your view of the forest surrounding your house urged you to go back inside. With a quick turn you didn't expect for Remmick to be at your side. Automatically you slapped your hands over your mouth successfully hiding your yelp. "You gotta stop doin that!" You try your best to whisper. His creeping was perfect no evidence of sounds being heard as if he were some sort of ghost, maybe a warlock with witchcraft tricks. He tries his hardest to bury his small laugh inside the depthless of his chest throwing his hands up in surrender noticing your frustration. "Ya must know I can't help myself doll". You notice the sweat buildup on his forehead and the little dirt on his face. Swiftly you take the cloth wrapped around your waist dipping it in the clean water remaining then stepped closer to him, wiping it across his skin. "I know you can't seem to keep yourself clean either" you expected him to sass back but instead he just stares adoringly at you as you finish up focusing on his sweaty bangs.  "Why would I? It'll probably be the only time you put your hands on me willingly, I'm trynna cherish it". his hand lifts up to your face caressing your cheek lightly before tucking that stray hair behind your ear. "That's not true.." your words died with his touch. His fingers on your skin make your heart skip a beat, body freeze and your throat run dry. He was being a flirt purposefully. Right? I mean he was usually this way just never so straight forward and touchy. As if knowing you were having a revelation he can't help but tilt his head and let his eyebrows raise.

"-your soup" you blurt out retracting your hand. Trying to unakwardfy the moment you clear your throat as you slowly walk away, "I'll bring you your soup, you must be real hungry n' I don't wanna make it grow colder". You don't give him enough time to respond shutting the door behind you, back pressed against the firm wood. Your hands come up to your chest, finally letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. Uncertainty was growing in your head along with the small tingles that ran through your back from being do close to him .... Being able to see every pore, feel his touch his eyes and lips you'd bet he'd kissed many women in his life and you knew they had enjoyed it...how would it feel- enough! You push yourself off the door and get to pouring Remmick a bowl in a hastily manner. Your father's weight creaks under the wood floors but he pays you no mind instead goin' to sit on the small couch with his radio and newspaper in hand. The small grumbling of the static of voices was oddly comforting allowing you to carefully wrap a piece of corn on the cob around a rag. Before going outside you go upstairs to your room scouring for your knitted cardigan. It was a pretty shade of dirt brown with little specs of beige. As you slipped it on your eyes catch a glimpse of the cowboy hat you picked out for the ol' Irish man but decided against removing it from the edge of your bed. He’s just a stranger the voice in your head reminded you.

By the time you go outside once more you expect him to be waiting for you, in that same stance resting against the fence you've grown fond of but to no surprise it seemed he'd gone into the chicken coop early. You weren't sure why it made your heart weigh down on your chest. Though disappointed you don't let yourself fret, placing the bowl and corn right ontop the fence knowing he'd come out whenever possible. Maybe you should knock never know what if he just forgot. Your knuckles softly tapped on the wood not the one that belonged to the chicken coop but the fence. It wasn't to signal for him it was to merely trying to build courage for yourself to actually do so. Ultimately though you retreated back into your home.

Had he taken your abrupt leave as rejection? Was he bothered? Worse what if he no longer wanted to speak to you! Were the thoughts plaguing your mind throughout the day after. Juvenile ones you were ashamed to admit. "Tell me I'm a fool. Tell me I'm doomed please Genevieve" you whined to the woman you always came to bother. She was just a few years older but there was a certain maturity to her you loved like a mother. "Who's not when it comes to love, though I'd push back on the doomed.". "I wouldn't even say love, he's a complete stranger not even from here..". She halts the clothes she was folding completely, turning to look at you, "ya said he was your friend what do ya mean complete stranger n' not from 'round here ? ". It was stern as if the little small details you had mentioned about his appearance, sweet gestures and his "nightly visits" held no validity now. "Well he's not exactly my friend I've known for ages that's why I said stranger". But your poor excuse of a lie didn't faze her, immediately you cracked. "Alright I lied! I only know this man for a little less than 2 weeks he was just so sweet n' needed help but my papa don't like him so he's been staying in the coop where I keep all my chickens!". It was as if she was the one trying to catch her breath at your confession. "Before ya judge he's a very honorable man, he ain't do nothin' weird yet he helps keep the predators away from my small feathered friends n' I just provide him food, water ya know the basic necessities-" That's how you start telling her the whole story from start to finish of how that night when you met went down. All the nitty gritty and the pointless details.

"Oh child may the lord bless ya heart". You were unsure on how to react to her words, an akward smile hanging on your lips. "Is that meant in a good way or-?"  She cuts you off before you can finish. "What in the world ya thinking'! You must wanna visit your grave early girl". You try to scratch the nervousness away behind your neck as you dash your eyes around the store. "It's not as bad as it seems Gene I swear".  "Let me get this straight a man who came begging at your door, which your father kicked out, is now living in your barn house because he caught you late at night offered to help you protect your chickens so now your bending over backwards for him?". Even though you're afraid to you just nod. She sighs deeply, "I swear with the crimes appearin' round town I'd wish you'd be more careful". There's real sincerity in her voice which makes your tone turn a bit defensive. "I live on the outskirts news like that don't reach me so easily..". Theres a bit of silence in the air to make the gears in your head turn. "what exactly happened anyway?"

" some lady n' her husband near the outskirts aswell, don't know exactly where she lives.. or lived. No sign left of 'em  just blood n' their baby. Many said it was a Horrible horrible sight wouldn't wish it on anybody" your body can't help but let out a small tinge of sweat afraid of exactly what fate the babe had met . "So are both of 'em alive?". "No one knows.. as I said lots of blood but yet no bodies" there was a linger of thick air between the both of you, unspoken yet very heavy. "Should probably get home then, I'll keep myself safe". You both said your goodbyes and off you were right as the sun met the edge of the horizon. The walk back had been nothing but peaceful, a weird ambiance of sorts seeming to loom, even the quiet of the house had grown intimidating. Though rinse repeat of the previous days as you made dinner and your father came in the door, eating then leaving you be busied you away such thoughts. While your pops went to sleep earlier, you on the other hand find your place outside once more leavin' Remmicks food out on top the fence like you always did. You were collecting the hens eggs when you noticed the grid near the top of their little home was slowly but surely ripping off. While you stood up to inspect the spot you caught glimpse of Remmick far away walking towards you. You lift a hand up and he does as-well It makes you notice something wrapped around his back. Throughout his stay he would busy himself in the day, you never pushed yourself to ask. You didn't think it would be quite appropriate to know his day schedule, he never asked yours... well not that he had to ask, you always told him the night before.

"Busying yourself with the hens now are ya". You smile at his introduction to starting a conversation. He joined you inside the fenced perimeter. After just a day or two you had grown to miss his voice. "You may protect 'em but I still gotta clean 'em n'  their small home aswell. What's that you got?" You can't help but let your curiosity get the best of you especially when it came to something that looks like an instrument. He swiftly tilts whatever he has around so what looked like a guitar is now In front of him. With a small lean towards you he professes as if he were about to tell you something sacred, "this ol' thing is called a banjo, keeps me company late at night". Your eyes light up, repeating the instruments name in your head and the fact he hadn't lost his spark from a few days prior. Pops never allowed these kinda things here he told you a home was meant for quiet not to be filled with loud yapping and music. "Well you must play somethin' for me now". His fingers tap the edge of the banjo eyes locked onto yours before his voice grows husky. " beg real nicely n' I might just do it" your breath hitches at his words, eyes trailing down to where he was slowly rubbing small circles on the surface of the banjo. This minuscule action had you in a trance. What was he doing to you? What was this you were feeling growing deep in your bones at the depthness of your belly?

You did end up asking him, begging so sweetly he just couldn't resist to let you hear him play . A sweet tune you can't even remember the rhythm to, or his humming he offered. The only thing you were able to remember was the way his fingers strummed softly as you lay in bed. It was the last thing on your mind before the night gently coaxed you to sleep.

It was a fever that overtook your senses as you shifted back and forth in bed, sweat accumulating on your neck and forehead. An unexplainable throb growing between your legs while something wet slithered between yourself like the slits of a book. A plunge invading your most intimate part made you cry, head thrown back as your hips and hands tried to wrestle with this new feeling. It felt sinful, violating, a light sting causing pain, yet addicting. You didn't want it to stop, you didn't want the attack on your folds to end. A rumble, like a laugh made vibrations, shocks travel through your cunt inching that tightness in your stomach close to absolute destruction. You didn't want whatever was happening to stop. That's when you looked down, hands digging into a full set of sweaty hair, pulling to at least reveal the object of your greatest pleasure. Those ice cold eyes, toothy grin with a peculiar fang, his nose bridge. "Beg real nicely f’ me " he hushed his fingers still working overtime. But that's all you needed the puff of hot air on the place he had just been feasting right over your pearl. His eyes never leaving yours. Your moans grow, his name dying on your lips as all you can let out is strings of abnormal sounds as you feel your peak finally falling over.

A loud bang immediately has you sitting straight up in your small bed. "Sleepin' in is for the f*cking birds. Are you a bird?" You rub your eyes, still dazed from what your mind had just made you experience. Yet you know better than prioritizing regaining yourself quickly you groggily speak, "no.. no, I'm not sir". "Right your not so get your ass out the bed and start cleanin'!"  He mumbles out strings of insults as he finally leaves the confines of your room. From the way the sun is blaring you were sure it was closer to noon than your regular wake up time.

You do what he orders ignoring the wetness between your thighs. He leaves and you were sure he wouldn't come back till next morning or next days midnight. He always had the habit of leavin' when the weekend came. Who knows where, all you knew is when he'd come back he'd be drunk out his mind n' rage enough to feed a whole herd of cows with his hands... you find yourself with infinite amount of free time finishing with cleaning the whole house in records time. So you sit near a window gazing at the sunlight, the birds, grass and faint butterflies here n there. It was quite odd really you had never gone past the perimeters of your house grounds only sticking to your home, the trail leading to the town and the town itself. The woods surrounding your home were quite dark, the trees even from where you were sitting seemed to have claws for twigs, all sorts of poisonous plants were just a few distance away and the wild animals.. the ones who had killed 1/4 of your chickens. All danger, you didn't have to put yourself in front of. The chickens invaded your view making you realize you hadn't treated the hens to a proper clean. With a small groan you lift yourself off the window ledge grabbing the cowboy hat you had bought a few days ago. You still hadn't found the courage to give it to him, even though a bit loose around your head it had really proved itself useful with blocking out the sun just as Gene had promised. Especially like now that you were grabbing buckets of water back n' forth, cleaning with rags the outside of the house along with the old broom. Even with the shade created on your face it didn't stop the relentless rays from causing unexplainable heat.

"That darn metal wire" you huff out, mouth dry. When you had believed to be done you took notice of the even wired fence on the top of the hens coop looking in worse condition than before. Did I not take care of this? Before your anger can get the best out of you, shame takes over it instead trickling in big waves. Remmick and his banjo... that's what got me distracted.  You bite your lip scouring for pliers your father kept in a tool box near the coop. The sun was going down soon you told yourself you could catch a drink after you finish this last job. You have to really force your eyes to focus when extending yourself to try and reach the metallic fence. I won't replace it completely just wrap it around itself to keep any unwanted creatures out. Then I'll rest..

Your hands start to shake a bit and your calf's hurt due to you being on your tiptoes. Focus it's not that hard. Successfully you close 3 out of 4 wires needing one left. But then you hear a snap then a sharp sting running down your finger. You hiss in response and let the pliers go abruptly, which causes them to land on your foot. The overwhelming situation makes your breath lose evenness not helping the fight of lack of oxygen your lungs had already been dealing with. Your vision stars to be invaded by growing black splotches. "Sit.. I've gotta, do that..." so you do, hand tightly wrapped around your thumb both covered in that red essence. The sight of your not so little cut makes you grow even more light headed. Before you can even protest the darkness envelops you, too weak to even fight it your eyes gently flutter shut.

You feel it before seeing it. There's a huge pounding in your head that forces your lids to be no more than one centimeter open and a throb. Not a painful one, no one that expresses want on the southern side of your body. It's familiar, like the feeling you had freshly in the morning except unlike in your dream you clench on nothing. Only tingles you can grasp onto but it doesn't create satisfaction. what makes you drift your dazed eyes downward is the pressure felt on your thumb. It was hard to focus, everything was a blur you just catch the sound of wetness. Something holding your hand, it was draining you not just emotionally but physically. Subconsciously you moan it's soft and covered in the many layers of your throat yet this makes whatever is beneath you stop. As it looks up your corneas put in the work even if it's for just a split second. You see the silhouette of a man, unrecognizable with bright red eyes, mouth lightly covered in your dark essence and sharp teeth. It was human n' monster combined n' it was staring straight at you. Your system was beyond exhausted shutting you forcefully down again.

Your left in darkness for a while till you start stirring awake, something cold running across your forehead. "C'mon gotta see you wake up" that voice delights your soul a light murmur of his name under your breath. It earns you a warm grumbly laugh from the depths of his chest, "the one n' only darlin" . You identify the object pressing against your cheek as his hand you can't help but lean into it. Though you did not find absolute warmth you still enjoyed it. He brings a small cup up to your lips urging you to drink which you do. Your dry throat rejoices in the new source of water to quench your thirst. The slight flex to your hand which alerts you of a slight sting sends flashes of faux memories through your brain. The animal the thing sucking your hand or your thumb whatever it had been made you involuntarily jolt subsequently some water spilling on you from the cup. "Sorry, sorry" you quickly say between breaths your low energy not equipping fast reflexes. He quickly puts the cup down comforting you by rubbing his hands down the side of your shoulders. "Are you alright what happened?" You try to cough to hide the embarrassing way your voice wobbled. "I'm good 'just- I'm skittish remember?" You try to laugh it off but you can tell he doesn't buy it. He plays along though. This moment of silence allows you to completely regain your senses to see you were still outside, next to the coop in the last position you remember being in.

"I wrapped your thumb real good, shouldn't bleed no more ... what happened to ya? I swear when I walked up I thought ya were just bein' silly with me" ,you pull your injured hand closer to you at its mention. The pliers not so far from you push you to speak, "I was trynna fix some part of the chicken coop, cut myself, must've lost track of time given I've been out all day in the glazing sun..." the cancerous rays, the heat that seemed to be burning you from inside out. Your healthy hand slaps at your head finding it empty the ground at your sides makes contact with your hand aswell. "Lookin' for this sweet old cowboy hat?" His voice is cocky once you look up you realize why. The straw you bought for was on his head. Fits him perfectly not just around his skull but the way it also frames his face makes you believe it was made specifically for him in mind and he knows this. He can't miss an opportunity to tease,  "Might keep it suits me well, your little brain don't fill it" now it's your turn to not laugh at his attempt to bring light heartedness into the air. You were still disturbed by the weird dream like nightmare you had experienced, adding on your injury aswell both weren't a good combo. Yet even with this you try not to dwell on the way the edges of his mouth tilt downward at your lack of enthusiasm. "That's actually for you.. I was meant to give to ya some time ago 'just was a coward". His mouth does a whole 180 his frown no more instead plastered on is a bashful smile. One that didn't have arrogance, teasing or any ulterior motives behind it. "Well aren't you just the sweetest doll face". You can't help but let the blush roam freely at his praise until that warmth in your belly returns along with a headache. "I should get to bed" as you try to stand a light whince leaves your lips the fact your foot was aching due to the heavy metal pliers that fell on them earlier coming to your attention. Remmick aids you in order to walk out the fence. The chickens were locked in the coop already, his plate of food gone. You don't realize any of this since having your body pressing onto his makes your brain mush.

"I can take it from here, I had just forgot those stupid pliers fell on my foot"  you say as you finally reach the houses back door. He lets you go, "don't forget to clean that wound up tomorrow should help without your pops nagging early mornin'" you laugh and say goodnight the weakness in your bones catching up to you.

The next day right as the sun rises you sit in the kitchen table in silence. A news article from town you had collected left at your door and Alcohol from your father's stash on the table as you stare at the oddly physically pleasant gash infront of you. Something was odd, you've received your own fair share of cuts, scrapes and injuries none of them compared to this one. It was as if where the skin broke was just an illusion, no blood left to clean or seep out just your pink flesh beneath your skin. You shift in your seat recounting the lapping at your finger that sent tingles down to your feet. It was all so weird, you never had vivid dreams like those and you could still feel its presence around you. It's hunger, need to suck you dry... but was it your blood it wanted or your soul? You sound like a kid overanalyzing your nightmares. It was just a nightmare that was all, you told yourself. Plus if any weird animal had been near you Remmick would've of noticed. He would've done something. Would he?

Your brain seems to be enjoying playing devils advocate forcing you to shake your head and stand from the chair in disagreement. Though you connected that the newspaper you had read. 'Couple missing child dead' was who Genevieve must've been talking about. No longer wanting to let your brain to spiral out of control you decide a shower would probably serve you well. So you do just that letting the comforting hands of the water caress your naked body while the wound on your hand isn't affected by the soap. You hum to yourself a tune one you've never heard of before, didn't even know the words to yet your brain simultaneously did. Something so normal you did everyday made you wonder back to the couple from town. 'Bert and Joan' the article of their tragedy had mentioned their names. Were they vigilant knowing something would happen or were they doing their daily tasks like you were right now? They were probably enjoying day until someone decided to make a mess of their lives let alone a baby. Whoever had done that deserved the worst penalty a judge could offer. It sadness your heart too much that you push the subject to the back of your brain. After you brush your hair out and put a new pair of fresh clothes on you decide to take a look at the small box you kept hidden away in your closet. It was your mother's. The only thing you had left of her.

There's few letters you read over too many times to count while growing up, miscellaneous objects and a photograph. It was in black n' white starting to peel right over her face. This photograph had been the only thing that connected you to your mother. now all that was left was a still picture of her beautifully clothed frame and one quarter of her face. Maybe it was for the best, you didn't know much about her and your pops said she just up n' left one day. You still held onto hope. The way she wrote, expressing her emotions just didn't seem to coincide with the woman your father portrayed her to be. What catches your attention though is this book, very dusty n' old. The secrets of the past, your hands trail over the title indented on the cover. Looking at the table of contents it seems to be an explanation book for medicinal recipes, herbs, then towards the end of the book you see "creatures". While trying to flip the pages over to that section you go downstairs. It's past mid day, the sun still strong so you lay down on the couch. With the book in your hand you start reading about wendigos and skin walkers of the sort. Their stalking abilities, ways to manipulate their prey, sharp teeth, their need for human flesh. That specific part was underlined, someone had read this book with passion, little notes on the side, phrases circled. Maybe your mother or a familiar... while you continue your investigation somewhere along the way you knock out. Cold and surrounded by darkness there’s Voices that start to whisper in your ear. They're indescribable except for the way it sounds like they're reciting a prayer. There's no fear just tranquility their hushness proving comforting. You can't relish in it long until they start getting louder a tone of desperation infecting them. Then your name being repeated. You try to move, stir yourself awake but nothing works. Your heart beat rings in your ears taunting you along with their cries, blood curling screams. A voice overtakes all of them in screaming your name.

You sit straight up gasping for air, chest rising and falling dramatically. It felt too real the vibrations of their voices still living deeply inside your ear drums. There's no time left to help yourself focus on calming your tremors down until a knock echos through the living room. Your blood pressure spikes from the sound but you force yourself up. It was dark out making you realize your nap took more than what you believed. The floor creaks underneath your bare feet with every step you take. Once you reach the door you hesitate. What if I'm going insane with stress and you're just hearing things? It was dark out, you were alone with no way to defend yourself... you decide on the next best course of action. Peaking through the medium sized window the door had your fingers pushed the drapes aside eyes coming in contact with a man facing away but you knew that sweaty hair anywhere and the banjo strapped on his back.

Quickly you open the door relieved to see Remmick as he turns around the cowboy hat you'd given him in hand. "Hey sweetheart" but you don't give him a response. He notices your eyes darting left and right the way you fidget with your fingers as if trying to tie a rope. Due to the lack of communication back he speaks again, "you alright 'seem on edge?". You try to brush it off but he moves forward on the little steps located at the front of the door. "I'm here for ya, 'can tell me anythin' ". He was at your doorstep, close to your house something he never did because he was overly cautious of your father catching a glimpse at him. An unspoken rule. "don't forget to clean that wound up tomorrow should help without your pops nagging early mornin'"

"Should help without your pops nagging early mornin'"

"How'd ya know?" You ask before thinking. He's a bit taken back by the out of the context question. "What da ya mean?". "How'd ya know my pops wasn't here?" You can see the warmth in his eyes falter for only a split second subconsciously you stopped leaning towards him. He laughs in your face making you rethink the sudden hostility on your end. "Cars gone, got hurt yesterday with no one to help, he'd done somethin' similar last week? 'Don't know darlin' don't take a genius to figure this one out". You sigh in disappointment at yourself joining him in a chuckle. He was the only one who cared for you, never hurt you, someone you considered a confidant sort of like Genevieve back in town. "Sorry, don't know what's wrong with me   I've just been havin' these nightmares must be the stress.." you rub your temples dragging your hair away from your face. He quiets down his voice more cut dry and for the first time since you met him you heard him sound unsure "What these nightmares about... if you don't mind me askin' ". You look up at him once more eyebrows scrunching trying to recall. "I'm not sure.. uhh monsters, voices or somethin' it's odd" it's not that you didn't want to tell him, you just weren't so sure of it yourself."Well good things they're just nightmares" he hums as he seems to be analyzing you. His gaze made you surprisingly uneasy but this feeling dwindles as he chirps . "There's this place over by the forest, it's where I find myself more often than not ... throughout the day of course. It's real sweet with a stream, nice little area to sit n' sing where the air hits nicely. Would love to share my place of paradise with ya if ya'd want to f'course".

It seemed enticing, intimate, but the crickets in the air and darkness that seeped from the forest haunting the background made you shake your head softly, "sorry.. not today". You had never been one to deny him you were always so eager to please. He forces a smile, "I understand, im a man here asking a lady to take a stroll along the concealed forest alone in the late of the night" you can see him take a few steps down the small flight of stairs. "It's not that Remmick, I really would love to it's just..." you can't find the words, the excuse, because it didn't exist. "... just can't" The last string of events had scrambled your brain like eggs in the morning. You weren't sure what to put faith in. With this rejections you can feel the disappointment In the way his shoulders drop. "It's alright.. I'll be, heading to sleep then, go catch your own z's ". His poor excuse for a laugh following his words was awkward. You should reach out to him, grab his hand before he goes too far for you bare feet could reach. But you never do watching as he settles inside the fence you can only murmur a small "goodnight" that doesn't even reach his ears. the small click back from the door signifies your end of the night as you lock it. You don't glance at the clock just dragging your feet on the floor all the way up to your room. Unlike before where you would just knock your self out with boredom instead you are subjected to torture by your lack of a dormant brain. The inability to succumb to sleep being the perpetrator. You wasn’t insomnia just the fleeting thought of danger being near never leaving, it was like you knew something was bound to happen something terrible, but couldn't pin point exactly when. Your father hadn't come home, the stressful nightmares, remmicks odd behavior or was it yours? This was all too much to digest. You sit up from your bed abruptly standing no longer being able to force your eyes shut to pretend sleep. Hours have already gone by. A glass of warm milk would ease the nerves.

You didn't want to waste anymore time putting a small metal pot over the kitchen stove and fetched the milk pouring no more than a cup and putting the white gallon back in its designated space. With a repetitive tick the flames came to life putting in the work to heat up the milk. You sigh, the nightgown you had on was very weightless, soft and borderline sheer but breathable. It allowed the air from your bedroom fan to save your overheating skin in the night. The sudden feeling of your hairs sticking up from your arms and neck have you holding yourself in a hug. Face darting left and right to find anything to explain the cause but only the endless darkness is to find. You grumble turning off the stove not caring if the milk was treading the fine line between cold and warm. You chug it, big gulps no complains, it wasn't that usual warm feeling that traveled through your intestines just bland mildness. You slam the cup down having to drag your forearm to remove some of the excess. Sleep. Now go to sleep, your bedroom. You take steps to go back, the lights being right before the stairs working in your favor. Once you you hear the click your vision returns to being useless. Mind set on one goal finally catching sleep but a shuffle very soft that could be easily missed if not paying attention makes you freeze in place. There's an urge to turn but you tell yourself to keep going on your way for your own sake. Eyes forward move forward. You don't though, instead you slowly twist your head behind you out of curiosity. It was the same sentiment as being adamant on seeing a spider hiding below your bed instead of living in blissful ignorance and pretending its presence wasn’t there. Except this wasn’t a 8 legged friend. You were seeing eyes glowing back at you as clear as the stars in the night sky. They weren't a beautiful shinny white, odd green or blue like a wild animal.. no a menacing blood red. This should've sent you flying up the stairs but they're hypnotizing persuading you to stay a little longer. It doesn't move making sure you know that it sees you too. With the obscurity of the lack of light you can't make up much apart from its eyes, too far away near a window to even see if the creature was inside the 4 walls of your home or outside. A light breath leaves your soft lips, you could feel the blood rushing in your veins the way your pulse beats. Hesitantly you turn yourself back towards the stairs. This time you do what you told yourself, what you should’ve done in the beginning. Walking up you forbid yourself from looking back, making your way back to your bedroom you finally crawl back into the cold sheets. Your Dazed, staring at the ceiling while pinching your own arm to make sure you weren't in a dream. You were convinced you had officially gone insane. Nightmares are one thing, hallucinations are another. Must be the lack of sleep. You landed on that excuse and finally after a few long dragged minutes you felt the heaviness of your eyelids stars to weigh themselves down. You let it consume you but peace didn't follow.

There's a thud making shuffle but it doesn't sound loud enough to make your eyes open wide. Just squint until inevitably you groan, choosing slumber over worrying. Sleep.

A whisper tingles the shell of your ear . A breeze makes you shiver subconsciously clutching the sheets to keep you warm. That masculine voice around your ear is back again wrapping around your brain like a blanket of safety and security. Something slithers inside your inner thigh, caressing, teasing the supple skin making your breath hitch. It was soft and felt so right. You craved more, opening your body and soul up to the feeling letting it climb up and take as it pleased. No hesitation just need. An offering is what you were, letting it build a home inside, beneath your skin, allowing it the privilege to consume you. And it did, a sharp sting your mind can't even process correctly develops somewhere in your body. A sound comes from your mouth but was it from pleasure or pain?

Your eyes scrunched, a groggy moan ripping from your throat out of frustration. The bright day light hitting your cornea forcing you to wake. Whilst sitting up you crane your neck back and to the side feeling a temporary relief. You shut your eyes, smiling from feeling so free. Even if you were sleep deprived there was some sort of energy helping you feel content. Opening your eyes you pulled the covers off, standing, it isn't till your changing clothes you feel a cold sweat invade your body. While lifting the weightless satin dress you see two bigger than normal bites on your wrist. You could've brushed it off as a bug bite, some spider but you knew that for it to hold validity the spider would've had to been a huge tarantula and craving human flesh or blood. You feel your eyes water, this wasn't caused by a human or animal. So like some afraid child you quickly make haste putting on the necessities skipping brushing your hair and run out of your room ignoring a light stench in the air because your father was of greater concern . It wasn't long till mid day surely he'd be downstairs. "Papa..?" You hesitantly speak once in the living room but only silence greets you. In desperation you go to grab the back door to check outside and you find it unlocked. It was already a weekday today you had forgotten, he was probably at work probably came home and left, that would explain the unlocked door. But he if made it home he would've woke you up early. He hates when you oversleep. There's many thoughts racing in your head as you pace back and forth. You'd just go to the last place you knew he had probably visited, the town.

The roads hug your shoes as you walk by the side walk. As each person passes by you ask if they have seen your father describing him even trying to show them a a picture from home but they all either ignore you or seem far too uninterested. You had wrapped your arm tightly with a bandage to cover your bite which you couldn't help but tug on. It was creating an uncomfortable friction. There was a familiar sign across the street the likes of the people were much kinder there, Genevieve was a great example. But you knew you father wouldn't be caught dead on the other side of the road let alone in a shop full of "foreign useless people". So You go inside the white owned shop instead knowing he'd surely buy his liquor here. While going in you hold the door open for a woman and her child, the child mutters a cute thank you which you try to reciprocate with a 'your welcome' but the mother gives you a nasty look tugging them away.

You stand there at the entrance a bit weary as you finally have to face the many side eyes people were giving you. A particular man stands out who was walking your way, a smile comes up to your lips, rehearsing your lines in your head but he makes contact with your shoulder roughly instead. There's a slight clench of your heart at this, but he goes on as if nothing, paying the cashier for his booze and leaving. Your left there looking stupid and lost. The past days had been miserable leaving you with little will. Should've gone home-should've just waited and stayed home. As you're beating yourself up you don't notice the cashier coming from his side of the counter to you. His kind eyes looking at you snap you out of your thoughts realizing he greeted you, even with a stutter you greet him back. "Is there someway I can help you?". The first person to ask, you try your best to not let your voice wobble, "I- yes.. I'm trynna find my father he's missin' ". He's listening to you muttering out a small, "that's terrible". " it is haven't seen him for days n' I've gotten concerned. But he's usually along these parts of town especially durin' the weekends so I'm sure someone has spoken to or atleast caught sight of him" while your rambling you don't see how he's luring you outside, using the fact you were following him to his advantage. His expression is one of understanding or so you thought, "look I'd really love to help you just can't be bothering the people in there". "I wasn't- that wasn't my intention I.." you realize what he's doing now, feeling the heat of the sun once more. There's a pause in the conversation both of you staring at each other. He simply tilts his head in 'I don't care what you got to say just leave I'm trying to be nice'. Then someone calls out to you from behind with cheerfulness, it isn't till you turn you see finally who it is. "Haven't seen you round' no more how has your chicken coop been?". Her warm voice provides some instant relief from the stress. You allow Genevieve to envelop you in her arms. You even squeeze a little tighter. "Don't come back near my store again or it won't be pretty" the sudden hostile voice of the once delightful cashier leaves you a bit angry but you don't voice it.

"It be best if we go back to mines," she grabs your hand leading you to the other side of the road but you dig your feet in the ground not letting her. Whatever it was inside you or around you it was always following not so behind form your last step. You didn't even know if whatever had bit you was contagious so even with her oh so soothing hand consoling yours you abruptly let go. "I can't.." she turns confused, "what do ya mean you can't?". The top of your teeth catch your bottom lip in a nice grip. For once in your life you wished she wouldn't be so caring so tender and concerned for your well being. "What's wrong?" Yet another question of hers that meets no answer instead you slowly add space even if it's a just a few centimeters. She sees the picture of your father in your hand and the way your eyes were on the brink of tears something was undoubtedly wrong.  "Girl don't be silly with me now n' answer me" she grew loud frustrated with your silence garnering attention from the townsfolk. Your hand fumbles with the edges of the band around your wrist. If she just knew maybe she could help me I wouldn't have to deal with this alone. It happened so fast her hand tugging the cloth , you pulling away in attempt to prevent it from slipping away revealing the two puncture wounds that were now accompanied with purple and yellow hues. You can't help but gasp slapping the skin, covering it with your hand desperately looking around.

Genevieve's eyes were wide a look of disbelief or was it fear overtaking her face? She had heard the murmurs of creatures far beyond the physical realm from her ancestors. When the two people from town went missing it was all the people around her could talk about . The creature with sharp teeth, serpent split tongue Who's diet consisted of consuming human blood.  It seemed far fetched but it was all true and now one of her dearest friends have come in contact with the being and bitten. Under her breath she whispered, "vampire".

You felt exposed like Eve had felt under the gaze of the lord in the garden of Eden; Shame, guilt and Alienation all in one. When you feel the cold tear run down your hot cheek is the moment you start running ignoring the calls for you to stay. The adrenaline pumping from your heart makes you run miles, with no brakes just your legs pushing till they finally make it to the only place that seemed to cause all these problems. Your home, but you don't go inside. Instead you go to your chicken coop wanting to be enveloped in its darkness, the constant patter of the chickens feet simulating a tune and the smell of pleasant must. It reminded you of Remmick. He'd surely come home soon and rid you of your worries, destroy the chaos. You sniffled into your shoulder, cowering like defenseless animal in the corner of the chicken coop. The small gurgles of the chickens offer you an environment to be able to sleep even if it was just pretend. You lose track of time, sun finally setting and wake up when you can't catch a break from the chickens pecking at your skin. The stiff chips of wood stick to your skin but you don't mind releasing them as you stand. With the small creak you stumble outside praying to find your pops car out front and his harsh voice reprimanding you for not having cleaned the house so you could erase the anxiety running rapid through your body as a terrible dream. There's no sight of any of those things though just the lousy cicadas in the night air.

Psst. The noise made you whip around only the darkness present. "Hello?" You speak daringly into the void of the night, heart thumping. "Still gotta work on the not jumping like a little rabbit every time ya'r scared" you can let out the trapped breath in your chest as you see a very care free remmick walk up to you from the outside of your fence. You would've gone to him in an instant if it weren't for the two people behind him. Noticing your hesitance to get closer he experimentally spoke, "brought some friends with me too if you don't mind". They were smiling warmly at you but it felt so empty, their faces reflecting that of the nullified night surrounding them. "Remmick-" you were about to tell him to make them go away, that you just needed a moment alone with him. The whole day you had been waiting. Though picking up on your distress he caught you off guard asking a rhetorical question, "is it the nightmares again?" . You foolishly try to answer "yes but-". "Well your in luck that's why I brought my good ol' couple from in town to try n' cheer ya up" as if on que the 3 of them readied their instruments ignoring your protest and they started playing. It was harmonic very beautiful but to you in this moment it sounded like sharp metal scratching on another metal surface. Undoubtedly Irking your soul. "I picked poor robin clean" the 3 of them sang at the same time but in 3 different tones that came together skillfully. "Picked poor robin clean". You bit your lip in bubbling anger their voices becoming more irritating than their instruments by the second. Certainly you'd explode into a fit of rage, we'll that was until the next line, "picked his head, I picked his feet, I woulda picked his body but it wasn't fit to eat". Their joy, their genuine smirks especially Remmicks when singing those words unnerved you. A jolly tone with odd words that traveled down your spine "oh I picked poor robin clean...

they continue, their words fade out in your head eyes unfocusing as you get sucked into the back of your mind where your thoughts remained. You didn't want to believe it or even consider the very fact that the young couple in-front of you could be who the towns people had whispered about like some sort of myth. If they were what was Remmick doing with them? Was he the one who terrorized them and their babe? your mind recalled many of the times you had found his behavior odd. He only met you in the darkness of night, disappeared during the day, he was the only one who had access to your home. The bruise on your arm he hadn't even pointed it out. He was innocent you pushed back against your thoughts. And you would prove it.

As their song comes to an end stillness hangs in the air. Remmick stands there waiting for you next move. Realizing how guilty you looked you tried to cough the hesitance stuck in your throat. "I never caught y'all's names". Having all 3 of their eyes on you felt like you were back in the town. Except this time it was much more carnal like predators surrounding their prey.  You shift on your feet, remmicks demeanor changing as he leans into the fence form the outside. The couple doesn’t answer just staring ahead as you hear Remmick chuckle, "well.. this right here is Joan and he, he's Bert". You feel your heart drop to the earths core at this revelation, face full of alarm. you try changing it but God knows it's far too late. He notices and knows that you know.

"Took ya so long" your confused at his words but he doesn't waste a beat to quickly diminish your doubt. "I was startin' to think that little brain of yours wasn't good for much". You're unsure if to be offended and hurl a venomous insult back or cower away . His body defies gravity for a second as he lifts himself over the fence standing between the both of you far too easily. "W-what did you do?" There's still hope inside you that this was just a big understanding. "What I do to them .. or to you?" He nudges his head behind him then to you. His eyes trailing up and down your frame until getting stuck on your wrist. This time you don't cover your wound unlike back in town. When his eyes finally lift themselves to yours you see them shine a deep red. The same deep red that tournamented you yesterday night and dreamed about belonging to that creature who sucked your thumb feverishly while his mouth was covered in your blood. A dream. you can't help the way your chest starts to constrict, eyes stinging. He lets out a cold laugh faux concern, "oh please don't cry doll I'll love it too much n' I'll just be forced to make more pretty tears come out of ya." As he takes a step forward you take a step back. It becomes a twisted game he enjoys while teasing your desperation. The sadistic way he showed worry yet loved your helplessness left you disheartened with the idea of this going back to normal. The way things had been when you met him"Stay away.." your voice is weak and wobbly, hands coming up to signal his halt. He doesn't listen leaving you back to the fence as your hand touches his chest. Remmick wasn't a tall man just average but when he got this close to you it made him feel giant. "Thats not what you wanted last night" his empty breath hits your face, an act you may have yearned for before but not anymore. There's a shudder running through you as he presses his body into yours, his leg between your thighs inching your skirt up. You turn your head in shame, knowing exactly what he meant. Despite the mental acknowledgement of the danger this man posed your body still desired him responding eagerly.

He thrived seeing you like this the woman so poised and respectful he had met in tears from her own disgusting desires. An infection he grew to become, corrupting not just your thoughts but body, mind and soul. Nothing could sadate his carnal lust just like you but he wouldn't get ahead of himself yet.

His hand drags your sight back to him with only a finger on your chin. Your pliant submission was back but out of fright not real trust. This time you notice his appearance change again apart from his peculiar eyes. The clear, thick liquid seeping from the right of his mouth. Spit. And the sharp fangs his k-9's became as he smiles at you. It clicks in your head the last words Genevieve had muttered out to you "vampire". You expect him to take a bite to end your life but instead he takes a step back leaving you to fend your weight against gravity. "Should go see if daddy's all good upstairs, haven't seen him out here all day" his voice drips with sarcasm. You take a step back expecting him to play with you more but he doesn't. While you slowly walk away, opening the fence door you take one final look behind him. The couple he had came with was still behind the fence sitting idly by as if they were hypnotized.

When your a good feet apart you dash inside and up the stairs having to fight the growing stink in the house especially when you reach the second floor. "Papa!" You call out to him , the hall seeming too dark and longer than usual. There was the adrenaline rushing through your veins that urged you to be faster . As your warm hands grab the handle of your father's room opening it wide the stench of death hits you before the sight. You have to cover you mouth from the smell and absolute horror. There was blood all over the walls, bed his body and his head... it didn't seem quite attached to the rest of him. Eyes wide in shock staring directly at you as if he had kept the face from probably seeing the monster Remmick was. You didn't let yourself see the specifics of the plethora of wounds on his body slamming the door shut. You have to fight the gag trying to push its way out from the bottom of your stomach. A light headedness winds you as your walking away hand over your stomach from the unsettling scene you had witness forever engraved in your brain. One wrong step as your going down the stairs has you tumbling down. You grunt and let the tears you have kept at bay finally spill rushing down with no limit. You weakly get up close to the kitchen table where the liquor from the morning still laid. Your heart clenched at the reminder of this bottle always being around your dad's hand along with his pestering. He may had grown rude and absent for most of your life but he would always be your father. The man who once was a child who did wrong but was still half of you. You bite you hand in an attempt to get rid of the overstimulation of your lymphatic system. Not caring if it drew blood. "The sadness will subside, will weaken with time. sacrifices must be made for freedom".

Your mood soured hearing his voice. He sounded like a fucking preacher what was he now your savior? Is that what he tought. That he had been doing you a service murdering your father like some wild animal with no dignity? There was an unexplainable fire starting to build in your chest. "I can offer freedom that never dwindles, never ceases to exist. Ya won't be anyone's caged bird anymore-". With not another thought you let your instincts take over swiftly grabbing the almost empty liquor bottle and swinging it behind you. He doesn't for see your sudden action not moving out of the way fast enough all you hear is a big thud. The bottle still gripped tightly your hand with no crack. His head is turned toward the direction of your swing, eyelids twitching as he seemed to be taking in the hit. You stand fiercely a mere a feet or two away. You expect anger a violent action back in response but instead he chuckles condescendingly. "you’re letting anger cloud your judgement doll" . You wished you would’ve never been nice to him, never let him in your home and watched him rot out in the wilderness. “Let that go” he commands seeing the way your grip on the bottle doesn’t lessen. “No..” your eyebrows furrow “ya just don’t get ta decide things for me, y-ya can’t just do this ‘didn’t ask for any of this! ” even through the sadness is still evident in your body, you still find your voice. His words your genuine protest made him displeased . He had seen you marble at utterly anything normal, his instrument, himself and the way you responded so sweetly to his touches. You were a bird in a cage. Your father had willingly created your life to revolve around him and he had simply given you the choice now to be with him instead. Were you just plain ol’ stupid? “Ya needed this, I saved you from your helpless nights, the endless chores, the boring ol’ cycle of your insignificant’ life became”. This is when you see him start stomping over to you with a glint of fire behind his eyes. “I didn’t need no saving” you spit out while your lower back was pressed on the floor able. He calms down before grabbing a hold of your jaw before uttering out, “oh my sweet little dumb thing, you do”. Those crimson eyes slice through your wrath realizing no matter how much you protested there was no way out of your predicament. No matter the many ways you sliced it he couldn’t be moved, like some heavy boulder restricting your path. “You all do..” his sharp nails dig into the skin of your cheeks making them sting. There’s a small but heavy knock at the front door that doesn’t make him react just letting your calmly go. Retracting himself from you he watches as you wrestle with the choice of opening the door or not. His look was forbidding but would require trust from you which he had run out of. It was ultimatum that hung in the air without being said , ‘open the door and your reject him or leave it be then open your arms to the sweetness of “salvation” ‘

Another heavy knock seeming more desperate had you turning and directly heading to the door not caring for Remmick any longer. You weren’t sure who you were quite expecting maybe a passer by, another stranger. “You had me stressing’ girl why’d ya not answer fast enough?” Her honeyed voice and her careful glance was such a contrast to the way you looked now. “My lords heaven’ what happened to you!” Genevieve tries to come inside and grab your cheeks now decorated with little droplets of blood streaming down. But you semi close the door on her not completely but just enough to stop her from coming in. “Gene you have to leave- you can’t be here” your hands shakes on the door knob. You didn’t want her to be affected by the consequences of your own actions. Seeing how far it got you father you didn’t want her to meet his same fate but she didn’t listen. “Look I know what I did back in town was horrid I truly apologize for that.” Every time you try to open you mouth to interject she elongated her sentence. “ I came here to make things right to make sure you okay and to say I can help you I know-“ she’s caught off being pounced on like animal by something or someone out of your line of sight with a thud. You were about to react until a hard hand comes to the door from your side slamming it loudly closed. All you are left to do is be willfully tormented by her screams of agony as Remmick locks the front door. “Promised my ol’ couple some food, they were just hungry as dogs” he says this sentiment with sort of lightness, even letting out a small ‘woof woof’. Your stomach twists in disgust and terror having to create distance between the both of you.

He tsk'ed in disappointment at your choice. Noticing your desire to push him aside he doesn't shy away from twitching his upper lip to show you his gnarly fangs. "What a shame I really did like Genevieve" he mocks you slowly moving forward. Another blow to the muscle pumping in your chest called your heart wetting your dry cheeks once more in tears. What would you say to her husband and her kid if you walked away alive. You wouldn't have the courage to look them in the eye and tell them about your cowardliness. How you watched their mother die whilst you were inside in the comforts of your home.

With a scream you rely on instincts jumping on Remmick . This time he expects your fit of violence being able to take your arms in his grasps. You try pushing and pulling to break free but nothing budges. He wasn't a big man so why in the hell could you not be strong enough to fight his hands? It looked like a dance you both were having with your twisting and turning making you really live out the ambiance of a juke joint wild but free. It isn't until your able to kick him that your able to make him loosen his grip to break away. His rough voice calls out as you dart to the kitchen trying to find something to arm yourself with,"All this fightin' wont end up pretty for ya" you ignore him now scowering the plethora of eating utensils in the cabinet. "givin' ya a warnin' you should really heed darlin' " his cockiness, the pet names is what you wanted to wipe clear from his face forcing his mouth to never speak again. You turn to face him standing in the middle of the room with a knife. Shiny and anything but dull. His eyes seem to light up at the thought of you wielding such a dangerous object. Not a spec of fear in his nonexistent soul as you walk up to him eyebrows furrowed, a scowl on your face and all. "Don't be silly and give me that thing" He had played this game before long ago. Your genuine hatred was being conveyed in one single long look, fingers clenching in dire need to cause damage. He extends his hand up for you to lay the knife in his hand to submit.

Instead once you're close enough with no hesitation you pierce his hand not just slashing but digging it in until you could see it from the other side. With haste you twist it back at him so the sharp metal is now threatening his chest. With a burn in your thighs and all your might you push forward successfully overtaking any attempt of a protest to your attack. There's a loud grunt from him as the fact the knife dug deeply into his upper chest. It's quickly overtaken by the fact he loses his balance, back against the small sofa sending him backward into it and taking you along with him. Somewhere while taking the fall you let go of the knife to protect yourself instead.  Winded you try to catch your breath looking over to the side you realized you had missed the edge of the coffee table by an inch. What terrifies you is seeing Remmick stand up, his unwounded hand grabbing the knife handle twisting out of his chest and hand simultaneously with a squelch. You think this is when he’ll get his comeback digging the knife into your heart as he stands above you. Bracing yourself your eyes close but instead you hear the cling from the knife being thrown aside. His Hands coming to the collar of your blouse lifting you up with no difficulty and harshly sending you crashing into the coffee table. The glass breaks instantly some of the wood creating a hard surface to simulate a hard punch to your gut. “Thought you’d be different but you’ve got a fire that never dies just like your mother”. He’s out of breath as he speaks and when he mentions the woman you have never met you wish nothing more than to commit cold blooded murder. Your hands extend in-front of you carefully to attempt to lift yourself up but his foot comes to press down on the skin on the other side of your palm. “she wanted nothin’ more than to desperately live that’s what made it so much more excitin’ to snuff her out”. You cry out in agony as the pressure of his foot causes specs of glass to carve a home into your palm. He decides it’s enough when you pathetically paw at his shoe. You’re able to take a glance at the disgusting wound before you’re being dragged from your collar again. No care for the way the destroyed table poked and burns your knees or body. He brings you all the way up to the wall facing the front door and forcing you on your feet. Your knees are giving out but he makes sure to hold you in place steadily by your neck

“What do ya desperately want hmm?” He teases with a tap to your cheek as he watches you became the defenseless rabbit he knew once again. Red teary eyes defeated just accepting what would be made of you just like your father and Genevieve. This sight arouses him inching his face closer he breathes onto you obnoxiously, “could’ve had so many delicious nights with ya stuck on my mouth oh do I miss your heavenly taste” you spit at him for talking about you as some sort of object. Realizing all those “dreams” you believed to have had were nothing of the sort. Just your mind trying to make sense of events happening to your sleeping body to warn you of the violating creature you’re ashamed to call a man infront of you at your wake. His wet muscle slides out from his mouth, tongue split in two like some sort of serpent to lick it up from the side of his cheek. A big grumble of satisfaction form his chest. “Now I need me some more”. His lips come to yours not in the doting way you expected your first kiss to be but hungry and lustful. You fight against him the sloppy kiss making spit smear all over your lips. Your teeth chomp down in order to make him stop biting his lip , hard.

he curses letting your neck go sending your sliding down. You thought of fighting again or fleeing but your body was far too tired. So instead You're stuck in place fighting the heaviness of your eyelids and tasting the irony substance in your mouth. He squats down infront of you with a lip decorated in red.

Forced you are to look at the man before you that you once considered a friend, dare you say lover, finding him to be completely unrecognizable. He fixes your sweaty blood specs covered hair whilst grazing your cheek tenderly like he had done a few happy summer days ago. "Every time you wake up in the mornin n' take a breath of fresh air, maybe even while looking at the sun setting with a child on your hip" he starts. The once gentle hands griping the back of your head, hair and all, harshly craning your neck back. You can't even let out a whine properly without your lungs hurting . " 'want ya to remember ya don't get to do that because ya were brave or strong enough" he can't help but grumble at the sentiment of you believing these things about yourself. His tone grows dark as he hushes the final dialogue onto you like something sacred only for you and his ears only.

"no ....it's because I allowed you to"

he licks a long stripe up your cheek relishing your sweet blood before he abruptly lets go of your head and leaves you helplessly on the ground. His light steps barely even leaving a track of sound in your ear drums as he opens the once closed door. He walks over your dead friends body only her legs visible from your spot. His body isn't tense, instead he strolls away with a pep in his step, the hat you had given him on his head and you can faintly hear him hum that song. Pick poor robin clean. As if it were a regular Monday night. As if he hadn't turned your life upside down just for fun. The couple from earlier appear from the sides of the door covered in blood Bert taking a hold of one of Genevieve’s weightless legs. Joan give you a smile and a wave with her sharp canines before they start walking away your friend dragged in the dirt along with them. You reap the consequences while Remmick was walking away Scot free. Your heart burns, skin boils, face scorns, mustering up all of your strength you let out a scream of pain, anger and agony all at once. Not caring if it scratched your throat painfully. He keeps moving unfazed until his body is a mere spec in your vision. Your Pathetically Left behind feeling the ache in your bones deep inside, the blood oozing out of your body the stinging tears trailing down your sliced skin. Choosing the mortal cage called your human flesh.

You knew he'd always be hiding in the shadows of the night, waiting, and in some twisted way that brought you comfort.

Authors note: this was so long in the making! I I tried my best to interpret the character of Remmick to the best of my abilities without having seen the movie. I apologize for any spelling mistakes and if you asked to be tagged but weren’t it’s probably because your acc didn’t show up when I tried tagging you. Apart from that I enjoyed writing this and I hope y’all enjoyed it too! :)

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Tags: @duckyhowls @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore @thecutestaaakawaii @akumazwrld

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (1) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

we cannot change who we are at our core.

type: limited series, part 1 (6.4k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.

You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.

A controlling, desperate thief.

When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.

If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.

But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.

Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.

You bury her. And you won't let her out.

The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.

Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.

She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.

Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.

You're never off-center.

"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"

You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.

Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.

You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.

But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.

Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.

When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

You promised me. You gave me your word.

"I can't–"

But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–

"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.

Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.

She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.

You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.

Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.

You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.

You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.

It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.

She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.

Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–

Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.

Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).

They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").

Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.

You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.

Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.

She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.

They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.

When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.

It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.

You try to push her back.

Stay down.

When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.

You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.

"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."

You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.

"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."

You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."

When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.

"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."

"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."

"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."

"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.

"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."

You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.

"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."

Your lip trembles.

"What has to happen today?" You ask.

"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."

Simon.

"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.

"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."

You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.

You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.

You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.

"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."

You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.

You don't.

The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.

"He wants to see you."

You raise a brow.

"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.

A fucking bear.

He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).

You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.

"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.

Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–

"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.

"When he wants to."

"Does it bite?"

John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."

When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.

"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."

His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.

When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.

Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.

The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.

He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.

Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.

He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.

"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."

He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.

"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."

You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.

Typical.

“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”

He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.

Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.

“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”

“Wot hurts?”

His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.

“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”

Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.

“I did not want you either.”

“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.

“But I have orders.”

“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”

When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.

“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”

Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.

“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”

“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”

“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”

You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.

He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?

He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.

“That’s it. Good kitty.”

NEXT

[dymeon1]

Combining hobbies

OC of @bumblesteak

[naamahdarling]

The man who previously owned our house works at the post office. He knows I live at his old place because he sees his own old address on the mail I bring in. We have mentioned it once or twice, but it's strangely awkward, so I have never asked any of the questions I want to ask.

I have a lot of questions.

Why was there a hot tub in the house? Did you own parakeets, or were they cockatiels? Why didn't you paint any of the rooms except for one flat hunter green wall in your son's bedroom? Did you mean to leave that horseshoe here or do you want it back? Did the fact that the master bedroom doorway is much narrower than the doorway into the en suite bathroom ever bother you? Did you lie in the master bedroom staring at the beautiful big windows, silently tortured by the fact that they were 6 inches off center? Are you still mad about the big beam that traverses the 15 ft living room ceiling and how it too is maybe 3 inches off center? You lived there for 30 years and didn't install a single drawer pull; why?

But there's one question that haunts me. Every time I go to mail something it's there, threatening to jump right out of me if I'm not careful.

What the fuck is that tiny spot on the living room ceiling?

It's a 3/4" circle, probably about 11 ft up (the living room has a 15 ft peak). It is brownish. I've stood on a short step ladder and taken a picture of it and examined it as closely as I am able. It looks like gravy, slightly thinner in places, with what might be specks of seasoning in it. It is the only mark on the otherwise pristine white ceiling. It was in fact the only spot of dirt in the entire house when we moved in. Place was immaculate.

This stupid spot has haunted me since, sometime in the week after moving in, I looked up and first noticed it, right above where I sit.

I have genuinely considered having it chemically tested, paying for somebody to do fancy science to it until they can tell me exactly what it is. I've considered even just getting a taller step ladder and scraping off a sample and getting it wet to see if it has a smell.

It's definitely not poop since there's absolutely no way they would have left it up there. It's definitely not paint as the room was originally white. It's never grown or changed color, it's not mold, there is nothing above it in the structure of the house at all. It is nearly perfectly round, yet still obviously not a deliberately placed mark. There's no other spots around it. It stands alone. It must have been made from directly underneath.

And the thing is, the guy knew it was there. He absolutely knew it was there. There's no way in hell he did not know it was there. I could ask him and he would know what it was.

I'm deeply afraid I'm going to die without knowing. But how do you even begin to ask somebody, after fifteen years, about the single mysterious TINY stain they left in the entire house?

I just don't know. I just don't know.

[justagirlswrld]

Thousand year old, sexy, space princess seeks companionship! must be hot!

a/n: i told you i was a mark grayson groupie.

warnings: unprotected p in v. humanoid!reader. stuff that happens in sex happens in this. porn w plot.

part two

“….Mark, why is there a purple…guy outside your window?”, Mark doesn’t look up from the Seance dog comic at the sound of Will’s confused voice, choosing to roll his brown eyes instead.

“Yeah, funny.”, Mark replies in an airy tone.

“No, Mark i’m ser-”, Rick cuts his boyfriend off as he walks through the front door of the apartment, “Why is there a purple man outside of the living room window?”, This finally gets Mark’s attention, he looks over at the window in question and his eyes grow triple their size.

Mark is in his suit in less than a second, comic thrown onto the couch he was just relaxing on. He floats over to the window, taking in the short, stocky….lavender man that flies just outside the apartment on deep, amethyst wings.

Mark opens the window roughly and the man scampers back, he didn’t plan on hurting the creature but it seemed like someone always wanted to fight on his days off.

Mark flies out the large window, he dwarfs the…man easily. He has an uneasy smile on his face, Mark notices that his mouth is filled with long canines and he tries not to grimace. “I’m not helping any….fairies today. so, leave.” With that Mark turns his back on him, a strong hand grasps his shoulder. In an instant Mark is zooming into the afternoon sky, holding the lilac haired creature by the collar of his thin shirt.

His purple skin now has a slight gleam from his nervous sweat. “I’m not a fairy, I come from the planet-“, Mark cuts him off, “I don’t care. Now go.”, Mark releases the being and hovers in front of him but he doesn’t budge. Mark rubs a gloved hand down his face in frustration.

”Mark Gray-“, Mark cuts him off instantly, “My name is Invincible when i’m in this suit. What do you want?”

The alien nods, “Invincible, please. I haven’t come to harm you…my planet needs your help.” Mark groans inwardly, why was it always on his day off.

The mysterious man goes on to explain how another evil alien race has come to conquer his kingdom. He paints a picture of his beautiful world being annihilated and his people being slaughtered without Mark’s help. “I’ve left it in ruins, Invincible. I’m scared I may be the only Solorian left.”

Mark points to a near by patch of forest in exasperation, “Wait there.” He flies back inside without waiting to see if the creature followed his instructions.

With major convincing from Will and Rick, Mark ends up not ghosting the…Solorian waiting in the woods. When Mark floats down through the trees to the hard ground, he’s sitting on a log with a happy expression on his face.

“Where’s your planet?”, Mark’s tone is serious, he really wanted to be back in time to watch the newest episode of this show he’d been tuning into.

The thing stands, brushing the dirt from his odd pants. Mark notices that he’s dressed like a jester, save for the pointy hat.

“It’s many galaxies from Earth, it usually takes a year to get there,-“ Mark makes a sound as he begins to protest but the man continues talking as he pulls a small, metal disc from his pocket. “But with our technology it’ll only take a minute.”

He throws the disc on the ground with his knobby fingers and its turns into a circular pad. Mark and his traveling companion step on and become engulfed in a pale yellow light. Mark only has time to blink before he’s whisked away, landing on what he assumes to be cobblestone streets.

Mark surveys his surroundings as the man picks up his transporter. There’s winged humanoids dressed almost…medievally everywhere, no one lounges as the planet’s two suns beat down on their backs.

He watches as children with skin in arrays of colors play in the waterfall and clear, blue stream. He has to crane his neck to look at the behemoth of a castle in front of him.

“This doesn’t look like ruins.”, Mark’s eyes shift as he waits for assailants to pop out from behind the thatched roofed shacks that line the street.

“Because I lied to you invincible. Walk with me and i’ll explain.”

They glide towards the castle slowly, the man, Edolan, explains that their princess refuses to marry one of her arranged suitors after hearing of his exploits on earth. They go up winding stair cases before they stop in front of a room with large, oval doors. “She says she must….meet you, before she marries.”, Edolan explains with his hands held behind his back.

“You know you could’ve said that”, is all Mark can think to say in response. Edolan nods, “Yes, I apologize for deceiving you but I had to make it seem urgent in a way you’d understand.” Edolan waves a hand and the doors creek open, “The princess is waiting for you. When you’re finished she will give you passage home the same way you came.”

And he’s gone.

When Invincible glides into your expansive room you’re draped over your canopied bed, idly playing with some alien device.

Mark wasn’t sure what he’d be dealing with when he came through the doors but he damn sure wasn’t expecting you to be pretty…beautiful even. You’re as humanoid as the rest of your subjects save for the blush pink skin and hot pink hair.

You look up at the young man standing a few feet away from you. You lick your lips and Mark is happy to notice that your mouth isn’t filled with razor sharp teeth but human like ones instead.

“Mark Grayson of Earth!”, You greet him, cheeks stretched into a wide smile. Mark blushes as you rise from a lying position to a sitting one, noticing that your breasts are only covered in a thin, bralette of shiny jewels.

“Uh-Hi, you can just call me Mark.” You rise to stand on your bed now as you mimic someone fighting, “Or Invincible! Defender of Earth and slayer of beasts and villains.”

Mark wants to argue that he doesn’t slay villains but nods his head in agreement instead, trying to end this odd experience as soon as possible.

“Right….and you’re Y/N, Solorian princess who refuses to marry until you met me…,”Mark rips his mask off, exposing his handsome face to your eyes, “Will you marry the guy now?” Your eyebrows scrunch together and your lips form a pout. Mark thinks that it’s probably the sexiest expression he’s ever seen.

“That was not the agreement. I have yet to lay with you.”, You say from your place on the bed. If Mark had been drinking something he would’ve spit it out in astonishment.

“Lay with you?”, Mark asks in a shocked tone. You laugh at the expression on the boys face, if he pushes his eyebrows any higher they’ll be on the cathedral like ceilings of your room.

“Yes, Mark Grayson. The promise was that I would finally marry an arranged suitor, saving our planet from war, if you bedded me first.” You lay back down on your large mattress as you wait for the superhero to collect himself.

Mark swallows, he’s not sure if he’s turned on or scared. Probably both. “Um, don’t princesses have to be virgins when they get married?”, you cock your head to the side like a confused dog, “I’m not familiar with the word- virgins.” The word sounds jumbled when it passes your perfect lips.

“It means you never- laid with anyone. On Earth princesses usually save themselves for their husband or their virtue or something.”

You throw your head back and laugh loudly, it’s closer to a howl really. “What a sad life these Earth princesses live. As a Solorian we live for many, many years. I am 1,000 years old, just a baby I know-,“ Mark doesn’t reply as you continue, “And I would never be asked to be a…virkin. Solorian’s find virtue in other ways than saving yourself.” You almost look disgusted as you finish your rant.

Your mind goes back to the task at hand. You unclasp the jewels from your upper and bottom half, positioning yourself so Mark can see your naked body well. You watch as his strong throat bobs.

“Will you lay with me Mark Grayson?”

Mark feels like he might combust on the spot as he nods, more excited than he hoped. He walks to the edge of the bed and sits nervously, palming himself through his suit. “On Earth we usually go on a date first.” He laughs awkwardly, willing himself to get hard. He just couldn’t get out of his head to do so.

“We are not on Earth, Mark.” You slither up his back, breasts pressing against the hard muscles. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders as you press soft kisses to his neck. He groans but when he palms himself again there’s nothing. Mark is perplexed on why because you were super hot and he never had this problem before. It must be how weird the situation is.

You notice the mental battle and stop kissing his neck. “Are you well?”, he nods again and you notice him palming himself. You giggle, the sound so close to his ear that it has his heart speeding up again. “You can’t ‘get it up’? As they would say on Earth”, Mark’s torn between defending himself and asking where you learned that from but chooses silence instead when you slink between his legs.

You make yourself comfortable on your pink knees and look up at him through your lashes with big doe eyes. Mark has an instant semi.

He’s rock hard by the time you slip him out of his suit and into your warm mouth. You suck unabashedly on his thick, cock hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around his angry tip.

“Shhhhiiiiiittt”, Mark moans with his hand tangled in your vibrant hair, hanging on for dear life as you bob up and down his member. “St-Stop i’m gonna-.” Mark trails off, his eyes almost roll back when you choke around his length, gobbling the throbbing cock down your throat.

He finally wrestles your mouth off his cock and he takes a moment to collect himself as he breathes heavily. Mark leans down and kisses you sloppily, he tweaks your nipples hoping that it’ll do something to stimulate you sexually. Luckily it works and you moan lowly in his mouth.

Mark picks you up by your arm pits and tosses you on the bed, you laugh, “Yes! Show me your strength, invincible.” His name is sultry as it falls out your lips, causing a shudder to creep down his spine.

He flips you over roughly by your ankle then pulls you to the edge of the large bed. Mark manhandles you until your face is pressed into your thick blankets with your round ass in the air. When Mark’s tongue pushes its way between your folds you’re a moaning mess.

Mark slowly licks from your wet cunt up to your puckered hole, repeating the motion over and over again. You close your eyes tightly as your moans fill the great space of your bedroom. He uses his skilled fingers to search for your clit, praying that Solorian’s have one. When he finally finds the nub he sucks on it harshly, causing you to cry out and fall on your stomach.

Mark lets out a huff behind you, voice raspy from his previous moaning, “If you want to lay with me princess, you have to keep your back arched.” You do as he says and he continues making a mess of you with his tongue, adding two, slender fingers into your pulsating heat.

When you feel Mark’s bulbous head rubbing against your tight entrance you release a sound akin to a purr. He pushes into you slowly, inch by veiny inch until his hips are flush against your backside.

You call out for him when he pulls out of you and he answers with a moan of his own when he pushes his length back into your tight walls. Mark starts at a slow rhythm that has you moaning with each pointed thrust, still you throw your ass back to meet each one.

Mark’s pace becomes brutal and you struggle to keep up with his pounding hips. One of his large hands slides up your back and wraps securely around your neck. His full lips leaving kisses in its wake. His other hand goes between your bodies to your engorged nub, rubbing slick circles as he continues to pound in and out of you.

Your toes curl so hard that you feel like they may break when Mark hits a deep, spongy spot in your cunt. You call out his name as you come, body going completely still then slumping to your stomach. Mark continues to fuck into your spent cunt, groans turning to moans. Mark pulls out and releases warm come on your lower back and ass cheek.

He lays on his back beside you, both of you two breathing too hard to say anything to one another.

When Mark walks through his apartment door Will is waiting for him, coffee cup in hand as the early morning light peaks through the bay window. Will’s eyes go wide when he takes in his best friend, “Mark! Where have you been? Do you realize you’ve been gone for three months?!”

Mark sits down at the granite island, smiling to himself as he begins to tell his best friend about the alien pussy he had to force himself to leave.

[ihaznoclue]

You're not like other people

The winner of the vote from yesterday was----

You're not like other people (Shadow x Reader) and I would like to thank everyone who participated in the voting system :)

Pairings -> Shadow The Hedgehog x Reader

Warnings -> None

Note -> Shadow seems to like you more than anyone else, you treat him better. He then starts to follow you around and stick to you just in case if something happens to you

Genre -> Fluff

Shadow The Hedgehog

You're not like other people...

You showed Shadow more kindness and gentleness, and he could tell you were a good-hearted person the moment he laid eyes on you.

He liked you more than anyone he had met, with the exception of Maria, because of your tender hands and your kind remarks.

He could see Maria within you since your sillyness showed whenever he was feeling low or depressed, and your smile illuminated the room on the darkest evenings.

Your affectionate gestures were different, you gave him soft pats or scratches behind his ears to help him relax, and your dancing made him cringe in the most flattering way possible to provoke a response from him rather that him being sulky all the time.

He adored everything you did for him, and he loved you in return.

Even if he's not very good at it, he merely thinks of all the things he could do to make you feel better, like protecting you or lifting your spirits when you're felling down. At least he's making an effort, or perhaps he's giving you presents in secret.

Ever since he fell down from saving the earth from explosion that Dr Gerald Robotnik wanted as revenge for his grand-daughter Maria, Shadow was convinced that this was the wrong thing to do as it won't bring Maria back..

His goal was to save the planet, and he succeeded, but at what cost? He could feel himself slipping downward more quickly.

When he collapsed back on Earth, he was unconscious, but where was he? He could smell the earthy dirt that tickled his nostrils, all he could feel beneath him was dirt.

However, he heard and sensed something else. A voice? Where was he and whose voice was that?

"Where did you come from?" The stranger's voice sounded clearer, and he could hear its kindness since it was free of fear, stuttering, or trembling.

Then he felt a kind, cautious hand embrace him in. "Oh you poor thing.. You must be hurt" He heard the voice again, and then he sensed a person moving.

What was he being taken to? He doesn't want to return, but what if they were to take him back?

Their footsteps were silent, and he could hear the rhythm of the person carrying him's heartbeat, whether it was fast or slow. He found that listening to the heartbeat helped him relax.

As they kept going, he could then hear them humming, which is incredibly pleasant and reassured him that nothing was to bother him.

Shadow heard the humming fade into the darkness as he knows couldn't hear anything around him, it had seem that he fully went to knocked out mode.

Now it felt hours on end as he now could hear things around him, his body felt warm and covered. His ear flickered at the slightest sound as he now was waking up, his eyes fluttering open as he groaned at the massive headache he just got.

He heard the humming again.. the sweet sound of humming that sooth his headache to go away..

He began to sit up as the blanket that was covering him slightly shifted off of his upper body, his fur was cleaned and hes air shoes were off, neatly placed on the floor near the bed that he was sitting on

He looked around to see where he was, he was definitely not back in the G.U.N base, but the room was slightly dimmed by the sunlight behind the curtains. The walls were painted in (F/C) and the carpet beneath looked soft and fluffy to stand on.

The humming has come to a stop as he saw the person standing near the door way for the room. It was a young person, a smile stuck on their face as they realised that Shadow was now awake

"Oh! You're awake" Their soft voice spoke, it sounded nice to listen to, but Shadow couldn't know if you could be trusted, his ear flicked again

"Can you talk?" You spoke, Shadow eyes lingered on you, trying to cause any squirmy reaction or at least a shiver, but he nodded

"Good! But I have a heap of questions to ask ya little guy" You spoke in pure excitement as you gave a little clap

Shadow was curious about you all of a sudden, you weren't scared of him

He was a 4-5ft hedgehog that was made in a laboratory how can you not be scared of him?

"Are- Are you not scared of me?" He spoke which made you froze suddenly, you didn't actually think he would speak

Your eyes were widen but softened "Of course not! Why would I be scared of a cute guy like you?"

Shadow huffed at that as his ear flicked at the word 'cute' but he didn't say anything to make you upset, the pure smile laid on your face made his heart soften

He could see Maria in you for some reason, even though he just met you. He knew he could trust you

"You can stay here as long as you want, I found you in a grass field near my house as I hear the commotion outside so I wanted to take a look and saw you, so I picked you up and took you back to my house which you are in right now"

Your kind words made him realise you were the one that picked him up and carried him back here, to your house

He gave a little huff though his nose as he said "Thank you" In a whispered tone but obviously you hear it as you gave a little giggle and stepped out of the room which caused him to follow you

He didn't know why but he just did, his mind was telling him that he can't trust you now but his heart was telling him to follow you and protect you

But you were so kind, so pure..

Like an angel

HEHEHHE THIS ONE MIGHT BE MY BEST ONE YET

-A<3

[luveline]

Can you write where the reader walks into James room and he's crying and its the first time shes seen him cry so she comforts him pls xx

thank you for your request! fem, 1.2k

James’ house is a sanctuary to everyone he’s ever met. There are scratches on the wall by the door where Sirius has thrown it open, long deep welts of ruin under a drunken hand, two best friends laughing to the bedroom where they share a bed. You’re used to Sirius by now, an extension of James you love and make room for, but waking up to the heir of the most noble family in London sleeping off a hangover with his face buried in your boyfriend's shoulder still surprises you. His snores never change. 

Then there’s Remus, the sweetheart, tracking dirt into the living room because he so often forgets he’s wearing shoes, distracted by a book or a thought he shares in half smiles knowing James will listen. 

You’re everywhere. In photos like the rest of them, in your coat on the hook, your clean washing on the stairs, your shoes in the bedroom cupboard. There’s a red smudge of your lipstick on the wall at the top of the stairs where James wiped your bottom lip and then used the wall to hang over you, kissing. He keeps meaning to paint over it, you know. He says the same thing every time you bring it up, a laughing, “I’ll get to it, you thing!” 

You’re used to smiles and sounds here. You aren’t acquainted with this. Sniffles from the bedroom, long, stringing gulps of air and the answering sob. It makes your chest flip. James hasn’t cried in front of you in a year of dating and two years of knowing him. James doesn’t even get pissed off unless it’s for somebody else. Something awful must’ve happened. You rush to find out what. 

In the bedroom, James is just sitting there falling apart. Just, sat on the bed, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking like an awful jagged up and down, like he’s hurting; the shock of it is in every inch of movement. James is beautiful in everything, skin and hands and dark, dark hair, but he’s hurting now as he drags fingers wet with tears through frizzing curls. He must have heard you coming up but he can’t stop, lifting his chin, an apology twisted in his mouth that he doesn’t say aloud. 

“Lovely, what happened?” you ask, sure you’re gonna fall through the floor. “What happened? What–”

You aren’t giving him time to answer. You need to know. 

“No, it’s alright–”

“It’s not alright,” you say, standing in front of him with stiff arms. “What happened, James?” 

“It’s okay.” He cries a little, sniffs, looking up at you with swimming eyes. “It’s alright, I’m just– it’s just– well, it’s just everything, I suppose, but it’s…” He looks down, his mouth twisting again in an apology you don’t want to take. He shakes himself. 

“James, what’s everything?” 

“Silly stuff.” James takes your hand. Telling, that a boy who’s spent his entire life looking after the people he loves would attempt to comfort you with tears still hot on his cheeks. 

You look down at his long fingers. 

James plays piano. He learned your favourite song for you before he’d ever asked you out, and when he’d played it for you, he’d played so beautifully you felt sick for days, felt sick every time you thought of him, but in the moment he’d laughed at your teary eyes and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. Lovely girl, he’d said, laughing, I won’t play it again if you’re gonna cry like that.

You figure he must want comfort as he gives it, wrapping your arms around him to steer him toward a soft kiss, his hair like strands of satin under your lips. “Nothing that upsets you like this could ever be silly.” 

He pushes you away. Not without love, but pushing away regardless. He stands in the space you leave and wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands. It’s nearly like he’s dancing. Just the way his arms move. But then he drops them and turns away from you, your heart plummeting to your stomach. 

“James.” 

“It’s not like that. I was hoping I’d be done before you got home. Should we go out for dinner or something?” 

“James–”

“What?” he asks, smiling, at odds with his sad eyes. “Love, it’s really fine, I’m fine.” Love. You let out a long breath, chest a cold ache slowly warmed by his gaze. There’s care for you in every eyelash, but it still shocks you when he hugs you. “It’s okay. Sorry I scared you.” 

James. “Fucking hell, Jamie, I’m not scared, I want you to tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it for you.”

He chokes on breath. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t believe it himself, a crack running straight through his words. “Sorry,” he says, sickly, kissing the top of your head as you’d kissed his. 

Clearly he’s not going to let you be the one domineering the situation, but that’s okay. He can kiss your head and hold you on the edge of too tight. You slip a hand under the edge of his T-shirt to stroke his back, until your hand is numb to it, and he’s sagging against you heavily. 

“You’re really not fine, I can see that much.” 

He’s quiet, but you can tell there’s something he wants to say. 

“But that’s okay,” you say, hand clasping his back . You pat a steady rhythm there as he sighs. “It really is. I don’t know why you think you have to be finished crying before I get home, but that’s not true. You can cry. You can cry buckets. Please don’t pretend you’re not upset because of me, I’d feel so bad.”

Something hot and wet touches your forehead. “M’sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You pull back to pat his cheek. 

James stares at you. Tears well in usually warm eyes and get caught in the wet hedge of his lashes. You try to wipe them away before they can fall —you don’t wanna see your sweetheart crying. 

“Don’t frown,” he says softly. 

“I’m trying not to. Here, let me,” —you wipe his cheeks with your sleeve, voice a muttering thing as his skin pinks beneath your touch— “just get that there for you. Your eyes are red, Jamie, I hope you haven’t been upset for too long.” 

“No, uh. No, not too long.” 

“Can you please tell me what’s wrong? I’d like to know.” 

James’ face presses to your neck in seconds. He pauses, and then he sobs. That’s more like it. You stand there in the bedroom until your legs are stiff, and then you only move to lay him down in bed to be your little spoon. “It's not fine,” you say, your arm around him, the other playing in the swirl of his parting, “but it will be. You’re really too handsome for all these tears.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

He sounds sweet when he’s trying to make you laugh. You reach over him to kiss his hot cheek.  

[livinghalfway]

Bury Him with the Roses Pt. 2

Masterlist

Summary: Damian learns that his twin is alive only to learn that he was dead and buried a few hours before his impromptu arrival to the Fenton household. When he goes to visit Danyal's final resting place he finds two individuals digging up his brother's grave.  Word Count: 1129

A four hour flight. 

His brother was only a four hour flight away, and yet it has been five years since they’ve last seen each other. Damian isn’t sure why Danyal hasn’t reached out to him. Sure, his brother did not get to learn the name of their father, but there is no way he was able to avoid the Wayne name. Danyal must have seen the announcement of him joining the family, or at least a picture of him with them after all these years. 

The town had some kind of media block, but that only pertained to hiding information coming out of Amity Park, not going in. It was frankly a miracle that Damian even found the article about the gorillas. 

Whoever put the block up was good admittedly, but there was nothing Oracle couldn't crack into. A single crack in the wall, and it all came crumbling down. 

The "ghost" attacks, the GIW, Phantom,  but most importantly the Fenton's. So much information was now available to them, and yet the only thing he searched for was the address of his brother's home. That was the only thing that mattered. 

Which is why Damian finds himself in the Wayne private plane not even an hour later with his Father and Dick sitting next to him. The others stay behind to look after Gotham, and investigate more about the strangeness of Amity Park. While making sure to give them any useful information about the Fenton’s they find.

From what has been found so far doesn’t paint the most stable of households, and Damian has every intention of taking Danyal home with them when they leave for Gotham.  He’s … he’s excited to show his twin the life he’s built; that he has changed for the better from the boy that he once was. 

“So, Damian,” Dick snaps him out of his thoughts, “What was Danyal like? With all the chaos I don’t think anyone got the chance to ask about him.”

With this question Bruce becomes much more attentive to what is happening around him. In a voice far too soft for Damian as he speaks nostalgically about his twin and their youth, “Danyal was as skilled with a blade as he was kind. Ra’s did everything he could to take that gentle nature from him, but nothing ever phased him. Despite striving in the league, it was obvious how much he hated being there. … He would have loved it in the manor.” 

“He still has plenty of time to make the manor a home.” Dick reassures him. “It sounds like you really admire him.” 

A humorless laugh escapes his throat at those words. “I hated him. Danyal was so much better than I was, and yet he never cared for Ra’s or Mother’s approval. By the time I truly recognized that we were never meant to be rivals he was already gone.” 

Damian hopes that with this second chance he’ll be able to make up for all the years spent being jealous of the only other person who truly knows what his childhood was like. Someone who should have been a confidant was instead seen as nothing more than a competitor. 

He knows why Danyal didn’t reach out, it’s because of him. Damian’s sure of it. 

“Dami, do you care about Danyal?” 

“...Yes.” 

“Then just talk to him. I’m sure you two can get through this together.” 

Damian hopes so; he wants to get to know his brother. He’s not going to miss out on this second chance to do so. 

-

It’s late by the time the three of them finally reach the Fenton household; the sun is already beginning to set. 

The building itself looks like one big safety hazard. Damian is honestly surprised that it’s liveable. Walking up to the front door he notes just how filthy the doorstep is. Dirt covered shoes and gloves lay littered about. He silently takes note of all of this as Bruce knocks firmly on the door. 

To everyone else you would think the man is as cool as ice, to Damian though he can recognize the signs of nervousness and worry coming from his Father. No doubt feeling unsteady from the fact that they have the bare minimum amount of information for what they’re about to walk into.

Heavy footsteps can now be heard from inside now. 

When the door opens it is to the face of Danyal’s adoptive father, Jack Fenton. The man looks tired; his shoulders are slumped and a melancholy smile graces his face. 

“Oh! Bruce Wayne? Hello! Is there anything I can do for you folks?” Jack asks as he looks between the three of them, obviously confused by their presence. His eyes widen when his gaze lands on Damian. “Danny?”

“That’s actually what we’re here to talk about,” Bruce clears his throat before continuing. “It was recently discovered that my son Damian and Daniel could possibly be twins. We’re here to confirm if that is true or not.” 

Strangely Jack looks almost relieved at those words.”Come- come inside.This conversation might be better done inside.” 

As they are led inside towards the living room Jack calls out for his wife Madeline that they have guests; notably not calling for Danyal as well. While they get situated in their seats Damian takes this time to take a look around the room for signs of his brother. 

He sees photos of his twin all along the walls, in most of them he was standing next to the Fenton's daughter, Jasamine. As he looks through his eye eventually notices a red blossom of some sort lying innocently under one of the side tables. 

It’s unlike any flower he’s ever seen before. Just as he’s about to ask about it, Madeline finally joins them in the living room as well. Her eyes widened too once looking at Damian. It looks like she’s about to say something, but before she can Jack quickly whispers something in her ear. 

Dick, who is sitting next to him, gently squeezes his shoulder as the Fentons sit across from them, and is the first to speak up, “Should we wait and get Danny to join us before we start this?”

The two Fenton’s look towards one another with pained expressions; a silent conversation occurs between them at that moment. After a few tense seconds Madeline quietly speaks up, “That … will not be necessary. Danny is- We- I’m sorry to be the one to tell you after you’ve traveled all the way here, but Danny is no longer with us, in fact we laid him to rest just a couple hours ago.” 

At those words Damian knows that he had just lost his second chance to reconcile with his brother. 

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Yearning

MDNI

Price's love is messy; it comes courting with grave dirt on its shoes.

CW: widow!reader, parent!reader, funerals, graves, hint of obsessive behavior

He watches the mourners file by, squeezing the new widow’s hands with feeling, then moving along, leaving her palms bare, baptized in everyone else’s clammy sweat. A beggar left to fill up on condolences and wrap her children in the warm embrace of near-strangers’ thoughts and prayers. Nothing a young mother can use. Nothing a woman who framed her life around her husband’s career can fall back against.

She needs the world and a table to lay it out on.

No one volunteers. No one steps up. Everyone respects her and her husband’s memory too much to offer the kind of help she and her little girls need.

Price can disrespect her just enough to save her.

Her girls sit in the front row wearing black sundresses – one in polka dots, one with butterflies. Those weren’t bought for funerals. The new widow’s black cotton skirt is a little too casual, at odds with her pressed blouse. They’re unprepared, and he already sees the way the woman is pulling their purse strings tight like she can rub pence together to make a pound. She’s magic, aye, but no alchemist. She’s made life, but she can’t bring back the dead.

When his turn comes, he can’t bring himself to take her hand. With everything in his heart, it would be profane, especially standing beside her husband’s closed coffin.

It had been a bad op. Rotten from the start, and though his taskforce wasn’t involved, grave murmurs of how light the body bags were upon their return echoed across base. He thinks she knows. It’s printed in dark crescents under her eyes, bloodshot despite her best efforts. Most of her makeup is on the balled-up tissue set behind the arrangement of white roses to her right, her efforts to appear collected and strong melted into faint streaks to reveal everything women paint themselves to hide.

She is too real to touch, so he folds his hands behind his back and nods respectfully. “He was a good man. A good soldier.”

Her smile is wan and polite to the point of pain. “Thank you, Captain Price. He always spoke highly of you. I’m sure he’d be glad to have left an impression.”

Nodding, pinching together his own weak smile, he glances at the girls. “How are they holding up?”

“They don’t understand it yet,” she says, taking the opportunity to check on her children around his shoulder. “But they’re upset and hurt. And because they don’t know why it makes it worse.”

He takes a deep breath. “Five-years-old last April, right?”

A little light returns to her flat expression, and he’s glad he asked.

“Yeah.”

They both watch the girls for another minute. They’re surrounded by coloring books, and their respective baby blankets sit to the side, neatly folded and ready for an emergency.

He’s glad he waited for the crowd to thin.

“And you?” He swivels, catching her eyes and angling his head to keep the connection when she reflexively drifts to the side. "Are you holding together?"

"As well as can be expected. I found one of his lost socks in the laundry yesterday and –" She pauses, and it must dawn on her that was a little too honest for polite society, and she backs away from it. “I’m fine, really.”

She’s clearly anything but. Nor should she be.

 Still reluctant to reach out, he sidles a half step closer, ensuring his words are for her alone.

“Just worry about yourself. Take care of your girls. All this, all of them,” he gestures at the wreathes, and the guests, and the stiff funeral director lurking by the door, “they’ll take care of themselves. You don’t owe them anything. Do you understand?”

Her next breath shakes, and he flexes his hands to resist grabbing her, pulling her out of the limelight to a dark corner where she can cry and be a mess without worries or witnesses.

She blinks rapidly, and her hand finds his arm as she smiles through teary eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about us, Captain. Thank you.”

Still prioritizing the performance. Tending to his emotions over her own grief.

It isn’t the time or place, he knows, and he nods again with another flinching smile, stepping back so a new string of mourners can burden her with their razor-wire recollections and hollow words.

He aches to stop and speak to the girls, but they’re safely tucked away in their world of paper and crayons for the moment, and he doesn’t want to disturb them. No extended family babysit while the widow performs her duties, and the twins sit in a bubble of silence and pitying glances. He hopes they’ve had time to cry, that they’ll have space with their mother to figure out what they’ve lost.

Without permission or authority to play another role, Price finds a seat in the back of the hall, eye on the exits, arms folded. This is all he’s allowed for now, so he’ll keep watch until the time comes to speak. It’s his vigil to honor the fallen before he broaches dreams of the future.

-------

There’s no sense in this, not tactically, not practically. His entire plan is to make a selfish mistake. All his training can do is map inevitable risks and try to catch the matches before they strike, before they fall and catch on the dry fuel he’s gathering.

He looks up at the house and imagines it in flames. He’s the torch, standing at the threshold, begging for a soft place to land, even if it puts the whole structure at risk.

A whiskey sounds nice as he festers in his thoughts. But if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. She deserves that much. They deserve that much.

It hasn’t stopped raining since the funeral. The graveside was so foul with mud the twins couldn’t get close enough to throw their flowers into the open pit. The white petals fell short, lying soggy and stained at the edge of the abyss. He’d watched their mother wipe their shoes clean as they sat with their feet dangling out the side of the car. She didn’t bother with her own, just kicking the heels off and slipping behind the wheel in stockinged feet.

She shouldn’t have had to drive herself home from her husband’s funeral. He was sure she cooked dinner when they returned, cleaned up the girls, and found herself too exhausted to mourn or sleep by the time the moon rose.

He waited three nights. He forced himself to, mocking his own rush to step into dead men’s shoes. But he never knew when he’d be called away, and without her anchor, she could be lost to the wind by the time he returned.

The rain drips from his nose and gathers in his eyebrows. His beanie is heavy with it, and as he finally lifts a hand to knock, he realizes just how he’ll enter her home: a fresh mess to clean up.

Too late to think of an umbrella now.

The porch light flicks on. Her shadow moves across the peephole, and he listens with approval as both a deadbolt and security chain clatter free.

The door opens. His breath catches.

She’s in a bathrobe, a thick fluffy thing that looks warm and soft. He can see the seam of a tank top, and her pajamas go all the way to her ankles, but the cozy intimacy is staggering. The kitchen light reflects off the hall mirror, haloing her mussed hair and weary, curious expression.

Beautiful. Effortlessly.

He isn’t here because he deserves her. The reminder barely keeps him from making his excuses and escaping into the night. He’s selfish, and she needs someone willing to selfish for her own sake.

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” She’s looking at the rain soaking his clothes, sizing up the problem she needs to manage.

As he steps through and peels off his soaked hat, she retreats to the guest bath to fetch a towel. He hangs his jacket next to a bomber jacket much too large for the woman of the house, and he unlaces his boots, leaving them beside a fleet of little sneakers and sandals in every color of the rainbow.

“Here you go.”

He accepts the towel, drying his face and neck as she leads him into the kitchen. At least he won’t leave a damp spot on her couch or the living room carpet. She pops on the kettle, and he takes a seat at the kitchen table. A tower of boxes looms in the corner, labeled but empty. A stack of flat containers wait to be assembled beside them.

She catches him looking as she drops tea bags into mugs, and says, “They gave us through the end of the month. It’s hard to pack when it feels like the girls need everything in the house at least once a day, though.”

A hum masks his displeasure. The military’s efficiency is downright criminal at times, especially when there’s an opportunity to trim the budget.

“Know where you’re going?”

“Not yet.”

The tension flows out of him. It disappears down the windows, caught in smeary raindrops that belong outside this little safe haven. He’s making the right decision. He knows it now.

Because he’s managed to wait three nights to approach – lurking at the end of her street, counting the hours like a fairytale creature making a bargain – he manages to wait for the kettle to sing, the water to burble over the tea, and the widow to come to the table with both cuppas in hand.

He accepts his with a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She isn’t looking at him. She should look comfortable here, at her own table, but she’s diminished, crumbling in, and there’s no confidence left in her slumped posture. Her finger trails the lip of her mug in an infinite circle.

He waits for her to find her courage, and he’s ready when she finally meets his eyes and asks, “Why are you here, Captain Price?”

It’s his turn to adjust his seat, leaning in as they get to the heart of the matter. Hands clasped, resting on the table where she can see them.

He’s waited, and waited, and now –

“Marry me.”

It’s honest and blunt and hopefully romantic in retrospect, but this isn’t the right time for flowers and pretty gifts. Her survival instincts are in control, and he knows he’s the only ship for miles.

“What?” Her eyes flick over his face, bouncing between his eyes, looking for the joke, but it doesn’t come, and waits until the seed roots before explaining.

“I know… a little of your story,” he says, stepping carefully for fear of landmines. He wets his lips, buying a moment between thoughts. “Without a place to return to, life after the military is… challenging for widows. Especially with children.”

Even though they’re asleep upstairs, the twins’ presence lingers. Crumbs that escaped their mother’s eye on the table. A small plastic tiger under the chair to his right. Fingerprints low on the glass door to the back yard.

Their sippy cups sit on the drying rack, and magnetic letter spell their names on the fridge.

Anna and Nora.

He clears his throat, takes a sip of tea.

“I want to marry you,” he confesses. And it is a confession. Good men did not yearn for widows before grass grew on their husbands’ graves. “I don’t expect anything, but you’ll keep military benefits, and you can decide whether or not you want to stay on base.”

“You wouldn’t offer if you didn’t expect anything.”

Her knuckles strain around her mug, and she sits up straight, alert. He doesn’t move. Breathes slowly. Keeps his head and prays he hasn’t fucked everything up in his first few sentences.

“It would be nice,” he murmurs, “to come home to people. I’m deployed more often than not, and that doesn’t leave time to keep a place of my own. If you can keep a room for me – tolerate me when I’m off-duty – that’s all I ask.”

She’s still hesitating, but war widows understand loneliness. They practice long before they bury their partners. And he isn’t lying. He will never ask for more, no matter how much he hopes for it.

He only has to plant the seed tonight. There’s time yet for it to grow. It needs to see sunlight, and she hasn’t seen that since the funeral.

“I don’t know.” There’s a battle in her eyes he has no place in. He doubts she’ll be able to sleep at all. “It’s kind of you to offer, but…”

She trails off, but she doesn’t give him a hard no. It’s time to leave before she battles herself into a corner.

“Think it over. I’m happy to wait. I know this is sudden, but I wanted to ask face-to-face, and there’s no telling when I’ll be called in.”

Moving slowly, he grabs a sheet of construction paper the girls left on the counter and writes his number in army green Crayola.

“If you want to talk more about it, or talk about anything, just let me know.”

He stands and smiles, folding the towel she lent him and setting it by his half-empty mug. “It’s not much of a proposal, but I care about what happens to you and your girls. World isn’t always kind to those it should be, and I’d be honored to help. In any way I can.”

He leaves before he can say anything he’ll regret. In a moment, there’s nothing left of him in her home but the puddle from his boots and a wet streak on the bomber jacket from where it hung shoulder-to-shoulder with the captain’s.

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny Pt.9

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.10]

"Fan-sea meeting you here. You must be Phantom!"

Danny slowly turned around, grin blinding. "I shore am. Who's asking?"

Danny knew exactly who was asking. Bludhaven's vigilante, Nightwing. If the giant dark blue bird emblazoned on the front of his suit didn't give it away, the friendly demeanor and the puns would have. Plus, now that Danny's figured out who Tim was, the rest were pretty simple dots to be connected.

"Hi. I'm Nightwing. Thanks for saving Batman."

"I am Phantom. You are welcome. Please lecture him on the necessity of keeping the waters clean."

"Uh, I think he knows," Nightwing grinned. “So, why are you cleaning Gotham’s bay? I heard the Atlantic is nice this time of year.”

“Exactly. This?” Danny flapped a gloved hand around them, specifically at the moldy docks and the paint scraped board. “This is not nice. If it were nice, I wouldn’t need to be cleaning it. Look at that paint! It’s flaking off into the water! Does Gotham not have proper boat maintainance? That’s dangerous for the waters and seafarers!”

“Woah, you know a lot about boats,” Nightwing commented, crossing his arms and leaning back. What the hero didn’t know was that he knew more about boats than Danny did, as Danny’s hyper fixation was more focused on space ships and Dick had education à la maison de Bruce Wayne which usually meant an absurd amount of information for someone who doesn’t actually use boats as a regular mode of transportation.

“Rust! Rust is very much a thing!” Danny ranted, using his ice to scoop up water and using it like a makeshift filter. “It weakens bonds! It’s a tetanus hazard! And oh, don’t even get me started on how you people mutated the ocean life!”

“Mutated ocean life? I’m pretty sure we hadn’t. It’s just a little weird, right?”

Without another word, Danny dove into the weird ecosystem that was the Gotham bay. He came back holding a wriggling green thing the size of a worm.

“Do you know what this is?” Danny demanded. The thing flopped around on his gloved hands.

“A sea monkey?”

“They’re brine shrimp. Brine. Shrimp. Do you know what regular brine shrimp look like???” Danny shoved the thing at Nightwing, who took a step back.

“Not like that?” He replied, a quizzical look on his face.

“No, not like that! What in the ancients is this?!” Danny waved the weird sea brine that had started glowing faintly, like Danny’s natural ectoplasm glow. “Far be it from me of all people to judge evolution but this was all man made!” Danny gently tossed the brine shrimp back into the bay. “Brine shrimp is staple food for the ocean! You’ve got weird brine shrimp? You’ve got weird fish! Why is it impossible for this place to, for even one day, refrain from dumping hazardous chemicals or dead bodies in the water?”

“Ooookay, how about we take a breather?” Nightwing quickly glanced around, trying to find something to change the subject, feeling oddly guilty at the earnest expression on the kid’s face. “Uh, I was actually wondering if you’d swing by the waters near Blüd?”

Danny crossed his arms. “I clean the waters as a past time because you humans don’t know how to keep it clean. I am not a personal, on call, seakeeper.”

“Batman will pay you for your time,” Dick offered. Danny straightened. Amity didn’t actually cost that much to live well, but Gotham was a whole other ball park. The rent might be dirt cheap for a city, but the special pricey little add ons such as gas masks and space level insulation on top of the sky high insurance policies were draining what’s left of his half dead soul. As they say, Danny was a city dweller first and Phantom second.

“How much, when, and I won’t fish up the bodies unless he pays me extra.”

“Four thousand base pay, extra one hundred per identity, fifty for bodies with no shades, and on the weekends.”

Danny straightened as his mother’s steel spine, Jazz’s whip sharp wit, and his own craftiness made their appearance as he bargained. “Five thousand. Rate agreed, but I can only do every other weekends and I’ll have to call out some days.”

“Okay.” Nightwing rocked back on his heels with an affable smile. It’s Bruce’s money and it’s going towards his probable future baby brother, after all, even if said baby brother is a dead immortal Atlantis founder. Or something.

Danny groaned. “You are supposed to bargain back. But I’ll take it.”

“Great! Who do we got tonight?” Nightwing looked down at the plastic/burlap wrapped person Danny dragged onto the shores a bit ago.

“The lake kept the body cold, so it should be preserved adequately if you want to examine him,” Danny tilted his head to the side, the flames of his hair tilting with him. “He said his name is Gorganzo Bean.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s a nickname he got for eating a whole can of beans straight.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Any more details?”

“Sure.”

When Danny reached to take the money from Nightwing, he found that the hero had tightened his grip on it.

Danny pointedly dropped his gaze from Nightwing’s face to the money.

“Wait. I- I heard from a source that you could possibly smell souls.”

Danny yanked the cash out of Nightwing’s hand and shoved it into his shoulder. If that didn’t confirm Nightwing’s identity, he doesn’t know what would other than the guy telling Danny who he was. “You’ve been speaking with Danny. Yes, I can.”

“Can you tell what’s wrong with my brother?” Nightwing blurted out.

Danny stared at him, his legs flickering in and out to his tail form. “…Other than dressing in probably leather or Kevlar and going out to beat criminals with his bare hands?”

Nightwing opened and closed his mouth. He coughed awkwardly. “Other than that. Why is he- um, stinky? Soul-wise,” Nightwing added, clearly humoring the tinny little voice at the base of his temples that was an annoyed Red Hood saying that he showered. “He showers often. And is definitely not stinky body odor wise.”

“I am not a doctor. Well, not now anyways,” Danny said, thinking about his future PhD. “But he’s got a… soul infection. His natural immunity- all souls have a natural immunity against regular outside influences- is working hard to repel the equivalence of chronic bronchitis.”

“There’s… no way to help him?”

“I never said that,” Danny tilted his head. “Bring your brother to meet Danny. He could probably handle it.”

“The civilian?”

“His parents hunted my kind, once. He helped protect me and my people. If anyone knows how to cure it, it would be him.”

Phantom could not afford to deal with this right now, because Danny had a presentation tomorrow that he needed to finish.

“Oh. Thank you, Phantom.” Nightwing said, looking relieved and pensive. Danny decided right then and there that was Future Danny’s problem.

Danny nodded distractedly, blinking out.

He blinked back in. Nightwing jerked back. “Do you happen to have any examples of corrupt politicians in Gotham?”

Nightwing blinked before laughing. “It’d probably be easier to name the ones that aren’t.”

“Good to know. Thank you!”

——

A couple of days later, Tim and two older guys ambushed him in the quad.

“Hi! I’m Dick! This is my brother Jason! We’re Tim’s older brothers!”

Danny looked down at his hand- trapped in an overexcited handshake- and back up at Dick.

Whatever expression he was making, it must have been ha-fucking-larious because Tim and Jason burst out into laughter. Danny cursed his past self.

“Yeah?” Danny blinked. Wait. His smile grew and he made a face like he just realized something. “Oh. So you’re Nightwing?”

The laughter cut off.

“Haha, what?”

“Phantom told me you’d be coming but I, uh, thought you’d be in gear. Not… straight up telling me who you are?”

“You’re in regular contact with Phantom?” Tim demanded.

“Yeah, dude. After you- wait, you’re Red Robin!” Danny whispered.

“Oh shit, B’s gonna be pissed,” Jason drawled, looking mildly amused and hiding an extremely cautious, possibly lethal (if it weren’t for the fact that Danny’s pretty much impossible to kill with regular weapons) reaction.

“You’re one to talk. I’d smell your soul no matter what your disguise was.”

“…About that.”

——

You might be wondering: wouldn’t Dick know not to show up in civvies?

Yes. Except for the fact that Tim stalked Danny for weeks after he met Phantom and Danny hadn’t hung out with (himself) at all. They think Danny doesn’t know Phantom well enough to even talk to him much, despite being from the same town because: they’re all big city kids and have never experienced small town solidarity and, more importantly, gossip grapevines + they have no idea these two are the same people.

A deleted scene:

“When did you have time to talk to Phantom?” Tim demanded. Jason nudged Tim. That had hinted too much at what Tim was doing on his off hours and stalking was usually frowned upon.

“When I wasn’t talking to you, duh.”

[lilyinmysoul]

Crybaby

Joel Miller x FReader

WC: 2.6K

Summary: You get hurt after working on the farm all day. Joel fixes your injury and your mood.

Tags: Fingering (F receiving), kisses over underwear, blood in many capacities; ingestion of blood from wounds, ingestion of menstrual blood (brief), description of dead animal, reader is moody, implied large age gap—I imagine reader to be early twenties or something, unsanitary wound cleaning practices, Joel calls reader ‘Kiddo’ once—I am who I am.

Note: It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I suddenly remembered how much I love it after putting it off. With this one, I was thinking of sweet and fluffy—which it is—but I had to go and add blood as a major element, it’s not that bad. Pretty tame. I imagine this takes place on a little farm not unlike Ellie and Dina’s. Post outbreak.

“Ace! Come back, boy!”

You’d never loved an animal more, but the dog was a menace. A disobedient menace, and the horse could have been fed and brushed already in the time you’d spent trying to lure Ace back to the house.

The fence around the house was short and minimal, but the dog knew never to cross it unless accompanied by either you or Joel for hunting. So as it came closer in your view, you figure that you might get a break from the chasing.

“Ace, slow… slow down, boy,” you call breathlessly, pace quickening and boots trampling over the tall grass. Your walk turns to a jog, which turns to a run. “Do you want some food, Ace? Just come… back. Come back.”

A bark sounds from the Canine’s mouth, and you wonder if he’s punishing you. Joel had asked you to get Ace inside fifteen minutes ago, and it looked like it’d take fifteen more. Maybe you just needed to tire him out.

The dog is still running, but you’re gaining on him. You must look silly running in circles around the backyard, but you figure that once he stops, you’ll convince Ace to follow you back in.

“Ace… baby, come… shit!” When your ankle twists, it only causes a few throbs that jolt up your leg. However, when you hit the ground, it’s your knee that erupts with pain. “Damn you, dog!” Your yell is lost on him, and you watch his tail as he dashes through the grass.

Joel had always told you to wear pants while working outside, but you always much preferred your dresses in the sun. You pull back the hemline, now dusted lightly with dirt, revealing a knee skinned and cut, trickling with little drips of blood. It doesn’t look nice, and you look down at the ground around the wound for a moment, your eyes spacing out on the red rock perpetrator that did this to you as your knee aches like it’d been shot.

You can’t get up yet, so you stare out onto the field, a hot tear of both frustration and pain threatening and conquering your eye, dripping down your face—to your dismay. In your head, you curse that hell raising dog and wish it was dinner time. You are hungry and angry and hurting. The free hand that doesn’t hug your leg to your chest comes down in an aggravated slap against the dry earth underneath you, as if to make it suffer as much as you are, right now. You wipe away the frustrated tear with your wrist, careful not to touch your eyes with your dirty fingers.

Slowly, you lift yourself from the grass, your white dress now tainted by the earth. You set your eyes on the house and begin the walk back to it, your steps a little shaky and slow as your knee slowly drips. The house comes closer and you think that maybe your slight limp is making the trek even more painful. You hope that Joel won’t call you dramatic, and despite the only mild pain, you want to cry.

You swat a fly from your eyes, continuing your walk as you near the old wooden steps to the porch. The house was quaint, and its old, peeling paint felt like home in a way nothing else had. You could cry here if you wanted to, and you make a face at Ace, who sits comfortably by the decrepit mailbox as your boots step up onto the planks. The dog lounges comfortably and it pisses you off further, another wave of hot tears threatening your eyes as you slump down onto the bench on the deck.

Immediately, your elbows find your knees and your chin finds your hands, and you bury your face in them as you let out a frustrated sob. It’s a rather trivial thing, and you don’t think you ought to be crying, which upsets you further.

Through the gaps in your fingers, you see Ace stand up with a lighthearted growl, trotting up the wooden steps and over to the screen door, which is now opening on its rusty hinges.

You see Joel’s shadow on the deck through the mesh as the metal frame is pushed open, and he clicks his tongue at the eager dog.

“There y’are,” he mutters. Looking up you see that his gaze is focused on Ace, a dish of food in his hands. There’s a smell of meat and blood wafting from it—certainly not appetizing, but it reminds you of your hunger.

The dog gives a quiet bark, moving jumpily as Joel sets the bowl down on the bottom steps. He hadn’t seen you yet, you don’t think, so you wipe your face as you watch him.

Joel Looks out for a moment on the grass field outside, his eyes scanning the yard for your figure. You hadn’t brought the dog in, and you hadn’t been back when he asked you to be. He surveys the field for a moment before turning back toward the door, now finally laying eyes on your sitting and slouched figure.

When he sees the tear streaks on your face, he says your name softly, yet exasperatedly. You meet his eyes, a little embarrassed, feeling petulant yet dignified.

His eyes wander down to your knee, red and cut, stinging and exposed, and then to your dress, a little dirty and stained with a bit of dirt and grass. He inhales and rubs his forehead. “Angel, what happened?”

You look over at Ace, your anger having subsided into a moody melancholy. The dog is happily lapping up rabbit guts as you rest your chin in your hands, annoyed. “I fell.”

“Okay…” Joel coaxes. He’s unsure whether the source of your sadness is the pain of your injury, or if you’re just feeling gloomy. He tries to be patient with you; he really does, but it’s hard. You don’t answer for a moment.

“You said I could make Ace’s food,” you state, your voice almost whiny. You didn’t even want to make it—it grossed you out—but still, you complained. You brush a few strands from your face, looking back down at the cracking and dull wood beneath your feet.

Joel exhales again, running a weathered hand through his graying hair. He still had to feed the horse, water the plants. He should probably cut the grass, too… “Baby, you didn’t finish gettin’ Ace. He needs t’a eat.” You don’t answer, so he adds, “And I know you don’t like dealin’ with the meat. Don’t play like you do.”

His voice was getting more stern, impatience creeping into it.

“Well… I fell,” you repeat. You want his help. You want some kind of attention, some affirmation of your feelings. You don’t know why you’re being so pettish, but right now, you’re hurt and you want your way—without being made to feel bad. Joel tried to keep you comfortable, but he couldn’t always feed into your moods. It was difficult, but he would do his best.

Joel takes another glance at your knee, now more bloodied than before. He exhales again. “I’ll patch you up, angel. Just… hang tight.” He turns back toward the screen, and you watch it open, then shut with a clank behind him.

You watch Ace lap up the rest of the food and run off. You stick your tongue out at him as he goes.

It takes a few minutes for Joel to get back, and you listen to the rustling of the wind in the trees, the blue sky momentarily lightening your mood. You watch the barn, still and quiet, and gaze out on the yard as the dog runs in broad circles. Your anger has lifted, but your leg still hurts.

When Joel comes back out, he has a little box of first aid, a small collection that remains hidden under the bathroom sink. “Alright…” he stands in front of you for a moment before kneeling down, slowly, the quiet air disturbed with the pop of a hip and the scuffling of his boots on the deck.

Your hard gaze softens at Joel’s large body kneeled in front of you. It felt nice, now, having him there. You could see, on the treeline, the sun beginning to slink away and out of view, to soon be replaced by the moon, but not before the sky would turn a vibrant yellow that you felt in your soul like honey.

“Alright,” Joel tugs one of your legs lightly, urging you to uncross them as he takes the strings of your left muddy boot. The thing was heavy, a bit loose, and perhaps contributed to your fall. “What happened, baby?”

“I was trying to get Ace, and he wouldn’t come, and I tripped. And there was a rock that I… I kinda hit, and so, now it hurts…” you rattle. The memory causes another hot wall of tears to threaten your eyes, even though the moment is long gone. Joel’s fingers move nimbly at your laces, and when he hears the shake of your voice, he glances up and his gaze softens. There was something about your teary eyes that never let him rest until they were dry again.

“You’re okay. M’sorry.” Joel kisses lightly on your knee, a bit of blood tainting his dry lip and he licks it away, pulling off your boot and moving to the next. When he removes the other shoe, he sets them both aside, and his fingers are light as they rub the area around the cut on your knee. “M’sure he didn’t mean it.”

Your response is almost snappy. “Yeah, of course he didn’t mean it. He’s a dog.”

Joel gives you a warning look. “Watch it.” He grabs an alcohol wipe from the box, tearing open the paper packet. “Don’t give me that, kiddo.”

He sometimes wonders if your petulance is a punishment from God for choosing someone so much younger. He loves you to death, but god, he’s getting too old to run around after you. It’s gotten better, lately, as you’ve settled in on the farm, but… you are so much.

“Gonna sting,” Joel warns, placing his free hand, big and warm on your unharmed knee. You brace yourself, readying yourself for the burn in your open wound. He dabs the gash lightly with the wipe, the material turning a light pink with blood, and a little more leaks from the cut. You hiss, drawing in a breath through your teeth.

“Ow…” you murmur as he draws away the wipe, dropping the sheet into the first aid box, discarding it and focusing his gaze back on you.

Joel’s thumb rubs over the untouched skin once again. “There y’go, baby. All clean…” he presses a slightly sluggish kiss to the wound and you tense, before relaxing into the feeling. It stings slightly every time his lips touch your knee, but it feels nice to have him here. Joel’s eyes watch as another dribble of bright red blood emerges, and his head dips as he licks it away. Soon enough, the drop has disappeared, replaced by the glassy shine of his saliva.

“Thanks,” you whisper, the sound almost lost to the wind. You were no longer teary-eyed.

He nods almost imperceptibly, a soft smile showing on his face as he rubs your thigh through your smudged dress. “We’re gonna clean this one. We’ll get it out,” he lightly pushes up the dress, your thighs becoming visible and his hand continues to rub.

“I like this dress,” you say almost mindlessly, looking out on the grass. The sky is darkening into a deep orange, and you feel both a contented warmth and a hungry growl in your stomach. Joel’s hand consolingly rubs your upper thigh as he gently raises your dress a little more, making your white panties visible.

You look down at Joel, eyes meeting his as his fingers move on to caress your hips under your dress. Your legs spread a little bit as he gets closer, leaning his head on your thigh, warm breath hitting your skin. “You wanna go back out and help me with the work?”

After a few moments of thought, you shake your head. “No,” you tuck some wandering hair behind your ear. “But I’m a little hungry.”

“M’kay, baby…” he tiredly grumbles, kissing up your thigh again. He reaches the lacy trim of your underwear, nuzzling gently into it. “‘M hungry, too.” A kiss to the fabric.

That elicits a laugh from you—the first one of the evening. Joel smiles into your panties, a huff of a laugh leaving his mouth. He breathes in, pressing a kiss to the cotton.

A thick thumb comes between your legs, pressing that sensitive spot through the fabric, and you both hum. The air is a perfect kind of warm, and you hear the first crickets begin to chirp.

“I’ll make you sumthin’…” Joel’s tone is noncommittal as he continues rubbing you. The sensation overpowers the still present, light throbbing of your knee, the pain slowly easing away.

You mumble an ‘okay’ when you feel his fingers slip under the fabric, sliding gently through your folds and eventually sinking into you once he finds the spot. Another raspy exhale leaves you, and you look down at Joel’s face, half hidden in the shadows of your lap as his fingers gently move in and out, curling softly.

“Mm, yeah…” Joel always seems to enjoy this just as much as you do—if not more, and you can tell by the way he murmurs under his breath; he must be hard, but he pays it no mind. None at all. “You still hurtin’?”

“Not very much,” you reply, your words low, now, matching the sun as it makes way for moonlight, darkness creeping into the sky. In response, Joel kisses your upper thigh, inner thigh, hip, as his fingers continue to move. They go a little deeper now, curve a little harder, plunge a little quicker.

Joel’s fingers quicken with a newfound slickness, his digits feeling wetter yet. He wonders if you’d missed him extra while working outside today—he wouldn’t blame you.

Your little grunts are the only sounds overlapping with the chirping of bugs and the buzz of the porch light, and Joel picks back up on the rubbing of your thigh with his free hand, his other dedicating itself to your pussy. One shoeless foot taps on the deck, harder each time Joel touches that spot, and more frequently with the closer you become.

Joel repeats your name a few times, breathily, as he feel your muscles tighten.

You tap your feet quicker, just barely able to make out the wet sound of his ministrations. He kisses your thigh once more, and when you cum, he kisses again, open mouthed and sucking.

He lets out a light chuckle, taking in your pacified expression as opposed to your previous state. “Needed that, huh…?” If you do answer, he doesn’t catch it as he withdraws his sloppy fingers from inside of you.

At first, in the dimness of evening, he doesn’t notice anything amiss, but it soon aware of the red liquid blending with and bleeding into the wetness on his fingertips. Blood mixes with spit as he examines it, and you look down, too.

“Oh, angel,” Joel mutters, looking down at his fingers once more before pressing them to his tongue, running them down its length and removing the excess liquid on your dress. “We’ll get this off… shit.”

You grumble when you see the pop of color, and again when Joel notices the steady trickle of blood into your underwear. The red is rich and overbearing, creating a deep patch of the color in your panties.

Joel stands reluctantly, kicking your boots off to the edge of the porch, forgetting them. “Get up, baby. I’ll get ‘ya somethin’ to eat… clean ‘ya up.”

Thanks for reading, I encourage comments and asks, all that

[wingedfuncomputer]

The outskirts of Town

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: Living far from town with a father who treats you more like a maid instead of a daughter proves itself exhausting. Secluded like a bird in a cage, a boring cycle life becomes until a random man shows up one night striking up an innocent deal. In name of your chicken coop you accept letting him in. Though as time passes & whispers of violence roughing a sweet couple up around town has you rethinking this weird relationship you have created with the Irish stranger who seemed to come out of thin air.

Warnings: naive!reader, apart from that none really just your father lowkey being rude to Remmick cause he’s Irish 💔.

Authors note: This is just a slice of what I’ve been writing for Remmick. My actual word count for the story is 8.5k as of now, close to finishing but I wanted to see if it’s something you Remmick lovers would want to see (I know it’s pretty lengthy). My story is aimed at not just the romance but scare factor? If that’s what you can call it. no full fledged smut or healthy romance here just trying to ground myself in realistic outcomes. I don’t think that man could love normally lmao. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 1.4K Fic playlist Full Fic!

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From a far his eyes locked on her. Right as the sun set she was tending the little chickens, ushering them into the coop. Softly, she tried her hardest to close the door as if not wanting to scare them. A regular passer by wouldn't glance an eye she was a normal little thing, but not to him, not to Remmick.

It was primal how he always found himself being dragged back to her every time the sun decided to hide behind the horizon. Her sweat, her skin, her pulsing blood enticed him as if he'd known her before. She was too sweet to ravish like all those ol' people he had left a mess of before. He let himself get enveloped in the idea that his human mind,what little of it remained had.Affection. With that utterly disgusting revelation he decided to knock on her door to put an end to the feeling once and for all. Heavy, knuckles contacted the chipping paint of the wood.

You had been sweeping the floor when you heard a noise coming from the front door. A little startled your active swipe back and forth stopped confused by who would be visiting your father so late at night. Most people weren't out after sun down. "The floors ain't gon' sweep themselves keep at it girl". His gruffy voice made you grip the wooden stick tighter negating the fact it caused splinters to get stuck to your skin. It was old, long due to be  thrown away but your voice was nonexistent in this house. With a small creak a hesitant humble from a very male voice spoke, "good afternoon... sir".  You whipped your head around intrigued but found your father's body blocking the man who stood at the door. "State your business". He had never learnt kindness, it was a foreign thing to him. "I'm just a lowly traveler going on by, was wonderin' if you could offer some hospitality". A huff emitted from your father as the man continued. "My wife she's no longer with us.. I must find myself across the state but the sun is beating and unforgiving".  Your heart  ached for him, he sounded defeated. Your father surely would say mean ol' things to him n’ get violent. But suprisingly he laughed barking your name then proceeded orders at you, "fetch this man a cup of water". Only for a split second when he turned were you able to capture a glimpse, the man already looking directly at you. His features resembled my father's, except for his frame he looked thinner his face covered in what seemed to be a mix of dirt and sweat. You nod and quickly keep your eyes down. Whilst you grab a tin cup and fill it with water by the sink you hear the small hushing of their conversation asking where he was headed to and why. Your steps are weary making sure you don't spill the water.

"The Catholics did a number on my people kindness is hard to come by. Could you let me in don't want to bother the young lady much?" His first comment is what makes your father's demeanor change, you see it from a few feet away as his back tenses. He ignores the man's request to come inside, "Where you from boy?". Once only a few inches away you decide to lay down the cup by a piece of furniture near by. Eyes creeping behind your father's shoulders it was obvious to see the man was not a boy. He had good amount of muscle on his arms and lines on his face. There's a glint of a smirk in the strangers lips as he glances at you no lack of confidence, "Ireland". That's when your heart drops, with poison your father spits "get your filthy Irish ass off my f*cking property".

"I don't mean no disrespect, I'd still appreciate that water" he takes a step forward which makes your father push him you yelp afraid they'd have a full brawl and the innocent man would end up in his grave. "You won't get nothin' here ! Leave my property". Your hands go up to your father’s arms as you can see his anger exalt, his fist itching to make contact with the Irish man's face. "Father please..." his face full of anger is concentrated on you before shoving your hand away and instead drags you inside from your arm instead. "It's best if you learn to keep away from men like that ." He speaks as if the man wasn't there, you can't help but take a look once behind you once more offering a look of "I'm sorry" before the front door is slammed shut by your father.

That whole night you couldn't bring yourself to sleep tossing and turning, imagining what that poor man was going through. You didn't hear about him the following day or day after that until you found yourself reluctantly putting yet another dead bird into a sack. They were being  ripped to shreds, you made sure the coop was secured each night so what could be killing them? It was sundown, the night air hitting your skin in a way that made your hairs stick up. "coyote... or fox" your body jolts hearing someone break the silent spell in the air. Immediately letting the bag fall and taking steps back as you twist to see who the voice belonged to. "Apologies I didn't mean to scare ya". It was hard to see in the darkness but the moonlight along with your small lamp on the ground allowed you to see enough to say, "your the man from a few days ago". He was standing behind the fence that surrounded your chicken coop. "Guilty as charged" you couldn't help but laugh along with him. "I'm Remmick" he extends his hand towards you which you can only just stare at. It would've been appropriate to say your name and envelope his hand but you don't. Remmick you repeat in your head liking the ring it had to it. "My Irish hands too dirty" he murmurs to himself  which makes you start to ramble in apologies insuring his heritage had nothing to do with your lack of a response. " f’course not It's just that, no offense sir your a- your a...." Your stuttering makes heat flood your cheeks in embarrassment . "A stranger?" He says it so casually no anger laced in between his words just light heartedness. You both stare at each other in an awkward pause before you find the courage to nod. Guilt weighs in your soul after reflecting "I'm truly ashamed about what happened last time, my father...-that is no way to be treated". He just smiles, a little huff of air being exhaled as he leaned into the fence, "it happens more than you know darlin' nothin' personal". His deep voice grumbles nicely when he calls you by that little pet name making your stomach flutter. It must've been as clear as the night sky you weren't allowed around men often, let alone other people.

Remmick seems intrigued by you growing quiet tilting his head to the side as he quirks , "the way across the state ain't an easy one.. stayin’ around these parts is easier. would help if I had a place to rest... ". You would offer him your home in a heartbeat but you knew how your pops wasn't fond of him, let alone yourself. He could barely tolerate you so how would tolerate this stranger . His eyes are trained on your every twitch, your chest constricting and trembling hands playing with the loose fabric of your skirt. It was quite nice really it felt like you were a lil' rabbit troubled by your surroundings. Yet You were unaware that the greatest danger wasn't your father, no not your  father it was the devil himself looming over you in this instant.

He smacks his lips making you look back at him once more. His pointer finger is near his mouth faking thought, "well I might just got a deal that could work for both 'f us". Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you still hear the poor man out. "I can help ya with the lil' chicken problem... in exchange I get a piece of shelter". His eyes nudge at the forgotten sack beneath you then trail up your frame to your face. Your teeth grind in contemplation. If he helped manage the death of these chickens father would probably lay off my back, let me go in town for food trips or what not for the farm.

"So what da ya, say? You gon' let me in?"

————————————————————————————————————————————

[lacydollette]

⋆˙⟡ BLESSING IN DISGUISE ⋆˙⟡

CHAPTER TWO

PAIRING lovely kook!reader x jj maybank

SUMMARY after reconnecting with your childhood best friend sarah, she introduces you to the pogues, and one of them definitely strikes your interest more than he should’ve

WARNING(S) slightly suggestive, jj being a flirt, kook x pogue dynamics, kie lowkey being a hater, mentions of readers and rafes past, spin the bottle, mentions of alcohol, kissing

The golden coast of Kildare Island's sunset painted the sky as Sarah guided you down the dirt path toward John B's chateau, feeling a bit anxious. After all your life wasn’t like any of theirs, and that scared you a bit. "Just... don't let JJ get to you. He's... well, you'll see." She warned you, knowing that her friend would try to hit on you every chance he got. You smirked, tucking your wavy hair behind your ear. "You're acting like I'm not used to guys like him. Trust me, I've handled worse."

Yet you couldn't stop the flood of nerves rolling through your body. Coming back to Kildare was one thing; entering the world of Sarah's pogues was another. For someone like you—Rafe’s ex, and being a "kook" in every sense of the word—this was like walking into enemy territory.

You couldn’t help but think of Rafe as you walked along the chunky trail, to him the pogues were always equal to filthy animals, so knowing that Sarah was now one of them made you curious. Of course, just like Rafe, you used to stay away from pogues, maybe with one exception, but that didn’t matter now. You were taught that your worlds shouldn’t mix, that it wouldn’t work, but knowing just how pathetic your old life was, it maybe wouldn’t be too bad of an idea.

Your little boots crunched against the gravel as you took in the sight before you: a quiet run down house that looked like it had survived one hurricane too many, mismatched furniture scattered across the yard, and a group of teens lounging in the chaos like it was their kingdom. As you stepped onto the property, a tall, blonde boy was the first to notice you, his face lighting up in surprise and excitement. He jumped down from where he'd been sitting and strode over, his grin wide.

"Dammit Sarah, if I had known that you'd bring over a goddess I would've put on less clothes." JJ drawled, his blue eyes locked on you. Now you definitely knew what Sarah was talking about. Nothing you couldn’t handle tho. Before you could respond, Sarah stepped between you, rolling her eyes. "JJ, seriously? Don't scare her off five seconds in.”

"Just being friendly," JJ said, holding his hands up in mock innocence. His eyes didn't leave yours, though, and you couldn't help the faint warmth rising in your cheeks. He was super hot. And you were definitely amused by his charm, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. "And you must be the rowdy pogue with a reputation to match." You replied smoothly. JJ seemed a bit taken aback, and his grin widened, clearly enjoying the challenge.

"Guilty as charged. But don't worry, I'm harmless... mostly."

"Come on," Sarah said, dragging you toward the group. "Before he says something even dumber." Getting closer to the group, Kiara was the first to get up. She crossed her arms over her chest, her sharp eyes piercing through you, feeling skeptical. "So, you're y/n."

"Guilty," you said, echoing JJ's words with a playful shrug. You extended a hand. "It's nice to meet you." Kiara hesitated before shaking your hand. "Yeah, nice to meet you too." Her words were clipped, and you didn't miss the side eye Kiara shot at Sarah. But you didn’t judge her, after all you were kind of skeptical too.

Luckily the rest of the introductions went smoother. Pope was polite but distracted, and John B—Sarah's new boyfriend—was laid-back and welcoming, though his smile carried a hint of curiosity, like he was trying to figure you out. But it was JJ who lingered, his gaze following your every move, his flirty comments never far behind. It felt all so exciting.

"So, y/n," JJ said as you all settled into your seats, beers in hand. "What's a kook princess like you doing slumming it with us?" Sarah shot him a warning look, but you just smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know, hm?" JJ laughed, clearly enjoying the way you confronted him, while Kiara rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

As the evening wore on, the tension in the air began to ease. You found yourself laughing at John B's ridiculous stories, paired with JJ's enthusiasm, and even getting a nod of approval from Pope when you mentioned your favorite book. Kiara, however, remained a mystery to you.

"Alright, truth or dare time," JJ announced suddenly, grabbing a bottle from the sand. "No backing out." Kiara groaned, “Oh, come on.” though she didn't move to leave.

The first few rounds were tame, the dares harmless and the truths revealing just enough to keep things fun. Then the bottle landed on JJ. "Oh, here we go," Pope muttered, earning a laugh from the group.

JJ leaned back, spreading his arms like he was owning the place. "Hit me, baby." He smirked, eyes locked on you as a devilishly, alcohol fueled, idea came to your mind. You just couldn’t hold back, lips curling into a mischievous smile. "I dare you to kiss me."

The whole group fell silent, every eye darting between you and JJ. Even the fire seemed to flicker in response, the crackling flames being the only sound. JJ blinked, his grin faltering for a moment. "Wait—what?"

"You heard me," you said, voice steady. Your confidence was unshaken, though your heart was pounding in your chest. You weren’t even sure where the boldness had come from, but there was no taking it back now. Sarah laughed, burying her face in her hands. "Oh my god, y/n."

"Bold move," JJ said, his surprise melting into amusement. "I like it." He stood, brushing the sand off his jeans, and walked over to you. The air felt electric as he crouched down in front of you, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

"You sure about this, kook girl?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Scared?" You shot back, smirk growing. JJ didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, he closed the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but shy. It was heated, bold, and left no room for misinterpretation.

The group erupted in cheers and whistles, John B's voice cutting through the noise. "JJ, what the hell, man?" As he kissed you there was an unspoken pull, the desire obvious in both of your movements. It felt good kissing him, really good, so when he pulled back you couldn’t help but pout a little. Yet his grin was even bigger. "You asked for it."

You laughed, cheeks warm, but you didn't flinch under the group's teasing. If anything, you leaned into it, your confidence high. You hadn't expected to feel this at ease with JJ, and his charm that ran just a little wild. It was different, and strangely, you liked it.

As the game continued, the bottle spun and landed on you. Not hesitating to pick truth, knowing you couldn't dodge forever and also not wanting to be a spoilsport. Kiara, who had been quiet for most of the night, leaned forward, her expression serious. "Why did you leave Kildare?"

The question hung in the air, and your earlier smile faltered. You felt your throat tighten, glancing at the flames and wishing you could disappear into the sparks. You hadn't exactly planned on going into your past tonight.

Sensing your tension, Sarah quickly jumped in, squeezing your hand. "Y/n went through a rough time," she explained, her voice softer than usual. "There was... a lot going on, and it was all a bit much. You all know how my family can be." She paused, eyes on the fire, then added, "And, uh... y/n dating my brother didn't help. It got... toxic, real fast."

Everyone went quiet, and you felt their eyes on you, shock written across their faces. Yup, somehow it’s always been a shocker for others when they found out you two used to date, cause now you both couldn’t be any more different from each other. Or weren’t you?

"You... and Rafe?" Kiara's voice was laced with surprise, though it held a hint of understanding now—maybe even sympathy. "Seriously?" You nodded slowly, not meeting anyone's gaze. "Yeah. It's not something I'm proud of. Trust me." You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of those words as you admitted them out loud. "I lost myself for a while. Leaving was the only way. I needed to figure myself out."

JJ was the first to break the silence. "Hey, everyone's got stuff they're not proud of." He shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter to him. "At least you're here now, right?" You managed a grateful smile, feeling some of the tension ease. The group smiled gently, their earlier reservations melting away. And somehow exposing yourself like that definitely made you feel good, the pogues giving you a feeling of security, treating you with a newfound gentleness.

As the fire died down, everyone began to yawn and stretch, the long hours of the day catching up with you, so John B offered to drive you, Pope and Kie home. While the two boys piled into the van, Kiara lingered for a moment, pulling you aside as you were about to walk up to the vehicle.

"Hey," Kiara said quietly. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. For being shady earlier. And for pushing you with that question." You blinked, definitely not expecting an apology from her. "It's okay. I get it—you didn't know." Kiara nodded, her expression softening. "Yeah, but still. You're not what I expected, but... you're cool. I'm glad you're here." You smiled, the words meaning more than you cared to admit. "Thanks, Kie."

As you climbed into the van, you felt something shift inside you. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you might actually belong somewhere.

LINKS .ᐟ series masterlist

TAGS .ᐟ @gibson-g1rl @beausling @bunnyrafe @rafescokewhore @starkeysprincess @rafesweetie @rafeslacy @rafesangelita @rafey-baby @starkeydolly @moremaybank @drewspinkbunny @drewsarms

[shelovesosa]

BE A MAN, YOU MUST BE SWIFT AS A COURSING RIVER…

pairing: PRINCE!GOJO X F!KNIGHT!READER

SUMMARY! In a kingdom ruled by tradition, you are the daughter of a famed knight, fighting to prove your worth in a world that sees only your gender—not your blade. Prince Gojo, proud and untouchable, initially sees you as nothing more than a symbol of defiance. But war, fate, and stolen moments on the battlefield entwine your paths in a forbidden love neither of you dares name.

Contains: tension, gender stereotypes, gender roles, misogyny, misogynistic men, gojo is an asshole at first, ANSGT, ANGST NO COMFORT, pure tension nothing happens, yearning, love that’s too late.

cw: 10.1k

A/n: see you at the end!

The clang of steel rang out over the training yard like a challenge to the sky. You drove your sword into the ground, panting, chest heaving beneath layers of chainmail and plate. Around you, the noble sons of Astraea lay sprawled in the dirt—sweaty, bruised, and too stunned to move. None of them had lasted more than three minutes.

Their pride lay broken beside them. And still, none looked as furious as the one who hadn't lifted a blade. You heard his boots first—deliberate, soft-footed despite the polished heel. Then his voice, as clean and cutting as the edge of your sword.

“Impressive,” he said, “for a circus act.”

You turned. Standing on the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed and expression unreadable, was Prince Satoru Gojo, heir to the throne of Astraea.

He looked down at you from behind a curtain of snowy white hair and the kind of pale blue eyes that belonged in oil paintings, not battlefields. His royal cloak of Astraean white shimmered in the sun like silk. Not a speck of dirt dared cling to it. Unlike you.

“Your Highness,” you said stiffly, nodding.

You didn’t kneel. Not here. Not in armor. You had bowed enough in your life.

Gojo tilted his head. “You didn’t answer.”

“Was there a question, sire?”

He smiled—without warmth. “I suppose not. I was merely wondering how long it will take before you’re sent home in pieces.”

Around you, the other knights chuckled. Most were too winded to speak, but a few grunted their agreement. The girl had gone too far today. Knocked down Lord Garrick’s boy, disarmed the son of the Chancellor, and split open some poor baron’s lip in a clean strike.

She wasn’t supposed to be better than them. She wasn’t even supposed to be here.

You straightened your spine. “I’ve trained for this since I was a child.”

“Yes,” Gojo drawled, “but training in your garden with wooden sticks and indulgent tutors isn’t quite the same as war. You’ll see.”

“My father was Ser Aldric,” you replied, voice sharp. “He trained me with steel. Every day until the day he died.”

For the first time, Gojo blinked. A faint pause. He said nothing to that.

But then, just as quickly, his mask returned.

“Ah, yes. The fallen knight. A man of great renown.” He glanced at the bruised nobles still catching their breath. “I wonder what he would think of his daughter bruising the kingdom’s future like spoiled fruit.”

You stepped forward. Not threatening. Just enough.

“He’d say they should learn to fight better.”

A low murmur passed through the crowd. Prince Gojo’s gaze lingered on you, cool and calculating. And then he turned his back.

“Dismissed.”

The captain of the guard—Commander Nanami—stared after him, expression unreadable. When Gojo disappeared behind the stone archway leading back to the palace, Nanami approached you.

“You didn’t make a friend today,” he said, voice low.

You wiped sweat from your brow. “I’m not here to make friends.”

“Good,” Nanami replied. “Because you’ve already made enemies.”

He paused, then added with a strange softness: “That was foolish, Y/N. But brave.”

You glanced down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the fight. “He looked at me like I was dirt.”

“He looks at everyone like they’re dirt. Don’t take it personally. He was raised to see the world beneath him.” Nanami nodded once. “Get cleaned up. You’ll be guarding his chambers tonight.”

Your breath caught.

You? Assigned to the prince’s wing?

“That’s—punishment?”

“No. It’s politics.” He lowered his voice. “The King insists you be seen. Visible. Capable. They won’t say it, but half the council wants you gone.”

You nodded slowly. You knew this. You had known it the moment you stepped onto the palace grounds.

They didn’t want a woman in armor. They wanted a story to mock. A scandal to crush. But you weren’t going anywhere. Not until they gave you a sword and called you knight. And not even then.

Night fell like a black veil over the silver towers of Astraea. You stood at the top of the marble staircase that led to Prince Gojo’s royal wing, your armor catching the torchlight. The hallway beyond was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears like a held breath.

Two guards nodded to you as they passed. Neither smiled. Your post was clear: stand outside the prince’s chamber doors until dawn. Say nothing. Do nothing unless summoned. You were not to move unless there was a threat.

But the threat had already passed hours ago—when you dared to embarrass a room full of noble sons. Now, this post felt less like a guard detail and more like a test. Or punishment.

You didn’t care. You adjusted the sword at your hip and stared straight ahead. The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn. Not at first.

Then his voice came, sharper in the dark than it had been in daylight.

“You?”

You turned slowly. There he was. Prince Satoru Gojo, standing in the doorway in soft linen nightclothes, hair slightly damp, a crystal glass in hand. His expression was unreadable.

“Is this a joke?” he asked.

“No, Your Highness.”

He raised a brow. “They sent you to stand guard over my chambers?”

“They assigned me here,” you replied calmly. “Commander Nanami gave the order.”

Gojo studied you in silence for a moment, then stepped forward—just enough that you could smell the clove and citrus on his skin. His lips curved in a smile that wasn’t kind.

“They must think very highly of you. Or they’re hoping I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’ve stood my ground against worse than words.”

A flicker passed through his eyes—annoyance? Amusement?

“You should be grateful,” he said coolly. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself in the span of one week. I’m sure the court is absolutely enchanted.”

“I didn’t come here for enchantment.”

“No. You came here to play knight.”

You said nothing.

“I wonder,” Gojo said, tilting his head, “what it is you’re really after. Your father’s glory? Or are you trying to prove something to yourself?”

The words stung in a way they weren’t supposed to. You looked him in the eyes.

“I came here to serve Astraea. I don’t care what you believe.”

He gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“No. You came here to fight Astraea. The Astraea that was built by men like my father. Like me. You don’t belong here, and deep down, you know that.”

Silence stretched between you. Then, without waiting for your reply, Gojo turned and walked back inside. The door shut with a soft thud.

You exhaled slowly and returned to your position, hands resting on the pommel of your sword. The moon climbed higher. Time crawled. And yet, beneath your steady heartbeat, you could still hear his voice, echoing like a blade drawn in the dark.

Inside the prince’s chambers, Satoru stood by the window, untouched glass in hand, watching your shadow through the frost-painted glass. She didn’t flinch. Not once. He didn’t like that.

He wasn’t supposed to see you. Not the shape of your shoulders in armor, not the clean burn of fire in your voice, and certainly not the ghost of your father’s courage in your spine.

You were a symbol. An insult. And yet… somehow, you’d stood your ground.

The grand hall of Astraea was all gold and candlelight.

Long tables glittered with crystal goblets, silver forks, and the kind of soft fruits that bruised under the gentlest touch. Every chair was carved oak. Every smile rehearsed. This was not a battlefield, but it was still war. And you had arrived in armor.

Your boots echoed against the marble floors as you entered, all heads turning your way. The clinking of forks against plates slowed, then stopped entirely. You kept your chin high.

You had been summoned—not invited—by the King himself. An official decree had come that morning. One knight from the King’s Guard was to dine with the royal family and its court. They had chosen you.

Or more likely, someone had.

As you reached the long table, a noblewoman leaned toward her neighbor, whispering behind a jeweled fan. Another chuckled into his wine. Someone coughed to cover a laugh. You were led to your seat—at the very end, opposite the prince.

Prince Gojo sat at the center of it all, clad in dark silk and boredom. He sipped his wine slowly, watching you from over the rim of his glass like a cat watching a mouse that wouldn’t run.

“Ah, the Lady Knight,” someone near you said lightly. “Or do you prefer Ser?”

You didn’t respond. Another voice chimed in. “Are you here to eat, or to slay the roast with that sword of yours?”

Laughter followed. Your fingers tightened around your knife. Gojo said nothing. He did not defend you. He didn’t laugh either. He simply watched.

As the first course was served, the tension around you thickened like soup. Forks scraped. Conversations moved on—most of them about you.

"She knocked poor Lord Garrick’s boy to the ground in three strikes," someone gossiped. "I heard she trained in secret—can you believe the nerve?"

"Her father must be rolling in his grave."

“Or smiling. Who knows what kind of madman he was to teach her.”

You sat still, hands folded over your lap, armor creaking with every breath.

Only when the third course arrived did the King speak.

“Ser Y/N,” he called warmly from the head of the table. “How do you find service in the Guard?”

All heads turned to you. You rose carefully, every eye burning into you like flame.

“It is an honor to serve the crown, Your Majesty,” you said. “And I will give everything I have to protect it.”

The King nodded, satisfied.

But Gojo—still watching—finally spoke.

“Everything?” he asked.

The table fell silent again.

He leaned back in his chair, wine swirling in his hand.

“Even your pride? Even your life?”

You looked at him, steady.

“Yes.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes did.

He looked away first.

The conversation resumed. You sat. The rest of the evening passed like a wound that wouldn’t bleed.

Later that night, you returned to your quarters.

The hall outside the prince’s chamber was empty. Your shift had been reassigned for the evening—no explanation given. You removed your armor piece by piece, each plate clattering like a defiance laid to rest.

You thought of the prince’s eyes. The way he’d studied you, waiting for you to break. He hadn’t broken you. Not yet. But something had cracked open between you. And you didn’t know what it meant.

The courtyard filled with tension before a single blade was drawn.

It was midmorning—sunlight sharp, shadows long. The royal guard had gathered in a wide circle around the sparring ring, their boots planted firm, voices hushed. Nobles watched from the balcony, draped in silk and judgment.

You stood alone in the sand. Across from you, Prince Gojo stepped into the ring with a practice sword in one hand and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I hear you’re undefeated among the guard,” he said, casual and cruel. “Let’s test the rumor.”

You knew what this was. Not a match. A message. He didn’t just want to beat you. He wanted to break you—show everyone that the girl in iron was nothing more than a girl in costume.

Commander Nanami stepped between you both, eyes stern.

“This match ends at first blood, or when one yields. Do you both understand?”

You nodded.

Gojo’s smile widened. “Perfectly.”

Then—Nanami stepped back.

And Gojo lunged. He was fast. Faster than anyone you’d sparred with. His strikes were elegant, practiced, almost lazy—but each swing carried the weight of someone who had trained not just to win, but to perform.

The crowd watched, rapt. You blocked three blows. Then four. Your boots slid in the sand as you ducked one swing, countered another, kept your blade tight and controlled. Gojo pushed harder. You matched him.

And for a moment, it wasn’t about the court, or the crown, or the whispers in the corridors. It was just you and him. Blade to blade. Breath to breath.

Then—you saw it. He left his side open. A trap, probably. But you took the chance. You twisted, shifted your grip, and brought the flat of your blade across his ribs in one clean motion. The sound echoed—crack—through the courtyard. Gojo stumbled back. The crowd gasped. And then—it was quiet.

He straightened slowly, eyes unreadable, chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. You lowered your sword.

“I yield,” he said softly.

You blinked.

He said it again, louder this time, voice clear:

“I yield.”

The ring broke into whispers. Some disbelieving. Others, shocked into silence.

Nanami nodded, stepping between you again. “Well fought. Match ends.”

You looked to Gojo, expecting bitterness. Fury. But what you found instead was worse: Something like curiosity. Something like the beginnings of respect.

He gave you a slight nod before turning and walking off, white uniform catching in the breeze. He had come to shame you. And instead, he’d offered something rarer. Surrender.

That evening, there was a knock at your chamber door. You opened it to find no one—only a folded scrap of paper resting on the floor. One sentence, written in a hand too elegant to be anyone else’s:

“You fight like someone who’s never had a place. That’s why you win.”

You read it twice. And then, carefully, you tucked it into your breastplate. You didn’t know what he meant. But you knew it wasn’t the end.

The capital faded behind you in a blur of mist and stone.

You rode beside Prince Gojo in silence, your horse keeping steady pace with his pale steed. Guards trailed behind, but the road stretched long and empty ahead. To your left, the forest thinned into low hills. To your right, the river glittered in the light like a ribbon of steel.

The northern province of Emberkeep was a quiet, loyal stronghold—known for its trade, its iron mines, and its relentless snow. The King had sent Gojo to negotiate a winter treaty with their duke. You had been assigned to guard him.

You, of all people. Neither of you had spoken for the first hour. Then:

“You ride like a soldier,” Gojo said flatly, without looking at you.

You didn’t glance at him. “That’s what I am.��

“No,” he said. “You’re something else. Soldiers don’t stare at the trees the way you do.”

You tightened your reins. He wasn't wrong. You had grown up outside the city walls, riding along riverbanks, climbing trees with a wooden sword on your back. You knew the rhythm of the land before you ever learned court etiquette.

“You never stop watching,” he continued, softer this time. “Even when you think no one notices.”

“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” you said.

Gojo hummed. “I used to think so.”

You looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t in silk anymore. His cloak was dark and travel-worn, his gloves leather. His white hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and for the first time since you'd met him, he looked less like a prince… and more like a man pretending to be one.

“You always sound so certain,” you said.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

Gojo didn’t answer.

The road curved. Your party made camp at dusk beneath a canopy of red trees, the leaves whispering secrets above your heads.

Gojo sat across the fire from you, his sword propped beside him, legs stretched long. The other guards had drifted off to sleep or patrol. You sat sharpening your blade with slow, methodical strokes, the rhythm steadying your thoughts.

He spoke without looking up.

“Do you hate me?”

You paused.

“I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”

His mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile.

“That’s the most honest answer I’ve had in weeks.”

You watched the flames dance between you, licking at the cold.

“You tried to humiliate me.”

“I did,” he admitted.

“And now you’re being civil.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

He looked up then, and his voice lost all pretense:

“Because I saw you bleed for this kingdom before it ever bled for you.”

The wind stilled. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he added, more carefully, “And maybe because you remind me of who I was before they told me who to be.”

You stared at him, armor cold against your skin, heart colder still. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that. Princes weren’t supposed to speak like they were unrevealing.

That night, as you lay beneath a starless sky, the space between your sleeping rolls wide but not far enough, you listened to the quiet rhythm of his breath. Not steady. Not sure. Just real.

And for the first time, you wondered if you could let your guard down. Just once.

The castle at Emberkeep loomed like a fortress carved from frost. It wasn’t beautiful like Astraea—there were no jeweled towers or silk banners—but it had its own quiet majesty. Stone walls darkened by snow, iron sconces blazing against cold stone, guards who didn’t bow so much as nod. This was a city of soldiers. And they looked at you like you were made of glass.

You stood beside Prince Gojo in the duke’s hall, armor polished, chin high. Your sword hung heavy at your hip, the weight a comfort. Gojo stood tall at your side in a dark velvet tunic and silver mantle—formal, but not royal. Not today.

Duke Arwin descended from his dais with a politician’s smile. His son, Lord Cassian, flanked him: tall, sharp-jawed, smug in the way only sons who had never been denied anything could be.

“My prince,” Arwin greeted. “We’re honored.”

Gojo bowed with just enough grace to suggest boredom. You bowed too. But Cassian’s eyes found you, narrowed, and stayed there.

“You’ve brought your court,” he said dryly. “Though I’m surprised to see one of your ladies in armor.”

Gojo didn’t blink.

“She is not a lady,” he said. “She is my sword.”

The room stilled. Your pulse thudded in your ears. Cassian laughed. “A sword with painted lips and polished nails, then?”

You stepped forward once, instinct tightening your fingers. But Gojo’s voice cut clean across the hall.

“Do you fear her, Lord Cassian?”

The noble faltered. “Excuse me?”

Gojo turned toward him with the calm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

“You speak with the comfort of a man who has never seen war,” he said. “But I have. And I would rather have her at my back than any of your blustering knights.”

A hush fell over the court. Cassian flushed. The duke’s mouth opened—but Gojo raised a hand.

“Should we spar for it?” he said lightly. “Your best against her. If she loses, we’ll all pretend your jokes had merit. But if she wins…”

Cassian laughed nervously. “My prince—”

“If she wins,” Gojo continued, “you’ll apologize. Properly.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t supposed to do this. Not here. Not for you. But he had.

They set the spar for sunset. You stood in the stone yard of Emberkeep’s training circle, where banners flapped above and the air smelled of smoke and steel. Lord Cassian stripped to his training gear, sword gleaming. You didn’t bother changing. Your armor was answer enough.

The crowd leaned in. Gojo stood at the edge, arms crossed, saying nothing. The whistle blew. Cassian charged.

He was fast—too fast. Sloppy. You let him come, parried once, then let him stumble on the backswing. He made the same mistake every arrogant man made: he underestimated you. Three moves in, you had him off balance. Five moves, he was bleeding from the lip. Seven— He yielded. It was over before it ever really began.

Cassian didn’t speak for a long moment.Then, red-faced, he looked at Gojo—and nodded once to you.

“I apologize,” he said. “Ser.”

Your name wasn’t spoken. But the title was. And somehow, that mattered more.

Later, as you stood at the parapets overlooking the snowy fields of Emberkeep, Gojo approached without his cloak, pale hair mussed by the wind.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.

“No,” he replied. “But I wanted to.”

You looked at him.

His voice was calm—but his eyes were fierce. Honest. He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t playing. Not anymore. Then, softly, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say:

“You shouldn't have to earn your right to stand beside me with blood.”

You turned away—because if you looked at him any longer, something would crack. And you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

The wind howled through Emberkeep like a beast denied.

Snow slammed against the stone walls in thick, blinding waves. The mountain pass was gone, swallowed whole by white. No one left. No one arrived. You were stranded—along with the prince. And of all the places to take shelter, it was the old high tower.

You’d followed Gojo there after the council meeting was dismissed early. The keep was too cold, and the rooms too crowded with tension. Someone had mentioned the view from the observatory. Gojo wanted air. You wanted silence. And so you both climbed.

But when the storm hit, the trapdoor slammed shut—iced over, immovable. You tried forcing it open.

“I’d rather not die up here,” you muttered, hands braced on the rusted latch.

Gojo sat cross-legged in the center of the room, watching the snow whip past the narrow window. “You won’t. I’m too important. They’ll dig us out eventually.”

“Good to know you’re worried about yourself first.”

“I’m always worried about you,” he said, so simply it almost didn’t register.

You turned.

“What?”

Gojo didn’t look at you. “You’re the only one I’ve met who doesn’t flinch when I speak my mind.”

You crossed your arms, pacing.

“Maybe I should start.”

He smiled faintly. “Too late for that.”

Hours passed. The fire you built sputtered from an old brazier in the corner, flickering gold over stone. You sat near it, knees pulled up, cloak wrapped tightly around your armor. Gojo leaned beside the window. He hadn’t moved much—just watched the sky disappear.

Finally, he spoke.

“My father used to say love is a distraction.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t know you listened to your father.”

“I didn’t. But I remember what he said when he thought I wasn’t listening.” Gojo’s voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. “He said a prince must never love what he cannot protect. And he must never protect what he cannot keep.”

You were quiet. Then you said, “And what do you believe?”

Gojo looked at you. Longer than he should have. Sharper than he meant to.

“I believe I’m starting to lose.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Lose what?”

His answer was a whisper.

“Myself. Around you.”

You stood quickly. Too fast.

“That’s not fair,” you said, voice shaking. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a knight,” you snapped. “I was raised to bleed for you. Not to… not to feel for you.”

His eyes never left yours.

“And what if I’m tired of people bleeding for me?”

The room was quiet. The fire hissed low.

“I can’t be what you want,” you whispered. “I don’t even know what you want.”

Gojo stepped toward you. Not arrogantly. Not boldly. Just… carefully.

“I want the person who looks me in the eye. Who tells me when I’m wrong. Who never bowed.”

You took a breath. He reached out—and touched the edge of your armor. Not your skin. Not yet. Just the cold metal that wrapped around your shoulder. His hand hovered there.

“You wear this like a wall,” he said.

You met his gaze.

“It’s all I have.”

He didn’t say take it off. He didn’t say stay. But he didn’t move either. And neither did you.Because something between you had begun. Not with fire. Not with fury. But with stillness. And stillness, you knew, was more dangerous.

The storm passed. But the silence it left behind clung like ice in the bones of the keep. By the time you and the prince were seen again, the servants were already whispering. The guards looked twice when you passed in the halls. A noblewoman from the duke’s court stopped speaking the moment you entered a chamber.

You did not ask what they thought. You already knew. And still, you wore your armor. Still, you stood by the door at every council meeting, silent and watchful, as if the hours trapped in the tower had never happened at all.

The prince did not speak of it either.

He kept his words measured, his hands folded, his face unreadable. But every time your eyes met across the long council table or through torchlight in the corridor, something sharp flickered between you—like a sword still half-drawn.

Then, she arrived.

Princess Hana of the Southern Isles rode into Emberkeep behind a carriage of rosewood and silver, cloaked in white furs and nobility. She descended the steps with the poise of someone born in a palace and kissed the air beside the prince’s cheek with practiced grace.

“Your Highness,” she said with a curtsy deep enough to impress the court.

He offered a nod. You stood at your post, expression carved from stone, hands clasped behind your back. The herald’s voice echoed across the hall:

“By decree of the Crown, a union between Prince Gojo of Astraea and Her Highness Hana of the Southern Isles shall be forged this spring, to ensure peace and strength between kingdoms.”

A murmur passed through the room. You didn’t react. Didn’t move. But inside, something caved.

Later that evening, the armory was quiet as you worked. You oiled your sword slowly, as if the repetition could drown out the ache in your chest. The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Is it true?” you asked without looking up.

The silence was answer enough.

“I see,” you said flatly. “So that is the cost of peace.”

“She was sent without my knowledge.”

You looked up at him, finally.

“But she will leave with your name.”

The prince’s jaw tightened.

“I never agreed to it.”

“Have you refused?”

“I’m being watched.”

“So am I,” you said. “But I don’t hide behind it.”

His eyes flickered. “This wasn’t my choice.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But it will be your crown. And she will be your queen.”

He stepped closer.

“Do you truly believe I wanted this?”

“What I believe,” you said, “is that there was a time I thought I could trust you to fight for what mattered.”

“And you do not believe that anymore?”

“I believe you are a prince,” you said, voice low. “And I am a knight. That has always been the difference between us.”

His gaze stayed on yours—blue ice over fire.

“You stood beside me when the snow came. When the world was silent.”

“And now?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

That night, music rose from the great hall below your window—lilting and perfect. You stood alone, high above the light and laughter, as Princess Hana’s laughter echoed like bells through the stone. And across the ballroom, the prince stood beside her. Smiling. Silent. Bound by duty. And you—forgotten by name, remembered only by your armor.

The winds shifted in the east. Scouts rode through the frost-bitten gates with reports of foreign banners near the border—black and gold, bearing no known sigil, only fire. Villages near the Vale had gone silent. Trade routes shuttered overnight.

By the time the war council met, the air in Emberkeep was thick with the scent of smoke and fear. You stood at attention behind the prince as the room argued over troop numbers and grain stores, supply lines and siege walls. Your armor was newly repaired, your blade sharpened. You had made your decision before the council ever began.

When the table fell quiet, you stepped forward.

“If you need someone to lead the first deployment,” you said evenly, “I volunteer.”

The words dropped like iron. No one moved. Not even him. Then the general spoke.

“You are the prince’s guard.”

“I am the realm’s knight.”

The general looked to the prince. The prince said nothing. Only his hands betrayed him—gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled, silent.

Later, you prepared in the barracks by torchlight, alone. You removed your ceremonial plate and packed the older armor you trusted more. One extra tunic. Two rations. The envelope in your bag bore no seal, only the word “In case.” You didn’t cry. There was no room left for softness in war.

The knock came at the door just as you sheathed your sword. You didn’t speak. He stepped inside anyway. The prince wore no crown. No guards followed him. The firelight painted his face with shadow.

“You shouldn’t go,” he said.

You turned to him. “It’s not your choice.”

“You serve me.”

“I serve this kingdom.”

His jaw clenched. “There are others—”

“Others who have families. Others who might hesitate. I won’t.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

You stared at him.

“No,” you said. “But you also didn’t ask me to stay.”

He looked at you like something was tearing behind his eyes.

“I cannot stand beside you in war,” he said. “Not as I want to. Not as I—”

“Don’t say it,” you interrupted. “We both know it’s forbidden.”

You expected him to retreat. To drop his gaze. To leave. But he stepped closer instead.

“You keep saying you know your place,” he said. “But you don’t.”

Your breath caught.

“You were never meant to follow behind me. You were meant to be beside me. You are the only one who sees me.”

He reached into his coat—and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, stamped with the royal seal.

You frowned. “What is that?”

He held it out.

“An official royal order. I wrote it myself.”

You didn’t move to take it.

“What does it say?”

“It says you are to remain at court. Effective immediately.”

The silence between you shattered.

Your voice rose. “You would order me to stay behind like a coward?”

“I would order you to live.”

You stared at him. And he didn’t flinch. So you took the paper. Tore it in half. Then dropped the pieces at his feet.

“If I die on the battlefield,” you whispered, “I’ll do so knowing I was never yours to keep.”

And you walked past him. Out the door. Into the cold.

The battlefield was not a place for legend. And yet, your name was becoming one. It began in the southern outpost—where your battalion arrived just as the fires broke through the treeline. The enemy came in fast, mounted and masked, a brutal kind of clever. Officers hesitated. The chain of command faltered.

You didn’t. You rode to the front and raised your blade, no herald, no fanfare.

You only said, “With me.”

And they followed. Because your voice didn’t shake. Because you bled with them. Because your armor bore the same frost and ash as theirs, and you never wore the colors of the royal house—not once.

They called you the White Rose, not for peace, but for the way your cloak moved like a banner through the smoke. For the way you did not wilt. Not even when arrows fell. You fought.

You survived. But every night, when the fires burned low and the tents grew quiet, you reached for the wax-sealed parchment in your pack—the one he wrote. The one you tore. The pieces now tucked side by side, pressed flat between pages of your old field journal.

You hadn’t thrown them away. You told yourself it was for recordkeeping. You lied.

Back at Emberkeep, the prince could not sleep. He walked the halls like a ghost, ignoring courtiers, snapping at advisors. His meals went untouched. His letters, unopened. Princess Hana tried to speak with him once. She found him standing alone in the training yard, blade in hand, slicing at the air as if fighting something no one else could see.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer. She paused. “I heard news from the south. They say the White Rose leads your armies.”

He stopped.

“They say,” she added, “your knight saved over a hundred men.”

Still, he said nothing.

She offered a soft smile. “You should be proud.”

He lowered the blade.

“I’m not proud,” he said. “I’m terrified.” And walked away.

The letters arrived a week later. Written in charcoal on scraps of cloth. Stamped with ash. Smuggled in by injured soldiers who limped past the gates with whispers of victories hard-won. And every single one carried your name. The generals praised your tactics. The people praised your bravery.

But the prince—he read them alone, behind closed doors, where no one could see the way his hands shook when your name appeared again and again like a wound that would not close. His advisor warned him not to show favoritism. He dismissed the court for three days.

And then, without announcement, he descended into the royal vault and retrieved the ancestral sword—one not drawn in over a century. The guards said nothing as he walked past them.

Only the wind whispered, and the ravens watched.

They struck at dusk. Silent. Swift. Cloaked in fog that smelled of iron. You had just finished stitching a wound above your knee when the scout stumbled into camp, his armor scorched and his face white as snow.

“They’re coming,” he rasped. “From the east. Not one banner. All fire.”

You gave no speech. No commands. Only a quiet, “Mount up.”

And they followed. Because you always led from the front.

You rode straight into the heart of it—flames licking the sky, screams rising through the smoke. The enemy had doubled in number, their blades gleaming with something dark. Not steel. Something fouler. The sound of war was not thunder—it was teeth. You fought. Blade against blade. Shield splintered. Blood running warm down your wrist.

You did not count your wounds. You didn’t notice the one that mattered most—not until your knees hit the earth and your vision blurred. You tried to rise. Your hand slipped.

You heard someone scream your name. And then—nothing.

They carried your body back to camp half-conscious, your armor cracked, your pulse faint. Someone shouted for the medic. Someone else lit a torch. But the firelight was dim, and your breath came slow. And then— A rider. No banner. No guards.

Just one horse, galloping through the fog. The soldiers tried to stop him—until they saw the crest on the blade he carried: the royal sigil of Astraea, pressed into silver that had not seen daylight in a hundred years.

The prince dismounted before the horse had even fully stopped. He shoved past the healers. He dropped to his knees beside you. Your blood had soaked through your tunic. Your skin was ice. And still—your fingers twitched when he took your hand.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

You didn’t.

“Open your eyes.”

And somehow—you did. Your vision was cloudy. His face a blur. But his voice was clear.

“I told you not to go.”

You wanted to laugh, but the pain made it catch in your throat. He held your hand tighter.

“Stay with me.”

You exhaled.

“Your Highness shouldn’t be here.”

“And you should not be dying in the mud,” he said sharply. “But here we are.”

You blinked slowly. “You disobeyed the council.”

“I disobeyed everyone.”

“Why?”

He looked at you like the sky was falling.

“Because I could not bear the thought of a world where you died never knowing that I—”

But he stopped. The words were too dangerous. Even now.

He pulled you against him carefully, pressing your body close to his cloak, to his warmth.

“You will not die,” he whispered. “Not here. Not like this. Not when I’ve just begun to lose the courage to leave you alone.”

And for a moment, you let yourself rest. Not as a knight. Not as a soldier. But as something else. Something softer.

You woke to the sound of rain. Not thunder. Not steel. Just rain—soft and steady against glass. The ceiling above you wasn’t canvas. It was carved oak. Painted with stars.

You were back in Emberkeep. Alive. Your body ached in ways you couldn’t name. A tight bandage bound your ribs. Your sword arm throbbed like it had been set in fire and cooled in salt. But you were breathing. You were home.

Only… it didn’t feel like yours anymore.

A servant sat beside your bed, eyes wide when you stirred. She scurried off with a quick bow, and moments later, a physician entered—followed by a handful of royal guards who stood by the door but did not look you in the eye.

You asked for your armor. They told you it had been taken for repairs. You asked for your sword. They told you it was under lock, by royal order.

And when you asked who had brought you home— They hesitated.

“The prince,” the physician finally said. “He carried you from the battlefield himself.”

Your breath stilled. Of course he did. Of course he shouldn’t have.

The next few days blurred together.

Physicians came and went. Nobles stopped by with flowers and false concern. You nodded through every visit, said nothing. Not to the court ladies whispering about the prince. Not to the generals questioning your survival. Not to the princess who visited your chamber in silence and left with her eyes downcast.

And not to him. Because he didn’t come. Not at first.

When he did, it was midnight. No guards. No ceremony. Just him—standing in your doorway like a man who’d been at war with himself. You sat upright.

“Your Highness.”

He flinched.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he said quietly.

“I shouldn’t do many things,” you replied. “But I was told I’m quite good at disobedience.”

A breath of something—almost a laugh—ghosted across his lips. He stepped closer. You stayed still.

“You should have let me die,” you said.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

“You’ve jeopardized everything.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t,” he said again. And there was something broken in his voice when he added, “I can’t.”

Silence stretched between you like a rope pulled taut.

Then you looked away. “The court is turning on me.”

“I know.”

“They think you’ve chosen me.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sat beside your bed. And said the one thing that finally made you break.

“I did choose you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s too late not to.”

You turned your face from him.

“You’re betrothed.”

“It was never my will.”

“But it is your crown.”

He said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say. And yet— When he left, he pressed something into your hand.

A strip of parchment, still warm from his palm. Unmarked. You waited until the door shut to open it. Only three words were written there.

“Name the day.”

The summons came on parchment edged in red. Your name was not written in ink—it was carved. The royal court demanded your presence.

You dressed slowly. Not in your armor—it remained locked away—but in the simple wool uniform worn by squires. No blade. No sigil. Just cloth and silence.

As you walked through the marble halls, heads turned. Servants fell quiet. Nobles whispered behind gloves.

“She was carried back by him.”

“They say she bled for him.”

“No knight returns with a prince at her side.”

You kept walking. You didn’t look down.

The throne room was colder than you remembered. You stood before the gathered council like a statue, spine straight, face unreadable. The prince sat beside his father, hands folded, mouth set. He would not look at you.

Nor could you look at him. The king didn’t speak first. The High Chancellor did.

“Lady knight,” he said, voice sharp as wine, “you stand here not for failure, but for your… entanglements.”

You said nothing.

“Your proximity to the Crown Prince has become a matter of public concern.”

You didn’t flinch.

“The court must ask—has your service to this realm been compromised by personal feelings?”

Still you remained silent. He stepped forward.

“Have you or have you not shared a private vow with His Highness?”

This time, your lips parted. But only three words came out.

“I have not.”

And though your heart stammered like a broken drum, your voice did not shake. Because it was the truth. No vow had been spoken aloud. No promise exchanged beneath gods or stars. Only silence. Only longing. Only everything unsaid.

The court let you go. But the damage had already been done. Later, you escaped the stares and slipped into the lower garden—where the trees grew wild and the roses climbed marble like they meant to swallow it whole.

You thought you were alone. Until you saw her. Princess Hana stood beneath the pergola, her cloak drawn tight against the wind. Her eyes, when they met yours, were not cruel. They were kind. And that, somehow, hurt worse.

“You fight like a storm,” she said.

You paused. “I was trained to.”

“I believe it,” she said. “I’ve heard the soldiers speak of you. The White Rose of Astraea. They say you don’t bleed until the battle is over.”

You said nothing. She approached.

“I know about the letter,” she added softly.

You froze.

“The one he gave you. The one that said, Name the day.”

Your throat dried. She wasn’t supposed to know. She smiled, but it was fragile. Like something had cracked inside her long ago.

“I think he means it,” she whispered.

And then—she stepped closer.

“Do you love him?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t have to. She nodded.

“I do too,” she said quietly. “But I think I love the idea of him more than the boy who would throw away everything for a girl with ash on her boots.”

You looked at her then. And she at you. And in that quiet moment, two women stood before each other—not as rivals. But as mirrors. Each bound to a man neither could truly have.

“I will not stop the court,” she said. “Nor will I help them.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already chosen,” she whispered.

Then she turned—and left, never to be seen by the palace walls again . And you were alone. But not untouched.

The palace had not been this bright in years. The ball was announced as a celebration of the southern campaign’s success. Lanterns hung from crystal arches. Musicians tuned their strings with trembling hands. The court shimmered in jewel-toned silks and hunger.

But the guests weren’t here for the music. They were here for the war hero. They were here for you. You weren’t supposed to attend. The invitation never arrived.

But a dress had been sent to your chambers anyway—stitched in deep navy, with silver trim and no embroidery. Unfeminine. Practical. A quiet message from someone who knew you would never come in satin.

You told yourself not to go. You told yourself it would make things worse. But something inside you ached. You had been the kingdom’s blade. Let them now look you in the eyes.

When you entered, the room fell quieter than music could explain. The nobles didn’t know what to do with you. You were not wearing a gown meant for flirting. Your hair had not been pinned into court-approved curls. You walked like a soldier, not a lady. But the thing that unnerved them most—

Was that the prince noticed. He turned to you the moment you arrived. As if his soul had sensed the shift in the air before his eyes ever found you. He said nothing. Did nothing. But he didn’t look away. Neither did anyone else.

You stood at the edge of the ballroom, near the colonnade where shadows clung. The dance floor gleamed beneath the chandeliers. Couples spun like clockwork—elegant, practiced, perfect. And you watched. You were not jealous. You were simply… outside. Always outside. Until—

The room shifted. Gasps rose in waves, not of horror, but of stunned disbelief. You turned—slowly. He was walking toward you. Alone. No guards. No princess at his side.

Just the prince, dressed in midnight blue, with silver embroidery curling up his sleeves like stormclouds. He stopped in front of you. Close enough to break every rule in the book of old kings. You bowed slightly, because that’s what knights do.

“Your Highness.”

But he didn’t let the title settle. He looked at you as if it hurt not to touch you.

“I should’ve done this long ago,” he murmured.

“Done what?”

And then— In front of the court.

In front of every whispering mouth, every watching noble, every scheming duke and polished lady— He held out his hand.

“To dance,” he said softly. “If you’ll have me.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t reach for him at first.

You couldn’t. You were a knight. He was a prince. And every person in that room had waited for this—for the scandal, for the fall, for you to say yes so they could say traitor behind your back.

But none of them knew the hours you’d bled in his name.

None of them knew the look in his eyes when you’d nearly died. And none of them could know the way your heart broke just to see him standing there, hand open, trembling slightly—not from fear of the court.

But from fear of you saying no. So you placed your hand in his. Slowly. Carefully. Like drawing a sword from its sheath. And the moment your fingers touched—

The music changed. A new song, low and slow and devastating.

He led you to the floor. And you danced. Not like lovers. Not yet. But like two people who had been at war with their own hearts for far too long.

Morning came without song. The lanterns from the night before still hung across the palace windows, swaying gently in the wind. But the gold had dulled. The flowers had wilted.

And in the throne room, no music played.

Only accusations.

“She embarrassed the crown.”

“She undermines tradition.”

“She is not one of us.”

The words came from every direction.

From generals in brass buttons and duchesses painted in powdered fear. From men who had never seen war, and women who had waited too long for their sons to return from it. They had not seen you on the battlefield. But they saw you on the dance floor. And that was all they needed.

The king said nothing. He watched his court erupt from the high seat, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

And the prince? He stood still. Silent.

A muscle in his jaw ticking with every venom-laced word. But he did not speak. He did not interrupt. Because he knew if he did—he would be forced to choose. You or the crown. And the room was full of ears.

You, of course, were not there. You had not come to court. You had not been seen since midnight. And by the time the palace guards went to your quarters… You were already gone.

Your room had been left untouched. No signs of a struggle. No note.Only the small silver ring that once held your family crest—laid gently on the pillow. A symbol of service.

And goodbye. Your horse had been taken before dawn. No one had seen you pass through the lower gate. But the gate was open. And the wind had shifted.

The prince found the ring himself. He stared at it as if it were a blade.

“She wouldn’t run,” someone said behind him.

But he knew better. You hadn’t run. You had stepped down. So he wouldn’t have to. So the court wouldn’t force his hand.

So he could keep his crown. And you could keep your pride. He didn’t speak for a long time. Only closed the door to your chamber. And sat in the quiet. With your ring in his hand. And his heart in pieces.

The highlands were colder than you remembered.

Gone were the stone corridors and whispered judgments of the court. Here, the wind sang its own truths. You wore no crest. No title. Only your sword and silence.

The villagers in the northern provinces did not ask your name. They only saw your callused hands and the scars across your knuckles. They gave you work. Bread. A place to sleep by the fire. You took it all with quiet gratitude. And tried not to look south.

But war does not honor the quiet. Nor does it forget its soldiers.

You heard the rumors before the blood: border camps razed by rebel fires. Children taken. Lords executed. And one name—yours—spoken with reverence by those who still remembered the way you fought at the River Vale.

You had fled royalty. But they still called you knight. And when the call came—a messenger trembling on horseback, begging for help after a nearby town was taken—you did not hesitate. You buckled your blade. And rode into smoke.

The ambush came swift. Too swift. The road was narrow. The hills boxed you in. And the men who met you there were not peasants—they were trained. Masked. Paid.

You realized, too late, that this was no ordinary raid. This was an execution. Meant for you.

Your sword struck true. You fought like a cornered wolf. But there were too many. Too fast. And when the blade sliced through your shoulder, your knees finally gave out—

And the snow turned red. You fell with your hand still wrapped around your sword. Teeth clenched. Eyes blazing. You would not beg. Not now. Not ever.

You don’t remember the fire. Only the thunder of hooves. The crash of steel. The scent of a royal standard blazing in the wind. And then— His voice. Sharp. Furious. Desperate.

“Get away from her!”

You tried to lift your head. Couldn’t.

Everything blurred—until it didn’t. Because suddenly, he was kneeling over you. Not in gold. Not in velvet. But in a soldier’s cloak soaked in blood and ash.

“Your Highness—”

He shook his head. “Don’t call me that.”

“Go back,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “They’ll take the crown from you—”

“Let them try.”

His hands were on your face now, trembling.

“I won’t lose you twice.”

The battlefield raged around you, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I will burn this kingdom before I bury you,” he said. And he meant it.

You knew it in your bones. And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you let yourself believe… That someone might fight for you, too.

You return to Emberkeep beneath a sky the color of bruised lilac. The palace gates open not in celebration, but in silence.

No banners fly. No music greets your arrival. Only the shiver of wind. Only the guards flanking your horse, their eyes downcast. They do not chain you. But they do not look at you either. As if you are already gone.

They take you to the healer’s wing, far from the royal chambers. Your name is struck from the knighthood rolls. Your sword is locked away in the war vault. You are neither traitor nor hero now. Just a shadow with a heartbeat.

He comes in secret. Dressed in riding clothes. No crown. No titles. Just him. And the guilt in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have come for me,” you whisper, voice raw with fever and restraint.

He kneels by your cot.

“I would come for you again,” he says. “Every time. Until they hang me for it.”

You turn your face away. “They might.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

He says your name. Not ‘knight.’ Not ‘soldier.’ Just your name, like a prayer he can’t stop saying even if it damns him.

And still— You don’t turn. Because you both know what this is. A fire waiting for air. A love born too late. A tragedy aching to unfold.

That night, the king summons him. Not as a father. As a monarch.

“You will marry the princess from Nevara,” he says. “The treaty depends on it.”

“I love someone else,” the prince replies.

“You love yourself, if you think you can have both your heart and the crown.”

He says your name. Softly. Firmly. Like an oath.

“She saved my life.”

“And now you’ll repay her by destroying hers?” the king snaps. “Do you think they’ll let her live once you break the betrothal?”

Silence falls.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

“She’s already been sentenced,” the king says at last. “She just hasn’t been told.”

You wake that night with your chest aching—not from pain, but from knowing. Something has shifted. You feel it in the cold stone beneath your hands. In the echo of footsteps in the hall.

And when you press your hand to the window, you see it: A single royal carriage preparing at the gate. Bound for Nevara. And him— Standing beside it. Back straight. Face pale.

Eyes searching the palace walls, as if he might still see you one last time. You do not go to him. You do not call his name. Because in another life, maybe you would have ridden beside him.

In another story, maybe he would have chosen you without losing everything. But this is not that tale. And dawn does not wait for lovers. Only history.

The weeks that follow his departure are drenched in quiet. You are not imprisoned. You are not thanked. You are simply… erased.

The servants who once called you milady no longer speak your name. The knights avert their eyes. Your sword remains locked beneath the palace.

You exist like a ghost. Alive, but untethered. No longer of the court, nor of the field. A knight without a banner. A heart without a claim.

You hear whispers. He has arrived in Nevara. The princess is fair. Clever. Chosen by kings long before love was even a question.

The engagement is announced with gold leaf letters and ringing bells. Your name is not mentioned. But you do not cry. Not where anyone can see. You bleed quietly. You mourn like a soldier.

The rebellion strikes again before spring’s end. This time, they breach the border. They ride through the lowlands, leaving fire behind. The crown scrambles. The prince cannot return without shattering the treaty. The general is old. The court is afraid. And the soldier they need most— Is the one they tried to forget.

You ride out without orders. You do not ask permission. You don the armor your father once wore—the crest dulled, the steel worn thin at the elbows. You braid your hair like he taught you.

And you ride.

You ride for the village that still remembers your name. You ride for the people who left bread at your door. You ride for the child who handed you a wildflower with hands still too small to grip a sword.

You do not ride for him. You cannot ride for him. Because if you think of his eyes, of the way he looked at you across that ballroom floor, you will fall from the saddle and never rise again.

The battlefield is a ruin of smoke and iron. You are one against many. But they know your name. And still they run.

You take the hill by nightfall. Alone. Wounded. Triumphant. And when the banner is raised above your body— Torn, soaked red, trembling in the wind— The rebels vanish like ghosts. But so do you.

You are found at dawn. Lying beneath the tree where you made your stand.

Your sword is broken beside you.

Your hand is curled around a bloodstained flower. And your lips are parted as if you were whispering his name just before the end.

The message reaches Nevara three days later. He doesn’t speak. Not for hours.

Not even when the princess calls his name. He only clutches the seal on the letter, his knuckles white, and whispers:

“She was supposed to live.”

The statue stands in the courtyard now. Marble. Silent.

Carved in your likeness, though the sculptor never saw your face. Only heard the stories. Of a knight with fire in her eyes and blood on her hands—not from cruelty, but from every kingdom she tried to save.

You wear no crown in the statue. Only a sword at your hip. And a rose carved into your palm.

Each year, on the eve of the battle, a single white bloom is placed at your feet. Always fresh. Never seen delivered. And no one dares to ask who lays it.

The kingdom tells children your story. They leave out the prince.

They leave out the dance. They leave out how love is sometimes not enough. But he remembers. He always remembers. He abdicates not long after the war.

Says nothing of it. Leaves the crown in a circle of firelight and shadow, and walks away like a man shedding a second skin. No one stops him. They know better now. Some grief cannot be ruled.

The statue still stands. Unchanged. Wind-polished. Waiting.

And one day—quiet as twilight—a man approaches it.

His hair is streaked with silver. His hands are roughened by years that did not heal what they were supposed to. But he still walks like royalty. Even if he wears no crown.

He kneels before your stone likeness. And places the rose at your feet. No guards. No court. Just him. And a small silver ring he slips from his finger, placing it beside the bloom.

“I should have run with you,” he whispers.

“I should have burned it all down.”

He presses his forehead to the base of the statue. And says your name one last time. Not like a vow. Not like a prayer. But like an apology carried too long.

And when he rises— There is no triumph. No music. Only the wind. Carrying the scent of a white rose far, far across the hills.

The cottage is small. The kind of place a king would never have entered in his youth.

But he is not a king anymore. Just a man. A man who spends his mornings tending vines and his evenings writing to someone who cannot write back.

Each day ends the same. With ink. With silence. With your name.

Letter 37

I saw a hawk today, circling above the cliffs. You would have known the species. I didn’t.

I wonder, often, what else I never knew about you.

I knew the way you held your sword. The way you stood when they doubted you. The way your voice trembled only when you wanted it to—but not when you were afraid.

But I didn’t know the color you dreamed in.

I didn’t know which name you would have taken if we had ever... if I had ever...

I didn’t know how to say don’t go without betraying everything you fought to protect.

And by the time I learned—it was too late.

I hope you forgive me.

Or if not that—then at least remember me gently.

Letter 52

The sea is violent tonight.

I thought, once, that I would die in battle. Then I thought I might die beside you.

Now I think I’ll die like this. Quiet. Forgotten. Dreaming of a girl with ash on her armor and a crown in her bones.

They say you’re a legend now.

That the children touch the statue’s sword for courage. That girls whisper to it before entering training halls.

You would have hated the way they softened your edges.

You were never a symbol.

You were a storm.

And gods help me, I loved the way you burned.

Letter 96

I still wear the clothes from the day I left court.

They’re threadbare now. But they feel like penance.

Some days I wonder what would have happened if I’d spoken sooner. If I had called you back at the gates. If I had stepped down before you ever could.

But regret is a wheel I spin endlessly.

I have no crown now. No audience.

Only you.

And this old, shaking hand.

Still writing your name long after the world has forgotten it.

Letter 103

This will be my last.

The wind is colder. My legs ache more each morning.

I don’t fear dying.

I just fear dying with your voice still trapped in my throat.

There is a place beyond the cliffs where the flowers grow wild. I’ve chosen it. For the view. For the quiet.

If there is a next world—wait for me.

Not as a knight. Not as a prince.

Just as two people who once met too late.

And maybe next time, we’ll get it right.

Until then—

With all that I was,

With all that I ruined,

With all that I loved:

Yours.

Always.

A/n: whos your favorite Disney princess?! Hope you enjoyed!!!