#if Fate as we know it is unnatural

[thormanick]

Crazy thought,

are humans with visions supposed to be “batteries” for gods/divine thrones/whoever issues the actual vision?

/lots of thoughts in the tags/

[shiny-jr]

from POMEFIORE

- Warning: Yes, this is still a yandere thing. You have been warned. Gender-neutral reader. 

- Characters: Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Epel Felmier.

- Summary: (Continuation, after this “we just got a letter, wonder where it’s from”) You have barred them from entering the safety of Ramshackle Dorm, but they are determined to make their words reach you. Which is why the letters begin arriving at your doorstep.

- Note: Hoping its not too out of character.

Ignihyde   |   Pomefiore   |   Scarabia

Perfume. The carefully sealed envelope reeked of it, like the sweet smell of lavender with spice. The envelope containing the message looked like something you would find when getting an invitation to a ball or a wedding. The envelope was pristine, and the wax sealing it was done so perfectly without a single awkward edge.

It almost looked unnatural with how perfect it appeared. The thick beige parchment was cut evenly, and not a blot of ink strayed from the elegantly curved cursive words that looked like ribbons upon the page. Looks could be deceiving. It was beautiful, but as you might've already guessed, the interior didn't entirely match what was hidden beneath the surface.

To my darling player,

I am at fault and take full responsibility for my actions.

All I've ever wished for, was to admire you. You are the epitome of magnificence, divinity that I can only dream to one day achieve but knowing I will never truly reach. There's an otherworldly sort of allure to you, which drew me in far too close. Much like the man who enhanced himself with wings of wax, but flew too close to the sun so his wings melted and he met a terrible fate. You are the sun, and I was that reckless fool with fake wings.

I allowed myself to get too close, tainting your light with my imperfect presence. Your grace was the warm sunlight on my skin, when everything around me was a horrible darkness. To think, I attempted to put out that light. It was nearly diminished. For that, I should be burned. I'm sorry, so so sorry.

I've thought long and hard on what I could possibly say to you, what sort of response could be adequate enough considering what you mean to me and the delicate situation. It didn't take long for me to arrive to the answer: no response is fitting. It doesn't matter if I pen a letter long enough to rival the river of tears I shed, coat the envelope in gold and ink of silver, with a message that would have moved the seven themselves to weep. It does not change the betrayal that occurred. I betrayed the trust you gave me, and shattered it into millions of pieces. However, know that I'll be on my hands and knees piecing it back together again, even if the shards cause me to bleed, you are worth it.

The stabbing sensation on my skin would be nothing compared to the one in my heart that I feel when I consider the fact that you might despise me. There's nothing more I would want than to see your face, hold your hands and feel the warmth of your skin that's so unlike the coldness of your vessel. Requesting a meeting would be imperious, as I have no right to ask you of this. But if I could, I would love to see you and discuss what comes next, perhaps over lunch. This is just a thought, a wish of mine, but one you are not required to fulfill.

I'd love to believe that I know you and your vessel better than anyone else could even dream of understanding, but I know that is far from the truth. Even as I pampered and polished your precious doll, your secrets continue to escape me. Did you ever hear me, when I brushed and washed Yuu's hair? When I took their freezing cold hands and painted their nails? When kneeled down in front of them to polish their shoes? When I adorned the best luxuries of brand accessories on their body?

I would kneel down to no one else.

There was always this wish, a dream of mine, that one day I might perhaps one day get to pamper you. Not Yuu. But you. Is that a scandalous desire?

Your hands would be warm, and I would hold them as I file your nails. Your arm wouldn't be so rigid and mechanical, you could actually extend it as I slather a creamy scented lotion along your skin. And if you do desired, I could lift your head and apply lipstick to your lips... This is just the process I commonly used while your vessel was under my care.

Although, I would gladly take up the responsibility of nursing you back to health, or any other role you would give me. There are countless things I can accomplish for you. I commonly deal in potent poisons, but I can just as well deal in healing and comforting. I'm skilled in self-defense and various forms of magic, so I can be your companion to protect you from everything that would wish you harm. You know of my business in acting and singing, so even if you wanted nothing else I could be there to entertain or serenade you. I only wish to be with you again, even though I know I'm underserving. I'm selfish.

If you want nothing more, then I have to be satisfied knowing I was in your thoughts for a brief moment. A twisted part of me wants your mind to be plagued by thoughts of me, just as my mind and heart is full of you.

I have to remind myself, that by getting too close I risk being burnt. But, at this point, I do not care for my own safety. I only care for yours, and I do this to keep my sanity. I truly admire you so much, that I cannot adore you from afar behind a rope like sculpture in a museum. I have to stand nearby, inspect your beauty, polish you to a shine, and value you like the priceless treasure that you are. Should someone threaten to chip off even the slightest speck on you, forcing you through more suffering...

I will shatter them into a million pieces, to preserve your peace.

Yours,

Vil Schoenheit

The wonderful aromatic smell that filled your nose brought back some not so pleasant memories. The smell of the earth beneath your feet, the scent of dew collected on every still surface, but above all were fragrant tangs that immediately alerted you to any nearby presence of a student belonging to Pomefiore.

They had chased you through those deep dark woods, like a pack of rabid hounds tracking and hunting a poor wounded rabbit. Besides their shouts and footfall, their perfume gave them away. There was one in particular which you only caught a whiff of only when you had too closely encountered the dormleader. The scent of lavender and spice hit your nose, the same fragrance on the letter.

"That reeks! Burn it!" A certain feline hissed, covering his little black nose with his paws. You swore the fragrance was beginning to form a migraine at the front of your skull. If the smell was strong for you, it must've been much worse for Grim since he had a superior sense of smell.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if the smell wasn't that strong and it wasn't the particular scent. Like vanilla or freshly baked bread. If that were the case, Grim might've insisted on keeping it or even be tempted to take a bite out of the sheet.

But it was lavender and spice. So the letter was tossed into a corner several feet away, left to an unknown fate that you would ultimately decide later. When you glanced back to Grim, you saw him holding and sniffing another letter.

For a long moment his sniffed the rolled up paper, his black nose twitching as he was likely just searching for another gift to claim as a snack. After a few seconds, he discarded it, sliding it over to you before he opted to dig through the pile like a raccoon digging into a heap of trash. "Meh, this one smells boring."

"Boring, huh?"

Boring wouldn't exactly be your choice of adjectives to describe this letter. It wasn't an envelope, it was a scroll tied by ribbon, attached to an arrow. An arrow, of all things, was likely the messenger for this message. Thankfully, this one didn't smell of anything. Even without a fragrance to match to a profile, the arrow was a dead giveaway.

Opening it up and using your hands to smooth out the curled edges, you blatantly ignored the wax seal over the ribbon. Once it was fully unsealed, a few single flower petals drifted down from the paper. Just another mess you would sweep up later and decide whether to dispose of it or not, like the first letter from the dormleader. For this one you were a pinch anxious. The sender was not like the others who came before.

Trickster,

It relieves me to see that you are finally safe.

To see you rest and heal in tranquility, nothing steadies my anxiously beating heart more than knowing you are sheltered. Well guarded by a trio of ghosts and the courageous feline Grim, I have no need to stress over your wellbeing with them acting as your valiant knights in shining armor! Although, I would also wish to join their ranks, blessed by your grace and fit to serve as your shield. However...

I am conscious enough to know that I am nowhere near fitting, no matter how much I may wish to reach out and shield you from every evil. In that most vital moment, I had failed to recognize you. I may have spared you from the sharpness of my blade, but I couldn't have guarded you from the suffering that was to come afterwards.

I'm so deeply and truly sorry. Many sleepless nights have followed, since and even before our first fateful encounter in those woods of the Pomefiore estate. Before our encounter, I was conflicted. I wanted to detest you, but I could not, I thought there must be a reason this was all occurring. I couldn't slumber peacefully, so long as I knew there was turbulence surrounding your beloved vessel. After our encounter, I couldn't get the vision of you fragile, frightened, and wounded, out of my mind. Raising a blade against you, who were a stranger shrouded in infamy, made my very heart stop.

Now I know why I was so unexplainably drawn to you. It was not due to the wild frenzy that overtook the entire campus, or a burning hatred to destroy, or even my own desire to discover answers I desperately wanted, although that last one may have played a role. The reason as to I was so enticed by you, a cunning 'imposter,' was because my heart recognized you. It must have been my very soul that pulled me towards you, and perhaps my own nature as well. My body recognized you, my heart and my soul led me to you, but I was blinded by my sorrows.

Throughout the few years I've had on this wonderful earth, I've seen countless peoples, and you are unlike any of which I've seen. In the places I've been, I have witnessed poetry be written by masters of literacy, melodies sung by the most angelic voices ever heard on a stage, and devoted worshippers in holy places kneel in solemn prayer. Somehow you as a single being, or entity, encompass all those elements into one. My aim is to admire beauty, and I see beauty in its finest form when I look at you.

I truly understand what you mean to me, and to others.

But at the same time, you remain a mystery. And I believe I'm speaking for all those who admire you when I say this. We could only dream of truly understanding you, when we only had Yuu.

So, I try to make sense of it all in what I do understand, in the beautiful things I adore that I associate with you who I cherish. In literature, music, photography, I see you in everything all at once. When I read poetic lines, I think I could share it with you. When I hear beautiful music, I imagine you might enjoy listening to the tune too. When I discover stunning sceneries, I plan to bring you there someday to share a moment with you.

Now, I can make sense of it. I understand how the poets of old felt as they penned the love and awe they felt towards the Fairest Queen. It's a rare sentiment that cannot easily be put into words, a feeling as if it held my delicate heart and squeezed when I so much as thought of you. When a song and its composer can bring an audience to tears, I understand that now too. Hearing your voice for the first time, formed a knot in my throat that prevented me from saying much. Catching that first glimpse of you, was like gazing at a perfect painted portrait hanging in a museum.

My dearest player, I am a Hunt. I am naturally inquisitive by nature, and my fondness for you comes just as naturally. You may consider it wrong, but I will continue to offer my loyalty even if you may not accept it.

My aim is to one day unlock your secrets, solve your mysteries, and understand you fully, learn what makes you tick and what drives you forward. Perhaps when the day comes when you've forgiven me for my crimes, I can proudly stand in your presence and recite the poems I have written in your name. I could admire you everyday from then on, and remind you everyday of your worth. Then, I will protect you, from all harm, and I will not allow myself to fail you once again. This is a promise.

Should you need me, I will be there.

Yours,

Rook Hunt

There was something that felt... off. Compared to some of the previous letters, these were rather tame. Of course, there was the desperation and fascination evident in their words captured by the ink, but it was nowhere near as extreme as other cases.

Although, it was still chilling, to read the thoughts they penned.

In your hand you held the arrow the letter had been connected to, feeling its thin shape and the sharpened head at its tip that nearly pricked your finger. The vice dormleader had excellent aim, and had he not been so kind, arrows like this one in your hand could've easily been driven through your flesh and caught you against a tree where you would've been helpless in their grasps.

And yet, despite the opportunities he had, he didn't let a single weapon touch you. All it would take was one arrow, one moment and he could've ended you where you stood. But he spared you. However, there's the lingering doubt that maybe the primary reason he did it was he hoped you had answers to the malfunctioning vessel. You couldn't be sure exactly why he spared you, when everyone had wanted to torment and imprison you or worse.

Beside you, there's a large crunch and a content purr. When you look over, there's Grim, happily munching away on an apple he held with his little paws. He sank his fangs into the fruit, content that he finally found an offering that appeased him. In front of him was a small basket, filled with more juicy red apples.

"These are great! And, even though I was the one who found them, I'll let you have some!" Grim picked up another apple from the basket, sticking his claws into the red peel and offering it with his little grin. Nevermind the fact that these were probably meant as a gift for you and not for him, but you didn't mind. They would have likely ended up in the trash anyways, at least someone could enjoy them.

"You should really have one. You haven't eaten all day."

"I'm not hungry, but thanks. You can have them." Ever since everything happened, you weren't too keen on accepting gifts, especially if they were consumable. For now, the only places you'd accept food from, was the cafeteria you'd venture too at the dead of night when no one was there, or Sam's shop.

In the spot of the basket where Grim had removed the apple, there was a white layer at the bottom of the basket. Perplexed, you reached in and found an envelope hidden by the piled apples.

Unsurprisingly, the envelope smelled of sweet things, apples, cinnamon, and freshly baked pies. The envelope itself was nothing special, it had no intricate wax seal or marking. It was loosely sealed shut by a brown piece of string, and covered in some white and pink apples blossoms.

The inside was less impressive, more authentic, which was refreshing in a way. Smooth cursive flowed into slightly choppy print scrawled out in uneven lines, before eventually returning back to cursive at the end of some sentences. It appears parts were rushed judging by the blotted ink stains at multiple periods. The apples were a clue as to who the sender may be, but why would the letter be hidden in a gift?

Dear Player,

If you're reading this, that means my letter got through.

Where do I even start? It seems right that I first say sorry. I'm sorry. It sounds like a load of bull, but I am sorry. Apologizing in all these other ways, won't make this any better, so, I thought this might help. I'm gonna be completely honest with you, no lies, no tricks, just the blunt truth. I'm not going to be showing you these pretty sides I polished to impress and to mask all the ugly. I'll tell you everything that's been going on. That's something only I have the guts to do.

The reason I hid this letter was because Vil and Rook have been checking anything I want to write to you. They want to keep up this positive front, they wanna at least pretend to be perfect enough to be near you. At least, that's what I think. Although I know we won't ever come close to that.

Instead of trying to write a real and honest letter for you, it feels like I was writing some essay for Professor Trein to grade. I'd have to write and write, and even if the grammar was right, the message wasn't. They want to make you think everything's okay, when it's not. I can only imagine what elegant crap they were spewing in their own fancy letters, while we're actually all a mess. We've been like this since Yuu broke down. I try to understand them, and in a way I do, but sometimes they freak me out. Yeah, I got my own problems trying to comprehend all this chaos, but they're different.

Is everyone else in the other dorms this extreme? This miserable and on the verge of breaking? Maybe you won't believe me, or maybe you'll realize that there's some truth to what I'm saying. Here, in Pomefiore, I can only tell you what I've seen. These days, Rook's smile seems strained, like he's about to snap, his eyes are sharp and watchful. The only time his smile is normal is when he's looking at some photo, but he won't ever let me see what it is. Vil, well, the only sign he's still alive and kicking are the packages that come in for him, new makeup and all that stuff, things he's using to craft that perfect mask. I did see him one night out in the hall, I swear there was mascara down his face but I was too put off to approach when he was like that.

Don't ever tell them I told you all this. Vil would probably skin me alive and wear me as a robe, and Rook... I don't want to think about what he would do... I'm kidding by the way, but seriously, don't ever tell them. I told you I would be honest to you, so here's my reason. I thought that maybe telling you all this would score me points with you, get you to trust me again. Even if this is a rotten way to go about it, I don't care.

I am rotten, and I won't hide it like them.

If I can't even be honest with you, then do I really deserve a second chance at all?

Scratch that. I don't deserve a second chance at all after everything that happened. What I did was downright terrible, but I'm trying my damnedest to be deserving again. And I won't stop trying, even if part of me thinks it's useless. I never cared for Yuu, the only reason I acted for them was because it was you behind them. My goal is to eventually be beside you, the real you.

Although, a basket of apples is a crummy way to go about things, but think of it like a peace offering. Just cause I can't get word to you, don't mean I give up. I'm not giving up. Ever. Everyone's going about their own roundabout ways of mending things. If you want to hear more, I'll gladly tell you. I don't think anyone else would tell you the truth of what's happening, because in a sense everyone wants to appeal to you with the best image of themselves they can possible portray. Don't believe all the hogwash they send you. If whoever sends something and seems to be stable, they're not. Not completely.

I'm awfully ashamed to admit it, but I'm not okay. Not since everything started, and not since everything went to hell when shit hit the fan. I'm not okay without you, and I got myself to blame for that.

This letter is helping. The thought of communicating with you again, even if I can't see your face or hear your voice and its reduced to words on paper, it's more than I could ask for. So, if you want me to spill the beans, just ask. If not, if there's no response, well, I'll get a bit of comfort thinking you might've read this. Besides, I have hope with each attempt I'll make. I'm not just rottenly selfish, I'm stubborn to a fault. And if I have to knock down someone else's chances to get closer, then that's fine by me.

All you gotta do is talk to me.

Until then, hoping to speak to you soon,

Epel Felmier

[cskv11]

Hmm, for whatever reason, I believe this one shot from the new "How NOT to Draw" short:

is Bill straight up mocking the concept of free will AGAIN.

(this dude has some deep issues with this subject smh)

Allow me to explain myself:

In the original painting (Creation of Adam):

it's God's index finger (right hand) that's fully extended, while Adam (left hand), even though he has his arm fully outstretched, keeps the last phalanx of his index finger slightly bent; symbolizing that God is always there, but the decision to connect to him is up to humanity. If they want to, they can extend their finger and connect with God; if not, they can spend their entire life without seeking him, thus explaining the concept of free will.

Knowing this, if we now analyze Bill's shot, it seems as if the roles have been reversed: It looks like it's Bill's index finger that's slightly extended, while God's is uncomfortably contracted, almost purposely avoiding that contact from happening...

And if we dig a little deeper here, we can find lots of symbolisms, like Bill's desperate thirst for power and control, the lengths he's willing to go to cross beyond the natural order of things, his desire to be the one who plays God, and to have absolute sovereignty over the fate of his disciples, even though that role definitely has never belonged to him. He wants to 'reach' out to God, to become God himself, but it comes as unnatural, the 'Universe' itself retracts to avoid that from ever happening...

However, it can also be interpreted as just a simple mockery towards free will itself: the roles are reversed, no matter how much you extend your finger, you'll never make 'contact' with God because he is making the voluntary effort to avoid any contact with you.

Long story short: there's no such thing as 'free will' because you never actually had the option to 'choose' to connect with 'God' since there NEVER was a hand reaching out to you IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I might be wrong, and I might be reading way too much into it; I don't know much about art history, but I just found it interesting to see a parody of that painting hahaha

[jarofstyles]

Lullaby

okay... so here we are with a new vamprry. pleaseee let me know what you guys think, I am a slut for vampy so I figured we needed some more of him in our life :)

Check out our Patreon for early access and 180+ exclusive writings!

WC- 3.1k

Warnings- mentions of blood, vampires, stalking (Edward Cullen has nothing on him), twilight slander, invasion of privacy, morally gray H, etc

-----

Harry hated that stupid movie. 

It wasn’t at all what real vampires were. While he wished it was as lighthearted as the movie tried to portray, it was a bit more classy and a lot more hierarchical than the humans would truly ever know. They walked among them, yes, but in more plain sight than they could ever guess. Celebrities, politicians, even royalty were of vampiric life. It wasn’t as silly as this movie suggested, nor did they solely feed off of animal blood. It did taste a bit gamey, did in a pinch, but he wasn’t one who could stomach that sort of pseudo vegan lifestyle. Ever since that movie had erupted from whatever depths of hell it was created, it had caused him nothing but strife. Years later the vampire craze had seemed to slow, but lines were nearly burned into his ears after being subjected to the comfort movie of his unfortunate neighbor and object of his current affection.

He knew it was creepy and perhaps the one thing he shared with the Cullen fellow. Watching her as she slept. 

It was dangerous, stupid even, for her to leave her windows unlocked and while part of him wanted to scold her for it, the other part was thankful. He didn’t have to form another guise to get into her house, he could enter directly where his little human laid her head at night and he could watch her breathe. Listen to her breaths and heartbeats underneath the television shows she left on to drown out any noises the old house may make. That’s what she said in her journal, anyway. 

He sat in the chair across from her bed, listening to the comfort of her heartbeats as he flipped through the pages. It was an invasion of privacy, he knew it, and while sometimes he felt bad… it was his way of getting to know her. Morals had never quite been his thing anyway, let alone when it came to the girl snoozing in her bed like a pleased kitten in a sunbeam. Maybe he was deluding himself, but he swore that she calmed the fitful sleep when he entered his room. Like her body knew of his presence. Instead of being on edge, like any sensible human would be in direct contact with a predator, she possibly had a miswire of her brain. 

For all of the things he knew about her, for his addiction to her scent and being near her, they didn’t talk much. Harry owned the house next to hers, which was originally a rental, but the moment he had caught her scent he knew he had to stay longer. 

It was unnatural if you were a human, sure, but if you were a vampire you would understand. There were certain people, certain scents, that drove you insane. That weighed heavily on your brain and acted as an addiction. Y/N had captured his attention the moment he had pulled into the street, Harry immediately clocked that she had been the source of the scent that had caught his nose a few miles away. He’d been meaning to park at his place and go on foot in search of it, but as fate would have it; she was right next door. 

To get an invitation into her house, it had been quite simple. Using his cat that didn’t exist as an excuse; he asked if he could come around and look for him in her yard. The little thing had gasped, nodding her head ecstatically and inviting him in without second thought, only with the promise of getting a pet in if he were to find the fictional cat. A good thing for him, but worrying for the future. Inviting people in, vampires in, was incredibly dangerous. He had wanted to scold her for it, to make her understand the danger she had put herself in, but it was much harder to do that when said woman had no idea that his kind could even be a threat to her. 

From there it had been waving when he left and she sat on her porch with her book, feet tucked under her body as she rocked on her glider. A pitcher of cherry limeade next to her, sweetening her blood in ways that made his fangs prick his lips. The human did things she had next to no clue affected him so deeply. One particular day he had been desperate to hear her voice, going as far as stealing her mail so he could deliver it to her himself. Knocking at her door, he’d been anxious with anticipation hearing her walk up to the front of her house. Water had been on and there was the faint scent of lemon dish soap lingering in the air along with the slight clinking of dishes, cluing him into the fact she had definitely been doing her dishes. When his obsession did answer the door, his breath had caught in his throat as he looked down at her. 

Something about that day had shifted his addiction to her into overdrive. Watching her eyes widen and the smile grow on her face, tendrils of hair falling out of her ponytail and her heartbeat picking up, he had found out that he wasn’t the only one with an interest. He’d handed over the mail, swallowing the lump in his throat as her smaller hand brushed his own. Warm, silky skin, lighting him up with the single touch. It had been a short interaction, mostly due to the burning in his throat as the wind picked up and washed him with her scent yet again. A muttered excuse had made even himself wince as he was mindful of his pace, walking back to his place and getting directly into his car. He’d needed a feed desperately if he was going to be around her. 

Harry had done a plethora of ridiculous things in order to slowly wiggle himself into the little human’s life, but getting a pet cat was probably the most ridiculous. A fluffy black cat with golden eyes and a raspy meow had been his pick, letting it have the run of the house and the yard because what if Y/N asked about it? The plan was to get himself intertwined in her life, so he had to have some truths to it. 

As oblivious as some humans could be, he knew his human was far more perceptive in terms of figuring out if people had things off with them. Her diary had said as much. 

Tonight, he had been chomping at the bit for her to go to sleep. Waiting outside her house, watching her shut it down and go upstairs as he scaled the large tree next to her room for a view. He could tell she was tired, but she sat for twenty minutes scribbling away into her notebook with a smile on her face and the pace of her heart upticking a few times, making him wonder what she was writing about. Was it him? Her certainly hoped so.

It was pathetic. If anyone knew of his wistful sighs and his borderline obsessive routine of slipping into her room one she fell into dreamland, they’d surely remind him that getting involved with a human was surely a terrible idea. It wasn’t unheard of, no, but it ended in disaster some of the time. The vampire counterpart going too far during a feeding, accidentally hurting them during sex, the human getting sick and them perishing leaving the eternal to go insane after. Even still, the threat wasn’t enough to keep him away from her. 

As he heard her breathing even out, he climbed slowly into her room and made sure to keep quiet as she hadn’t entered the deepest part of sleep yet. Usually he had some sort of control on his need to be around her but after their conversation in her backyard, he had been itching to get into her mind. 

The journal was a deep brown, suede strings around it with a few charms on the worn material. It wrapped around to keep it closed, reminding him of his own journals back in his estate. She cherished each one of her journals, it seemed, and he found himself liking her even more because of it. Humans could be so wasteful, so unaware of the things they produced. His human, though, she was mindful of her footprint. A slight smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he looked down at her sleeping form. Looming over her wasn’t the brightest idea, but something in his restless soul had calmed with the vision of her safe and snug in the warm blankets. 

His stomach was full from one of those dreaded blood packets. Nothing like the real thing, required heating, but he needed to ensure she was safe from him. With blood that made his mouth water, even with his strong restraint he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. The idea of anything happening to her weighed heavily on him, twisting his stomach each and every time it came to light in his mine. “Gorgeous.” He murmured, brushing his knuckle against her cheek. The touch was a compulsion, unable to help it as he felt the warmth under his cool digit. Every time he limited himself to just a few fleeting touches, but he could feel it getting harder and harder staying away from her as the days went by. 

Mentally prying himself from her form, he took the journal in his hand and padded over to the armchair in the corner. It gave a perfect view of her sleeping face, the soft lines making his chest squeeze before he opened up the leatherbound book to the newest entry. 

‘I saw him again today. I haven’t spoken about him much in here but I think its time to. 

He is ungodly handsome. I’m talking, how are you real, greek god, roman statue good looking.’

He had to stifle a laugh, running his finger over the inked words. 

‘His name is Harry and we’ve met a few times, but today was the longest we spoke. I finally met his cat, Midnight, which is a less than original name for a black cat but I’ll let it slide. He was so gentle with him, picking him up and letting me hold him. He purred and was absolutely the cutest little thing ever, but I was distracted by his owner. Usually he doesn’t say much and originally I thought he didn’t like me or something, but I think he’s just shy.’

Another thing that made him have to seal his lips from reacting to. Harry wasn’t shy, he was cold. He kept to himself not because he was afraid, but because he wasn’t fond of communication. In her case, though, it was because he wasn’t sure he could keep from asking her to come over to his place and find a way to seduce her. To get her just as addicted to his presence as he was to hers. As morally gray as a creature could be, he didn’t want to force her affections. 

‘ He has the nicest voice. It’s quiet but dark and deep and I felt bad for thinking about what else it could say later on, but it’s not like he’d ever know. There has never been another person to his house that I’ve seen that looks romantic, but maybe he just like fuckbuddies. Sucks that hes my neighbor and I get dreadfully emotionally attached, otherwise I’d suggest that sorta thing. Maybe. It’s unlike me to feel so curious about a man considering I’ve been doing my best to try and stay true to my no dating year, but it’s incredibly hard not to want to see more of him.’

Sitting up in his seat, he didn’t suppress the smirk on his face as he read what she wrote down. Maybe one day he’d feel guilt about reading her private thing, but right now? He was fucking thankful he did. There was confirmation of returned interest, interest in more nonetheless. Usually the idea of more than a night of sex would send the vampire running, but his little human had bewitched him. There would be no world in which he could have a single night with her and give her up. Being more in tune with the more primal parts of him, he had the knowledge that it was already finding himself tangled in her web. This mere human trapping his affections in steel threads. 

‘I think I’m gonna try and feel him out a bit. Not in a creepy way or anything but, maybe take more initiative. The only problem with that is he is super intimidating and probably a bit out of my league, and I’ve got no damn clue if he’s single or even looking. At the risk of making a fool out of myself, I’m gonna try and see. Mama always did say you never got anything if you didn’t ask. I still can’t believe how many times i've quoted her in here. I wish she was around so I could ask her what to do.’

The smile on his face slipped as he was reminded of previous entries. His sweet little human was pretty alone in the world. She had some friends, was good with the other neighbors, but she had no family. She still had no clue it was him that left her the pie and stack of romance books outside her door on Christmas. He’d feel gutted at the idea of her spending it alone, especially after reading and knowing how badly she craved companionship. There was no true talk of what happened to her family other than there being an accident, but that was something he would let her tell him herself. 

‘I hope I’m not just reading into things because I’m a little desperate for someone to want me, but I swore I could feel him checking me out. He gave me a cute little smile and the motherfucker had dimples. DIMPLES! How is it possible for a man as severely handsome as him to look adorable when he smiled? God does indeed have favorites.’ 

It was definitely a stroke to the ego to know how attractive she found him, but the next paragraph was what really moved him. 

‘Above all of that, he seems pretty smart. Really intelligent, actually. He’s quite charming once he starts talking to you, and I felt like he was really giving me every bit of his attention. In a way it was a little overwhelming because I haven’t ever felt that way before from a man, but it was so nice to have someone give me their time without the distraction of phones or work or anything. We talked for probably about half an hour and I found myself getting closer to the fence, almost asking if he wanted to come in for a coffee or if he was down, cherry limeade. I didn’t want to seem desperate though, so I said bye first. Stupid on my part. He seems like the type of person who I could talk to for hours and not get bored. That's a rare type of person. Then again, maybe I am slightly delusional.’ 

If only she knew.

Harry closed the journal, diligently trying to replicate the way she had wrapped the suede around the leather before getting up and placing it back on her nightstand. 

“If only you knew that you make me feel so insane that I’d risk stealing a star for you.” His words were delicate, hopefully entering her dreams. It was abundantly apparent to him that she wasn’t given the proper affection in her life and It would be his job to provide.A challenge he was up for. His fingers found her face again, delicately tracing the curve of her nose as he tried to commit each mark on her to memory. It was interrupted, though, when she let out a little whimper in her sleep, making him freeze and his eyes widen. He was fully prepared to have to wipe her memories, to have her eyes fluttering open and screams leaving her throat, but instead she did the opposite. Hands emerged from under the blankets, lightly grabbing onto his wrist and pulling his cool touch onto her hot cheek. Silky smooth skin, slightly damp from the light sweat in her sleep nuzzled into his palm. He watched as limbs stretched under her before she curled up again and held his hand to her face, urging the touch to stay put.

She was asleep and sought him out. The grip on his sleeve lessened as she fell back into the slumber he was jealous of, wishing he could be in her head and see the things she had running around up there. The sweetest hum left her throat in a final act of settling, Harry allowing the urges to win and ran his thumb over the curve of said cheek.  It was astonishing to him, given that her body should be sensing the danger of having the monster who had dreamed of sinking his fangs into her throat, her wrist, her inner thigh, feasting on her blood- but maybe she could also sense that he wouldn’t want to hurt her. Just a taste. He could live with just a taste of her on his tongue. “Sweet little thing…” He swallowed, finding the urge more strong by the moment. All he craved was crawling into the bed with her, pulling her frame into his own and burying his face in the curve of her neck. He would take a little bite, just enough to get it on his tongue before he licked it closed. He wanted to feel her breathing against his hand and hear every shift she made at night, the rush of blood through her veins. It was surpassing the normal urges a vampire would have with his prey, but he had a feeling it had never been normal between them. He couldn’t change it overnight. His body softened as he leaned against the bed, a soft hum leaving his lips as he began to lightly sing the soft lullaby he had been coaxed into dreamland with as a child.

There was no moving him, not until the first hint of sunlight lit the sky azure. The best night of his life had been sitting on his knees by her bedside, allowed to have his cold skin warmed by her cheek as she had put it there herself. When he had to finally pull away, the warmth tingled in his palm as he pressed it to his own cheek and imagined how it would feel the day she let him warm himself from the source. However long that would take, he would wait along for her and let her cling to his unknowing hand to sing her the quietest lullabies to quell any fears she had.

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[b00kdiary]

Dreamer | Rhysand (I)

Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand begrudgingly goes to Hewn City to secure a marriage pact that will indefinitely bond the two Courts together- but the fine ladies of the Court of Nightmares are not what he wants or needs.

Instead, he discovers Lady Y/N, and she has no qualms about telling him how he has failed this City and her. This is more than just coincidence, it’s fate.

Warnings: long chapters, mature content (18 +) swearing, eventual smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

"High Lord, Rhysand of the Night Court."

I reach the top of the dais as my name is announced, my footsteps echoing against the polished floor and the sound bounces through the room, through the tense silence. No one speaks, they barely breathe, as I slowly turn, my face a sheet of ice as I settle onto my throne.

I let a nonchalant smile tug at my lips, the dark mask of a tyrant slipping into place as I eye the endless room before me. A macabre and dreary setting with its ebony walls and onyx ceiling, the beasts carved into the cavernous stone a mirror to the type of Fae who lived in this City.

I emulate the darkness as I lean back, my long legs spreading apart and my fingers curling into the engraved snake form that curves around the throne, the head peering out over my shoulder, my own personal monster.

I cock my head at the dozens of males before me, Council Members, my violet eyes twinkling in amusement as they all remained bowed, knees pressed to the floor, heads lowered and waiting for my word.

"You may rise," I drawl, my tone the picture of boredom, and as Kier and his peers rise to their feet, I see the apprehension and distaste on their faces for me, for my inner circle. Kier observes me, his brown eyes flickering at the prolonged silence. "Kier?"

"As usual, it is an honour to have you here, High Lord," Kier inclines his head, scurrying forward as he speaks, his own mask of reverence slipping into place as he stops before me. "As the steward of Hewn City, I am delighted by your decision to unite our two Courts through marriage, as are the Council present here today."

I see the way my Court stiffens, Mor, Cassian and Azriel all flanked at the bottom of the dais seem to go unnaturally still, the stones in their eyes wholly- unable to hide their disapproval of this whole arrangement.

"We all have our duties, Kier, the Court must always come first," My lips tilt in a mocking smile, and Kier shrivels under the tendrils of dark power that dance around me, an omnipresent threat so at odds with my amused gaze, "My marriage to a Lady of Hewn City will be a victory for us all."

Marriage.

The word tastes like poison on my tongue, any hopes and dreams I had once harboured turning to ash in my mouth at the cold reality I was faced with. To marry a female, I didn't know or love, to mate with her and sire a child, and secure an alliance with the Court of Nightmares indefinitely.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown indeed.

"It will be an alliance venerated for generations to come, I'm sure," Kier smiles, an ugly, wretched sight and I saw Mor shiver in my peripheral, an imperceptible movement, a conditioned reaction to her father. "High Lord, may I introduce to you the fine ladies selected by the Council."

I brace myself, masking my dread with an entertained smirk, drawing on the worst parts of myself, the worst parts of this place to hide the male that roared in warning to me inside. A click of doors opening at my left, and then several soft footsteps echoing into the chamber.

I stare, unyielding and silent, as several young women stride into the room, their heads bowed and back straight, adorned with fine clothes and finer jewellery as they stop at the foot of the dais before me.

They were fine, lovely even, tall, and thin, typical of High Fae female beauty and yet, despite their soft smiles and delicate frames, I frown.

"You can't be serious, even you wouldn't be this cruel," Mor releases a horrified, tight breath and both Cassian and Azriel step forward in unison, an impenetrable wall, as Kier's eyes turn to Mor and his lip curls. "These 'fine ladies' are girls, children, how old are they?"

The room shifted at her sharp words, Kier tensing at the accusation and the males of the Council muttering amongst themselves, their eyes burning as they glared at my cousin- at her supposed insolence for speaking out of turn.

"Their age is of little significance, girl," Kier sneers, that simpering fool mask he wore melting into revulsion and anger as he took in his outcasted daughter. My fingers curled around the throne under me as he spoke, that pit of darkness inside me churning. "They have all had their first bleed-"

"Cauldron," Cassian swore, his dark hair shifting as he moved his gaze over to those girls, and I saw his throat bob at the sight- so young, broken, pawns moved and used in a game of power.

"You're disgusting," Mor hissed, and I heard the pain clawing at her throat, her face pulled into a devastated frown as she took in those girls- and it was as if she were looking into a mirror, to the girl she had once been. "These girls are not chattel; you cannot sell their innocence for your own gain-"

"These ladies are being honoured, girl, an honour that you will never understand," Kier snarled, his emphasis on honour so clear, an indirect assault on Mor's character, on the choice she made to free herself. "To marry the High Lord is a privilege, one these ladies are eager for-"

Azriel's shadows thrum around him, restless, wild, and I knew his control was wearing thin the longer Kier spoke, the longer those girls stood before us, trembling under the burden on their shoulders.

"Enough." One word, low and sinister, and every mouth in the room closed, every Fae in the room turned utterly still at the command.

I grit my teeth, letting the furious power within me radiate into the room, let it dance through the air, brush against my subjects, let them feel the warning, the threat, that I was. I smile as their faces pale, flinching back from the vile magic, a reminder that I could destroy them without even lifting a hand.

"Kier, I am going to choose to believe that this decision was made out of sheer stupidity rather than insolence," My voice is a calm storm, but my eyes- they rage with a current of violence and death, the kind that made males twice my age blanche- and they do. "I will choose to believe that you did not invite me here to waste my time- you wouldn't dare be so foolish, would you Kier?"

I shifted forward in my seat, my eyes narrowing down at the male, and it took all the restraint in me not to shatter every bone in his body, to not pluck his eyes from his head and tear his tongue from his mouth- and he sees that desire to inflict pain upon him in my gaze.

"Never, High Lord, I would not dream of-" Kier barely contains his stuttering words, a mixture of fear, indignation and humiliation lacing through his widening gaze, but like the worm he was, he bowed his head to me in remorse. "It was a grave misjudgement, one that will not be repeated again."

"Good- I desire to sire a child, Kier, not marry one," I sneer, my disgust prevalent across every hard inch of my face as I turn from Kier, moving my eyes across every last council member, "Just as I am sure you all agree, these girls have many more years left to enjoy their youth, yes?"

I make the threat clear in my words, make them clear in my eyes- touch these girls and die.

None oppose me, their hearts hammering in their chests as they nod their head in agreement, subservient and controlled- and a small kernel of satisfaction fills me, that they felt a fraction of what the girls before me did.

"Kier, join me in the Council Room," I stand from my chaise, and as if it were muscle memory, every single person in the room falls to a knee and drops their heads as I descend the stairs. "Let us discuss the consequences you'll all face should you disappoint me again."

***

"Y/N, a union between the High Lord and a Lady of Hewn City is exactly the chance we've been waiting for," Cassandra pestered, her wide eyes pleading with me, but I ignored her again, choosing to instead clean the Council Room for the next meeting with haste. "It's a chance for change."

"Who are you trying to convince, Cassie- me or yourself?" I mutter, raising a dark brow at her as I tuck in the oak chairs, shoving them into place harder than was needed. "This marriage is a farce, and you're deluding yourself by thinking otherwise."

Cassie groans, the sound reverberating through the empty room, and I try to not laugh at her as she rushes around the endless table, her sea-blue eyes rolling as she stops beside me.

"Why must you be such a pessimist?" Cassie demands, her cold, slim fingers ripping the papers from my hand and slamming them onto the table before me. "With a lady from our Court married to the High Lord, we can finally hope, we will have someone on our side- to help us, to fix this Cauldron-forsaken City-"

"And who would that be?" I scoff out a laugh, a bitter, hollow sound as I turn my hard gaze to her, strands of my loose hair brushing my hot cheeks as I move, "Thanatos's daughter despises the Court of Dreams, Kier's nieces care more about fine jewels and clothes than people, and the other daughters are afraid of their own shadows, they would shit themselves at the sight of the High Lord and his inner circle."

Cassie purses her lips at my harsh words, and I frown, sighing deeply at the look of dejection on her lovely face, hating myself for snuffing out the light that had filled her eyes. But it had to be done- some people were not meant to dream.

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I know you wish it were otherwise, I do too," I force back the lump in my throat as I turn from her, hating the way my lip trembled and my hands felt weak, "But this marriage will benefit nobody but the High Lord, his court, and the males of the Council- that's it. They have never and will never care, there is no one on our side but us."

Silence fills the room at my hoarse dead words, and the reality of them, the reality that we were truly and irrevocably stuck in this life, in this cycle of hell made my eyes burn.

"It saddens me that you feel that way, My Lady," A deep, velvety voice rasped from behind me, and the air went taut at the unfathomable power that penetrated the room.

Cassandra gasped, something spilling from her hand and dropping to the floor with a deafening crunch. My stomach twists into knots as I brace myself, all the blood leeching from my face as I turn- to where the High Lord stood, his inner circle and Kier watching on either side.

"High Lord," Cassie choked on the title, choked on her fear and before the male before us could speak, she stumbled down to a knee, her head bowed and her golden hair falling forward to shield the terror on her face.

I couldn't move, not even as the voice inside me screamed and begged for me to bow, to submit myself to him- for I had heard stories of Rhysand.

Of his abilities as a Daemati, able to shatter a person's mind without lifting a hand, of his ruthlessness as High Lord, reducing people to ash with a smile on his lovely face, of all the horrific things he had done in his five hundred years of existence.

And it seemed he saw it on my face, perhaps even saw it in my mind, the nightmares and tales, the horrors spread about him in the City, about the kind of male he was.

His violet gaze narrowed, the constellations in them beaming as he stared at me, as he cocked his head, his lips pursed into a thin line- as if observing me. I shook under the silent act, the unyielding hold he had over me, as well as the gazes of his court at his side.

"Y/N!" Cassie hissed under her breath, her head turning and her silver-lined eyes meeting mine, tears sullying the usually tranquil blue as she pleaded with me to move, to bow.

"Insolent girl," Kier spat, his gaze hard as he glared at me and the breath caught in my lungs as a dark eclipse of magic shot from him, striking against my stomach, hard enough that I lurched forward in pain and then another hit a second later, slamming into my jaw. "Bow before your High Lord."

I groaned as I fell to a knee, the impact of the bone against the polished floor striking through my whole leg and up my body, but that was nothing compared to the throb that burned through my stomach and the cut at my lip, the taste of metal filling my mouth.

I heard a gasp, a feminine sound of surprise and concern from above me as I leaned forward, my eyes pinched shut and every breath feeling like glass in my lungs as I tried to compose myself- forcing down the pain in my jaw, in my stomach, in my heart.

I heard footsteps and then the room went still, as if a blanket of ice had fallen over us.

"High Lord, she-she was being impudent-" Begging and broken words, riddled with fear and my eyes shot open at the sound of a sickening crunch, an agonised scream following it, and the aura of death filling the space.

"No, you are impudent, Kier," That voice again, but now it sounded different- the kind of mercilessness that could haunt a person's nightmares, that could be found in the darkest hollows of hell. "You do not touch her, or any other female, ever."

Another crunch and I recognise the sound now, it was bones splintering, tendons tearing, blood gushing and Kier cried out again, a horrible, strangled sound.

"Leave," The High Lord breathed the command, and I felt the floor shake under his restraint like he was funnelling his power down into the ground as an anchor. "and do not heal that hand, I want you to remember my words today, Kier."

I keep my head low, staring at the floor, unable to look up as footsteps bound away, fast and stumbling and I cringe at the sight of blood leaking against the floor, a trail following after Kier as he exits the room.

And despite the tendrils of pain still wrecking through me- I internally groaned at the thought of having to clean the blood up.

An amazed huff of air left the High Lord, it sounded almost like a laugh, but I didn't dare raise my head. Not even as he slowly sauntered over, his footsteps deliberate and slow, I didn't even look up when that trail of blood vanished, magicked away, leaving behind not even a stain in memory.

He stopped before me, and my heart thrummed so loud I knew they could all hear it.

"My Lady," Rhysand murmured, his voice soft now, like a caress of wind against my skin. I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth, my eyes fluttering as I lift my head- to see the hand he had reaching down for me. "Please, rise."

I blink at the outreached hand, heat filling my cheeks at Rhysand's tender gaze, any whisper of violence or darkness gone, replaced by something so much sweeter. I gnaw on my cheek, my hand sweating and shaking as I reach forward, gently placing my palm in his.

The second our hands connect, something charges through me, bright and sharp and strong and for a second Rhysand's eyes widen, just for a second, but then he blinks at it's gone- as if I had imagined it.

"Thank you, High Lord," I breathe and his fingers curl firmly around my palm as I wince, my knees shaking and knocking as I rise to my feet. He whispers something gently under his breath, his head glancing sideways, and I sigh when Cassandra rises too, her slender frame curling back as she stands.

I crane my neck to meet Rhysand's eyes, and upon seeing my face, seeing the cut leaking blood at my lip, his expression hardens. He still hadn't let go of my hand, his large, ringed fingers still gripping around me like a vice, calming the trembling shakes that ran through me.

"I apologise for Kier's actions," Rhysand sighed, his dark lashes fluttering as he slowly slipped his hand from mine, moving to the pocket of his jacket, his fingers pulling free the cloth there. My hand felt cold as it fell back to my side, but as Rhysand lifted the cloth between his fingers, my head hazed.

I didn't breathe, couldn't, as Rhysand gently brushed the soft cloth against the cut at my lip, soaking the material with blood and being so careful that I didn't even feel the pain stinging at the touch. I feel the surprised stare of Cassie at my side, of his family at his back, but nothing deterred Rhysand.

"I should be the one to apologise, High Lord," I stutter, finally feeling like I can breathe as he pulls his hand away, and I blink away the fog, clearing my throat as I step back, as I let the bubble, he created around us pop. "I spoke out of turn, and I should have bowed-"

"You don't need to apologise for your honesty or anything else," He shook his head, the soft waves of his blue-black hair shifting with the movement, and I forced myself to not stare at every inch of his handsome face. "I don't punish Ladies for words spoken in earnest between friends."

I nod, uncertainty and weariness shining in my gaze as I take in his intense half-smile, a smile that seems to brighten when I glance at Cassandra, looking equally as confused as me, and I shrug weakly.

"Though I will admit I am rather taken aback by your words, Lady Y/N," I shiver at the sound of my name on his silver tongue, at the way he cocked his head down at me, a purely predatory move, as he spoke. "I would like to hear more of your thoughts on the matter."

Hear my thoughts?

I go still at his easy words, at the question rather than a command, and Cassie releases a puff of air- like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room to placate her aching lungs.

"What?" I croak and then wince at the insolence behind my words, a habit that I couldn't shake in front of the High Lord. I pinch my eyes shut at the way his lip quirks, and my embarrassment is worsened by the small chuckle that General Cassian huffs out. "I mean- I'm not sure that's-"

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," Rhysand purred, nonchalance highlighted in every inch of his muscled form as he tucked the cloth back into his pocket and grinned at me, like a lion before devouring a lamb. "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

***

"There is no one on our side but us."

The words were so hollow and defeated, the type of ruined that spoke of no hopes, dreams, or future, just nothing. And it was hard to explain what I felt at the words, like a sharp pain as if she had reached into my chest and torn out my heart with her bare hand.

She said that they have never and will never care- 'they' being me, my court, the people around me now and the ones left behind in my City of Starlight.

Sincere words, loaded words, spoken by a female behind closed doors, in confidence to her friend- and yet, I had overheard.

I wasn't sure what to expect when stepping into this room and wasn't sure what kind of female I would be confronted with. I had anticipated a female full of loathing and darkness, a kind of anger that would burn in her eyes, that could be seen through every breath she took, in every inch of her skin as she moved.

And yet, as I stared at the girl before me, I was met with the exact opposite.

The other lady, Cassandra, had become a shaking mess the second her blue eyes laid upon me, her breaths gasping from her as if everyone would be the last. She was terrified because that was all she knew in this city; it was all she knew of me.

But Lady Y/N was different- she was frightened by me, yes, I saw it in her doe-like eyes, saw it in the memories that flashed through her mind of me, the tales of my cruelty and brutality, the blood that stained my hands and the darkness that tainted my heart.

But she didn't look away, as if she couldn't.

Here she was faced with a monster that mothers warned their children about, yet she stared at me as if she saw me- and was as beguiled by me as I was by her.

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," I smile, the tightness in my chest easing as a stain tints her plump cheeks, and her chocolate eyes widen, "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

Her friend swallows, audible and thick, as if struggling to get down air and Azriel shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed as if concerned the girl might collapse. Y/N glances at her, and amusement fills me at the small, confused shrug she gives her.

"You won't uh-" She clears her throat, her hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, and I watch every single movement as she tucks the silken strand over a perfectly arched ear, revealing the smooth column of her neck. "You won't turn me to dust, right?"

I snort, a short and amazed sound, and she gnaws on her lip, avoiding the cut there and I have to begrudgingly tear my gaze away when my court steps forward, my brothers half-smiling and Mor looking at Y/N as if she was as charmed by her as I was.

"No, no, Lady Y/N," My mask slips and slips until it's completely gone, and I'm glad that Kier left, glad that none but her saw me like this because it felt freeing, to be in this Cauldron-forsaken place and be able to genuinely smile. "No one will be turned to dust, on my honour as High Lord."

"Please do tell us," Mor steps forward, a small smile on her red-pained lips and Y/N's breath hitches at the eyes on her, at the attention. "Contrary to what you may think, we do care."

Y/N considers, and I can hear her heart hammering in her chest, fast and loud and endless, but despite that she lifts her chin and something raw runs through me at the look in her eyes- the bravery.

"I- I think that Hewn City is a cesspit, full of the worst kind of Fae and every amoral despicable thing a person could do happens here," She breathes, and her soft body trembles with the exhale, as if speaking these words aloud were exactly the catharsis she needed. "And to be honest, I blame you for that."

Surprise- it fills me and every single other person in the room.

"Y/N!" Cassandra gasps, and her eyes seem to widen further, impossibly big, latching onto me and full of pleading, "She doesn't mean that- she must be more delirious than anticipated from the-"

"Cassie, please," Y/N scoffs, a hollow and low sound, and the tension in the air goes thick as they glance at each other. "Someone needs to say it, it might as well be me."

I fold my arms across my chest, my lips pursing as they stare at each other, some internal telepathic conflict waging between them, in their eyes and despite my abilities, despite the fact, that it would be so easy for me to slip into their minds and wade through all their thoughts, I don't.

I glanced back at my Court, who stood just behind me, and their faces were contemplative too- not angry, nor offended, but shocked- here was this girl, no older than twenty, with eyes as soft as a doe's, telling us exactly how we have failed.

"Please, continue," I nod, and I hope my eyes are encouraging, because even if I do not wish to hear her words, she was right, they needed to be said and I needed to hear them.

"For centuries, the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams have been segregated and somehow we've fallen into two categories: good and bad," She swallows, and something aches in my chest at the sorrow on her lovely face, the burden, "But no one is born bad, people aren't inherently evil but growing up in a place like this? What else is there but the horrors we see and endure, what else are we destined to become?"

Another shaky inhale, a more broken exhale, and my magic burn inside me as if every desperate breath from her is like a call and my body is begging in answer.

"Your court has washed their hands of us, all of us because it was easier to believe that we were all damned than to try to help- the small minority have ruined the majority," Silver lines her hardening gaze, and I feel us all, every single one of us, go tense at the single tear that trickled down her cheek.

I hear a strangled sound come from behind me and my burning gaze glances back- to Mor, tears brimming her eyes and her lips trembling, watching the girl before us, and feeling every single atom of hurt as if it were her own.

"Morrigan was lucky enough to escape this City, these people because she had you- but do you truly think that she is the only good person born here, that in all these years, she is the only one worthy of salvation?"

More tears leak down Mor's face and Y/N's, endless, eternal, years of suffering in one single moment and I feel the guilt of my actions barrel down at me, a truth that I have spent years avoiding coming to light, like a thunderbolt to the heart.

I let my magic hold me down, let it root me in my spot- because those tears on her cheeks are tormenting me, ruining me, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush them away.

"So, forgive me if I have no hope left, that died in me, in all of us, long ago," Y/N clears her throat, her chest rising and falling in powerful waves and my throat is as dry as sand as she wipes the tears from her cheeks, "I- I think we could have all been dreamers- if only you had given us the chance."

In five hundred years, the mask I wore never slipped, never faltered, never was hard to wear- until right now. Right now, as my gaze locked with her, as I saw all the horrors she endured, because of my neglect, I couldn't even find that mask within me- it was gone.

There's silence, heavy and long and burdensome for what feels like hours as I stare at her, and I don't think I could look away even if I wanted to do and I don't, I don't want to.

Y/N inhales a sharp breath as I stalk towards her and the magic in me dances and whirls and strikes through the air, dark and ominous and wholly powerful. My jaw locks as she grabs out to her friend, Cassandra whimpering as Y/N yanks the girl behind her- a shield, against me.

Brave- so utterly brave. Willing to face off with a male five hundred years her senior and her High Lord, to protect her friend.

A Queen in her own right.

I stop before her, so close that I feel her breasts brush my chest, feel the small trembles that wreck through her body, can smell the lavender and jasmine on her perfect skin. She raises her eyes to me, and I see every ounce of her character, her heart and soul, as she tries to not cower before me.

"How old are you, My Lady?" I mutter, and she shivers under my easy words, her brow furrowing at the non-threat. "And what do you do here, your role?"

"Twenty-one, High Lord." She swallows, her tongue flicking out nervously to wet her lips and my hands clench at the sight, at the moisture on her pink mouth. "My father was Captain of an import chain for the City, I was given the role of Lady-in-waiting as a reward for his work."

I sense the curiosity and shock of my court behind me, the way they imperceptibly inch closer to me, to us, drawn in by my words- by the intention behind them.

"You believe the alliance is a farce, that it wouldn't change anything?" I ask, softer, and my power slips from me, curling around her curved hips and soft thighs, moving through her silken hair and over her sensitive skin- and she shakes her head, unable to speak. "What if I were to find a Lady of Hewn City who shared your sentiments, who desired for change and salvation just as you do- would that make you more inclined to hope?"

Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath, her blue eyes widening- in realisation. And I felt the air tauten, my inner circle going still, knowingly.

But Y/N cocked her head, a youthful move, not seeing what was right in front of her.

"Yes, I think that you marrying a Lady who genuinely cares for this City and its people would be a step in the right direction," She considers, and I can't fight my smile at the tender, sincere, confusion that pinches her lovely face. "Thought I seriously doubt you will find any such female here."

"Hm," A lazy grin stretches across my face, bright and sure, drawing from the feeling blooming in my chest, raw and new and terrifying as I stare down at her, "I already have."

"High Lord? I don't understand-" Her words melt into a gasp as my fingers caress her cheek, moving ever so gently against that sore cut at her lip- and satisfaction fills me when her eyes flutter, a breathy sound slipping from her.

"I have already found the perfect Lady to marry," Her face burns as I run my eyes languidly down her figure, across her entire face and body- and she stills as realisation fills her, "All you have to do is say yes, Y/N darling."

[sugar-grigri]

Nayuta must become the big sister

I think what's especially interesting to note in chapter 154 is Nayuta's failure to use the right tactics.

Denji raised Nayuta correctly, emphasizing going to school, trying to control her possessive outbursts while being extremely present for her. In short, he nurtured her, giving her the protection he hadn't enjoyed as a child himself.

Although Nayuta knows her own nature and instincts, and is not naturally altruistic, she still looks at herself in a certain way: from society's point of view, and from her own, she is a child.

What I'm trying to say is that it's not insignificant to have Makima reincarnated; we could very well have had Nayuta, already an adult, because she's a devil who doesn't grow up. Nayuta already seems to grow up much faster than humans, so Fujimoto could very well have decided that a demon, especially a knight of the apocalypse, should already be born as an adult.

She grew up more quickly, and by the time Denji had finished devouring Makima, she already had the appearance of a 4/5-year-old child.

Fujimoto made Nayuta a child, because it's this state of being that makes her a control demon so paradoxical. Indeed, if Makima was so powerful, it wasn't just because she was older; the fact that Denji had killed Makima didn't change anything in terms of the fear one can feel of control.

What affects Nayuta's power, capable of controlling only 3 people at a time, is the way she conceives herself.

Makima was so powerful because she occupied a fairly high hierarchical position among public hunters, just as she had unquestionable authority over her agents. What's more, the government assigned her an objective of a universal nature: to protect all mankind from evil things. This role of universal protector, albeit a protective one, naturally places Makima, the control demon, in the role of guardian, humanity being as harmless as obedient puppies. The only thing Makima couldn't feel superior to was Chainsaw Man, for he is the entity that provides the means to pursue her universal goal of protection.

The key to Nayuta's fate is the fact that she has been loved and pampered by Denji. She makes it clear: it's natural for a demon to kill humans. Which, on the other hand, indicates that it's completely unnatural and almost unnatural for a demon to love and be loved by a human.

To have been loved, to have been happy, enabled the control demon to understand other ways of relating than pure domination, whereas Makima didn't understand human relationships, to the point of being moved by a hug, so unattainable for her.

Nayuta understands the nuances of relationships, just as she claims not to be the leader of powerful public officials but a mere child, which always places her in an inferior position to her enemies. That's why she's less powerful: to be in control, she needs to feel superior, which she can't easily do when she sees all these adults surrounding her so vehemently.

She focuses more on her social role as a child to be protected than as a demon attacking head-on. She still adheres to her role as a child, she's not obsessed with CSM because she can't reach him, he's now in her inner circle, she doesn't have a universal goal such as protecting the humanity like Fami suggested, she just wants to go to school.

In short, the control demon no longer wants to control, no longer needs to, or when she does, it's out of sheer necessity. The fact that she's weaker was Kishibe's objective when he gave custody of the demon to CSM, to make the control demon more human, more childlike, to avoid this exponential need for control. In short, the fact that the Control Demon's supreme objective is to be loved has contained its power, because its objectives have been achieved.

We can see how love is an unnatural thing, because it limits a demon who should be supreme through his solitude. For Nayuta's sake, to get out of her situation in chapter 154 would be to have a crisis of ego, and I think that symbolically it's not out of the question that if Nayuta abandons her role as a child, she'll grow up brutally. For a demon, appearance and age are simply a question of positioning in society. Makima had chosen to take on the appearance of a femme fatale to enable her to manipulate more effectively.

A soft voice, an attractive appearance to encourage us to lower our guard, the better to control coldly.

This is also why Barem is so dangerous to her: he's big-boned, aggressive and very tall, so he can be naturally frightening to a child. If Nayuta wants to control him and regain the upper hand, she mustn't see herself as a child with a gun pointed at her head. That even when assaulted, even when held at gunpoint, she's still in full control, that despite the chaos, she's still superior.

It's no coincidence that it's a gun that's pointed at her. Guns are fatal for humans, but for demons, especially the most powerful ones, they don't mean much. Nayuta doesn't need to be afraid of a gun, she needs to embrace her demon nature.

And she's on that track because protecting CSM, rather than being protected by him, means she can now play the role of a big sister.

What's more, she needs to get to know her own need for violence and cruelty. Chaos isn't what she likes, this chain of violence and combat isn't what she desires, because what she wants is cold, absolute control, where all she gets is unfailing obedience, people falling into line, not men with spears fighting each other in a primal manner.

She has been brought up by Denji, adopting his mannerisms and his way of speaking, but she also needs to distance herself from this fraternal figure in order to be herself.

All this leads me to say that the Knights of the Apocalypse, by moving away from what they are, are THE ONES who bring about the apocalypse, which is totally obvious, hence their name.

By loving something abnormal for the demon of control, by falling in love with his worst enemy for the demon of war, by wanting to save humanity to better eat what it produces for the demon of famine... show how they are all affected by humanity, to the point of putting aside their demonic nature.

Think of it as a kind of broken balance, which leads the eldest, the demon of death, to intervene. Why? For death represents absolute equilibrium; no one can escape it, it is an absolute rule from which it cannot be dislodged, it is an inevitable and firm end. Common to all species.

So she intervenes, to pull the ears of her little sisters Nostradamus' prophecy doesn't predict the apocalypse - in fact, it predicts that it will be triggered by the Knights of the Apocalypse, who have set out to protect mankind from the apocalypse. It may sound complicated when you put it like that, but the idea is to reinforce the idea of inevitability: protecting mankind from the apocalypse isn't a rebellion, something that can work; on the contrary, Fami's plan triggers it because she denies her nature. It's a losing game.

When I say that Nayuta needs to be a little more Makima again, it's not just for her own good, it's also for the good of humanity, and I find that ultra interesting: it's necessary for the antagonist we got rid of in part 1 to return, at least partially, in part 2.

But she mustn't go back to being that obsessive protector, she must simply resume its role as predator. Mankind needs predators: with the evolution of technology, it thought it could challenge its food chain, but paradoxically it needs to be bruised by demons to survive, since the balance of the world is at stake.

It's all the more symbolic that Barem and Fami use the wrong strategy: like Prometheus, they give fire to men via contracts with the fire demon, reinforcing the idea of evolution to escape its nature. It's even more symbolic that many weapons serve this project, such as Miri, the demon of the whip and the spear, hybrids linked to this civilisation.

It's absurd for the demon of control to argue that she's just a child. If she wants CSM to escape, she must also allow him to free himself from his role as big brother and protector. And the answer to this question was given by Fumiko, who didn't realise that dogs and Meowy weren't just animals. What she should despise is certainly not her own family.

Humanity is nothing more than pets, and this realisation is the key for Nayuta to become herself again.

[irasamu]

 . . . (🍷) ֶָ֢ 𔓘 LURE ME IN, PULL ME OUT. SAVE ME ; a osamu dazai fic. ❞

❛ ━━ ･ ❪ did i not die yet?

my heart beats and pumps,

pumps the blood which flows throughout,

though tonight i throw up this blood.

blood coats my hand red,

if i had died, why would i bled?

fleeting through my fingers,

fingers of mine tries to grasp my life,

life which i tried to grasp all this while!

blood coats the floor red,

and red it became the more i bleed.

fleeting is this life though my heart beats,

i am not dead yet, though i bleed.

soon my fate will meet death.

and i will die, won't i? ❫ ･ ━━ ❜

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍷 ꒱ . . . i don't really expect this one to be liked as this is an experimental fic anyway but I still want to know your opinion on it if you read it.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍷 ꒱ . . . tw ; pm!dazai, fem!reader, non established relationship, suggestive themes, kissing, fluff (?), angst, somewhat gore.

the weather hasn't really been the most pleasant since the last three or four hours but you assume it to be normal due to the season it came with.

with a hazy gaze, you stare at the dark grey sky outside as you wait for the first reaction to happen, for the first drop of rain to descend from its grace and onto the hard earth ground.

was this what icarus felt too?

but then again icarus wasn't a teenager in love with a boy who looked at love as not feelings and emotions but rather as chemical reactions and hormones stimulated by the brain.

icarus burned. you do too. perhaps not in the same way but you burn too.

"are you waiting for cats too dear?" a voice so gentle yet tired spoke up and you looked up to see an elderly woman smiling kindly at you. your eyes fell down to see a group of stray cats and you pondered.

her voice felt so warm admist the coldness of the weather that clinged to your skin.

you looked back up at the old woman and nodded, smiling a bit. "yeah. a grumpy one."

the old lady laughed at your words and she approached you, sitting down on the steps of your house next to you and the stray cats followed her. there were five in total, you counted as they surrounded the old lady's feet.

one of the five cats pawed at your leg. you looked down at it and extended your hand to pet it's head before you looked up at the sky again in deep thought.

"so when does your grumpy cat come?" the old lady's voice reached your ears, her words were pure but why did it still feel like she was laughing at you?

mocking you for being so hopeless.

"whenever he wants to." you whisper out. if the old lady wasn't sitting next to you, she wouldn't have heard you. your words were too sad to her though ignorance is bliss. the old lady thought nothing much of your words as she laughed.

"dearie, that's cats for you -- especially stray ones. they come and go. not having a proper house. no owner who showers them with love and so when we give them love, they get confused. they feel weird and dislike it. they leave. and when they are away -- they realize. they want it back. and so these cute furballs come back to get confused again." her words held years of experience. they soothed you and gave you a reason behind the behavior that hurts, effortlessly brightening your mood. it almost felt unnatural how easily her words convinced you and settled within you as if she's luring you in her.

you smiled at the old lady albeit weakly but your lips were tugged upwards by genuine gratitude and hope as you smiled at her, filled with fascination towards her.

"though love is like kummatty or the pied piper of hamelin. it lures you in even when you know it's dangerous. so dearie --" the old lady's voice suddenly dropped down a few octaves as a grave expression took over her old and wrinkled features. you would've have found it a bit unsettling had it not been for the cat at your feet that had your undivided attention. " -- be careful while loving, it'll lure you in one day and . . . even if it isn't love, something else will lure you in."

you felt the old lady shifting next to you before she stood up, causing you to twist your neck to look up at her. the old woman smiled at you kindly and slowly -- as safely as her feeble legs would allow her to -- climbed down the stairs and left. she went on along the sidewalk, though you raised your eyebrows in awe as you saw the five cats following behind her, stumbling and falling over each other. the cats looked like young apprentices following their mentor in olden days where as soon as a kid was old enough to realise how poverty took a liking to his home, he was send off to fend for himself and to bring in some earnings.

you looked at the front again, placing your chin on your knees which were brought near to your chest as you looked up at the sky again, the grey clouds began to clear up a bit though it still looked like it'll rain soon.

the cold breeze made you shiver a bit. though not for long.

you look away from the sky, no longer finding it intresting enough to admire as the images of the cats -- especially the one rubbing itself against your leg -- kept repeating in your mind, making you smile.

how does one get lured?

how does one forget everything and decide to follow a particular path?

"what are you doing outside dumbass?" you hear the cold and void of emotion like voice, causing you to look up to see dazai standing there as he looked down at you with his eyebrows raised, trying to decipher the reason to sit outside during such weather as it's definitely an odd choice.

"waiting for yo --" you stop rather abruptly as you look at him from head to toe to see him covered in blood at many places -- his cheek was stained and so was his white shirt though the black coat hid it well. you looked down and alas so were his boots, stained in blood.

with a panicked urgency, you quickly stood up and grabbed his hand though this time he didn't try to subtly pull it back as he let you step closer to him and leaned in when you placed your palm on his bloodied cheek.

"how did you --"

" -- it's not mine. don't overreact." the mafioso said in a bored tone as he stared at you. he looked at you for a while before he slowly grinned and you wanted to take a step back and shrink into nothingness. that would be better then staring at his cold and empty eyes.

dazai extended his hand to grasp your other wrist, not seeming to mind your sudden stiffness. he had seen this reaction one too many times when curious minds tried to pick apart the mask of the demon but failed, finding the mask glued to the face by some super force.

he tugged at your hand to pull you closer and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a hug.

dazai osamu is still a child. he does not act like it. but he is the same as you. a teenager. not even seventeen yet.

he is a child at core like you are and even if it may not seem like it, you'll pretend it does.

"you stink." you mumble as you ignore the nervous pleading of your heart, nuzzling your face against his bandaged neck.

"no i don't." dazai replied back as he left a small and quick peck to your hair before he moved back.

you roll your eyes at his denial of this topic, knowing that even he knows how he smells of a mix of cigarettes and blood, the smell lingers and hugs him like a sick stalker.

"why do you even have blood on you?" you asked as you quickly opened the door to your house and stepped aside to let him enter first. with a smug wink aimed at you, dazai entered and took of his shoes.

for being such a peculiar boy, he did have some manners as evident by the way he placed his shoes at one corner. you placed your slippers next to his and locked the door before you followed after him.

"curious kitty. aren't you?" his voice is full of mirth, he looked over his shoulder to let you see his expression which is full of amusement as if he finds it entertaining to watch you try to get some kind of information out of him.

you grumbled as you pushed his shoulder though he only chuckled, not minding the pushes at all.

dazai tried to walk towards the living room but you grabbed the back of his suit coat to pull him towards your room instead and he exclaimed in surprise, though he didn't resist or fight back, simply letting you drag him as if he didn't have enough energy or interest in pushing your hands off.

you led him to the bathroom attached in your room, dazai nearly raised his eyebrows in amusement but stopped himself since he wasn't really amused enough. this house in which only you live isn't surprising to dazai as through his connections, he had dug into your background and found out that this house and some wealth were the will of your grandfather who left it all to you. your parents were out of the picture.

"but really, why are you covered in this much blood?" you ask as you signal him to sit on the sink counter while you kneel down to open the cabinet below, getting out a few clean towel rolls and bandages.

though the bandage roll fell from your hands and rolled on the tiled floor when dazai grabbed your jaw in a quick movement, pulling you towards him as he glared at you. eyes void of emotions but that only makes him more terrifying.

"you are a good girl -- always were and always will be. don't test your luck by being a curious kitten. stay my good girl. don't ask unnecessary questions." his voice is low and calm, his words coming out in a murmur.

your eyes were open wide, you nodded quickly. the sharpness in dazai's eyes disappeared and was replaced by a sudden softness. he stopped grabbing your jaw and instead raised his hand to cup your cheek. he pulled you in closer using the gentle hold on your cheek and pecked the bridge of your nose.

once he lets go of you, you stepped back, bending down to pick the the bandage roll which you began to buy and keep ever since meeting him.

you stand again as you face him, not looking him in the eye after the sudden cold outburst while the confident and casual air around you had disappeared. and this caused dazai to heave out a sigh.

"what i did -- i did for you." he revealed only this much as if to just let you see the tip of the iceberg, to let you know of the peace lingering above the calmness.

you placed your hand on his thigh as you leaned up to gently pull on the bandage which covered one of his eyes, whispering, "why?"

dazai stopped as you tugged at the bandage and it fell down in your opened palm. he too wonders why is he even doing this?

you are of no use to the mafia.

you don't give him the same reactions as chuuya does.

yet you are still intresting.

is it the feeling of your soft palms as you cup his cheek with one hand while you softly rub the wet towel on his face with the other to clean it? could be.

dazai wrapped his legs around your waist to pull you closer, you felt your heart beating as he cupped both of your cheeks and pulled you to peck your forehead. "i just do."

you wanted to ask many things but refrain from doing so, choosing to enjoy the feeling of his hands as one of them remained cupping your jaw while the other rested near your ass, on your lower back, to keep you in place as you wrap a new bandage around his eye.

to be honest, dazai knew. he knew why he did what he did and does what he does, it's just that he doesn't see the need to tell you the answer which is being yelled by his heart and seeing how you relaxed again and lost some of your initial fear, dazai feels -- no, he knows, that you either know or have a good grasp of what most of his answer could've been anyway.

"you are weird." you decide to sigh out these words with a smile, moving your face back from his grasp as you pull down at his coat and he lets you, letting you take it off.

is the rush of happiness what icarus felt too? perhaps if icarus didn't dream too high, he would be lured into the deep forests as well.

dazai watched with curious eyes. you stepped out of the bathroom for a while, a matching set of grey sweatshirt and sweatpants. the sight makes dazai to raise his eyebrows, a silent order for you to explain.

"you need some colors in your life and wardrobe. you look so edgy wearing that." you point at his suit and dazai almost rolled his eyes, had the thought of you going out of your way to buy something for someone like him had not entered his mind and settled there.

from there on, the thought grew vines which traveled and gripped at his heart.

"did you buy this for me? you want to be my sugar mommy or something?" dazai smirked yet squealed as you stepped near him, grabbing a handful of his skin and pinching him on his thigh. you don't speak much, the words of the old lady repeating in your mind while you unbutton his shirt and scrub at his hands to get the blood off of him.

the way you look so quiet as you seemed to stare at nothing while cleaning the blood made dazai hesitate to break this silence. he looked at you and he felt his heart beat racing when he saw the hazy look in your eyes. behind you, the sky once again grew hazy and dazai glared at the window behind you. yet you didn't notice anything it seemed, too busy in unbuttoning dazai's shirt button by button.

the cat who sat outside at the windowsill snarled in return.

"you are my kitten." dazai began quietly and you looked up at him with puzzlement dancing all over your features. a confused smile takes over your lips and dazai leans near you, you feel your heartbeat racing as he leans his head till his lips hovered above your's. "you are mine and i'll protect you against everything."

dazai closed the distance between you and him, his hand came to hold your waist and pull you towards him. you closed your eyes as you let your feelings overtake you, wrapping your arms around the neck of the boy who still sat on the sink counter.

his eyes remained open, a blue light eliminated from his palm -- of the hand that was wrapped around your waist -- felt like the first drop of rain of despair for the cat whose fur raised and it glared at dazai.

"you don't need to know what i do and why i do it. just stay as you are now." dazai whispered as soon as he pulled back from the kiss, he hopped down from the counter and removed his unbuttoned shirt. he tossed it on your face, not paying heed to the way you groaned.

"stay as i am now? what's that supposed to mean cryptic bastard?" you ask as you slowly walked behind him, stopping as he sits in the bathtub and his feet nearly dangled off the small bathtub. dazai shooted a finger gun at you which made you scoff while you reached for the water faucet, he isn't going to answer, is he?

the cat blinked, like a stalker it's eyes remained even when dazai leaned up and grabbed your forearm to pull you on top of him. your squeals and his laughs were like poison to the cat. the same cat who affectionately rubbed itself against your leg in the morning is the same cat who now watched with great disgust.

icarus flew. if he didn't, he would've drowned.

the pied piper would've lured him in with masks of interests in his dreams. or perhaps kummatty would've made him think to never stop believing in his dreams, he would've have turned him into a bird and icarus would've flew away and never returned.

"stay as you are -- meaning stay as my little kitty cat. can you meow or purr for me?" dazai raised his eyebrows, it always brought him entertaining joy to see your reactions and even if they aren't as loud or amusing as chuuya's, the way you purse your lips and look away after replying with something snarky always stayed at the back of dazai's mind. it repeated whenever he smoked in the loneliness of the shipping container he calls his shelter.

you know better then to take this moment for granted. you look back at dazai and smile tiredly, resting your head against his shoulder as you wrap your arms around his waist and do not mind the flowing water soak your clothes and make you wet for you feel yourself nearly giggling at the way your legs are on either sides of dazai's waist and his hands wrapped around you. when you leaned your body on him, his arms around you tightened their hold.

he raised one of his hands to pat and comb through your hair while he smirked, tilting his head at the cat. said cat snarled at him again before it hopped down your windowsill and left.

the cat walked for a while before it jumped into a drain and immediately found itself sitting on the lap of the old woman who hummed. the old woman moved back and forth on her rocking chair, humming a tune which enchanted many and it was evident by the way children sat by her feet and mimicked her motions of rocking back and forth. their lips sealed tight by threads being sewed yet they tried to hum along with the old woman, causing blood to flow down their chins yet they didn't mind as theu stared at the old lady with unnaturally wide eyes.

the old lady stopped humming and immediately the children stabbed their fingers into their eyes, blood oozing out as they curled their fingers into their eyeballs.

"you are so so cute. my belladon--" you make dazai to stop speaking, making him go speechless when you splashed a bit of water onto him after having enough of his cheesy flirting though it did get your heart to beat faster but the young age you are is one where intimate feelings such as this makes you cower and feel like hiding behind the exterior of pretend coolness. it's a defense mechanism of sorts but dazai has always broken through every defense so what is yours infront of him?

your smug grin disappeared as you saw him cough without intending to stop soon. you leaned closer to his face as you tried to grasp at the curves of his jaws so you would be able to have a better view of his face and check for any damage you may have caused yet the moment your fingers grasp his jaw, dazai grabbed both of your wrists as he leaned forwards to kiss you again. and you let him. his arms came to wrap around you again.

and once again you missed the blue glow they emitted as all you could focus on was the gentle way dazai's hands inched closer to you till one of them rested at your nape and the other at your hip while he left little pecks and kisses on your lips, not pulling or letting you pull back once.

the pied piper or kummatty may just be figures associated with children and to scare them by exaggerating (though is it a exaggeration?) abduction but the old lady you met -- the one who is currently smiling cruelly as she watches children pull out their eyeballs and see the optic nerve -- is one who will try to lure you in and dazai won't let it.

it isn't related to the mafia, the child abducting old lady isn't a concern of port mafia and neither is she a danger to dazai's life. his nullifying ability will act if she ever tries to activate her ability on him which works by the contact of her or her cats with the victim.

though you do not need to know of this or even worry as dazai will make sure you don't end up in the old lady's grasp and don't suffer the same fate as many of her previous victims. he always was a bit more protective and possessive when it came to you anyway.

after all, he is a good boy --- an angel.

[aleksanderscult]

Analyzing Aleksander's reaction to Alina's loss of her power

(I'm so sick and tired of seeing people use his "You are nothing now" words as a way to justify how he didn't love her that I decided to create a whole ass post about it.)

First of all, let's see what the powers of a Grisha mean to a Grisha, shall we?

For a Grisha her powers is the same thing as the oxygen is for all humans. The constant beat of a person's heart.

Indispensable.

And in a way it's implied that a Grisha cannot live without it. Just like birds can naturally fly, just like a fish can naturally swim. It's part of their nature, part of their body and soul.

Now let's see Aleksander's reaction to Alina's loss of her power.

The moment he saw Alina being unable to summon, he froze. At first he's in denial of what he sees.

How can a Grisha not being able to use her power? A power that is always there no matter what? A power that "feeds" them and keeps them healthy and alive.

We see Aleksander being in a state of shock as he tries to comprehend what is happening with her:

He had never seen anything like that. A Grisha losing her powers is unheard of. Impossible.

He tries again and again to summon her light and bring it to the surface. The fact that he can't feel it causes him panic and pain. In a way, he can't find her soul.

And the very fact that she also lost her collar and feter is impossible too. When a Grisha claims an amplifier, a connection is made that can't be broken.

Another fatal loss for Alina and a disastrous blow for Aleksander and his knowledge, since he knows more than anyone else how amplifiers work and how a Grisha's power work. All the hundreds of years he had spent watching and studying the ways of the Small Science and of power, have gone to waste right now as he tries to understand what is going on with the woman he loves.

His near immortality and rare powers always made him seek someone else to connect with. Someone to understand him and be on the same level as him.

People say that he never actually wanted Alina to be his equal. Well, based on his words and reaction here, I would say he wanted to.

Right now there's no pretense, no tricks or a façade. We see him "naked" and exposed showing us his terror of Alina's loss and despair for his fate. Of being alone forever.

"You were meant to be like me."

Aleksander wanted her strong and confident. Unafraid to rise above the others and to stand right beside him.

"You're nothing now."

I know it sounds cruel but it is true.

If a bird lost its ability to fly or a fish its ability to swim, would you call that normal? If a person stopped breathing or her heart stopped beating, would you call her alive and whole?

Alina lost the very essence of her being, her soul and identity. What happened to her was something completely unnatural and just wrong. Aleksander has lived for centuries and knows more about the Grisha than anyone else (except of course his mother) so he knows that what happened to her, has crippled her. She's not the Alina she was. And she's never gonna be.

It's not a statement of disgust, apathy or scorn. They're words of pain and mourning. Shock and anger.

It's a complete ruin for Alina.

A devastation and tragedy for the unfortunate Grisha that experiences it for the first time in their history. And an equal devastation and sorrow for the Grisha that watched it happen to the person he cared most about.

And it's actually funny how Aleksander seems to be the only person that was devastated for what happened to her.

Everyone else was:

"Alina lost her powers"

"Okay cool".

In a way you can say that it was proof of how he was the one that truly cared about her fate while the rest of her friends didn't seem to give two flying fucks.

The Darkling just gave up.

All he had fought for, all the patience he had mastered for years waiting for his equal to come, went to dust right in front of him.

In a way he committed suicide and just let Alina kill him.

Now if he didn't love her as some people say, why did he do these things after she lost her powers?:

1) Called her to his side and searched for her hand to hold it.

2) Smiled at her and stroked her tears.

3) Entrusted her with his last wish because he'd seen her kindness and believed in it.

4) Asked her to say his name one more time so he could hear it from her one last time. A name that he had probably never said to anyone else for centuries.

5) Begged her to not leave him alone while he died because loneliness frightened him.

I'm sorry but if I was dying, I wouldn't want anyone at my side but the people that I loved the most. And Aleksander wanted the same too.

There's no way he felt disgust or anger towards Alina even after she stabbed him. Whatever she did, he forgave. And whatever happened to her in the end didn't stop him from loving her and wanting her presence at his side until his own end.

(didn't really love her, my ass)

[motimatcha]

"nostromo"

PART 2. White crow.

parts: one | two | three | four | five

dbd Xenomorph (alien) x fem!reader. attention: murder

“Let me introduce myself, my name is Ellen Louise Ripley. I am the only survivor of the Nostromo crew.”

Ellen spoke without pride or enthusiasm. Her voice was filled with bitterness and sadness, with the horror and fear of facing a monster from the depths of space one on one. Ripley looked like a woman who couldn't be broken no matter what the odds got in her way, and that made you respect this strong woman.

The fire from the fire was crackling steadily. The thrown firewood slowly turned black, turning into coals. The flame did not warm, but gave everyone present a phantom feeling of calm and safety. The territory of the survivors, fenced off by a white soothing fog, did not allow killers and creatures from other universes to reach the fire, but many still preferred to stay, if not in groups, then at least in pairs. Because it’s so safe, because it’s so comfortable. So profitable.

And among all this multitude of people, you alone felt out of place. White crow among black crows. It would seem that you could maintain a dialogue with each potential team member, taught and learned something new, but you did not have the same mutual understanding as Dwight and Claudette . You couldn't talk to Mikaella and Honas about enchantments any more than your basic knowledge of totem blessings allowed.

You were yours. But you were a stranger and in case of danger, they would be the last to save you.

“I will share with you my knowledge regarding the Alien or Xenomorph , as it is also called. This is a new... killer, as you call them here, who has a number of abilities.”

The conversation around the fire began to gain momentum. From time to time you asked your questions to Louise in order to better understand what to expect from the Alien. The information was, to put it mildly, depressing. You sincerely wanted not to compete in the tests against this monster, but everything was the will of the Entity and a little of your luck.

For the next three trials, you come face to face with the xenomorph . Perhaps he remembered you and holds a grudge, otherwise you cannot explain to yourself how it happened that in the first test you were sent to meet with the entity in the first place, the second time you were allowed to leave through the gate as the only survivors, and the third time you have successfully stumbled upon a hook.

In every unnatural-looking shadow, you saw the outline of a xenomorph's vertebrae . You heard his cry when he got caught with his paws or tail, seemingly behind his back. You could feel his saliva on and under your skin as the sixth test passed, and the creature from outer space continued to pursue you.

When for the seventh time, having completely resigned yourself to your fate of being an eternal victim of the Alien, you are incredibly lucky. You were ready to go to Ghostface , if not kiss, then something like that. And although the latter would be glad to get his first victim so soon, the other survivors looked at you more than strangely and would have suspected you of colluding with the maniac if they did not know your situation.

Laurie patted you on the shoulder sympathetically whenever you managed to cross paths.

“I’ve never felt so disgusting,” Claudette said irritably , sitting down on the edge of a fallen tree near the fire. You sat a little further away, so you could hear her words. “All this time it stood almost behind us, while we... while we...”

“Let’s be honest, we were lucky that we at least escaped without injury,” Jake Park, who apparently underwent the test with Morel . “It wasn’t pleasant for me to run through the bushes with my bare ass.”

“Do you think I really liked it?”

The guy wrinkled his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. You, interested, eavesdropped on someone else's conversation, trying not to frighten off the source of information; It will be better for you if the couple believes that their most interesting conversation was left without due attention.

You shivered when clouds of cold fog touched the bare skin of your legs and pulled them towards you, bending them at the knees. Wrapping your arms around yourself and adjusting the jacket thrown over you, you looked at the sky: beautiful and cloudless, strewn with stars - almost the same as you saw on the Nostromo , except that the satellite was much larger or closer to the surface of the planet.

Jake about something . Her active gestures and talking face clearly hinted that the girl did not agree with the words of her boyfriend, but the latter was unshakable and calm to match the emotionality of his partner. Soon their quiet conversation died down, and you understood only one thing: a stranger was watching them while the couple had sex.

Funny. And scary.

Ellen said that the xenomorph is evolving.

“It looks like my next test will be with you,” Ripley sat down next to her , oh which you thought a second ago, smiled warmly, and then looked at the stars. “I liked looking at them too.” In childhood. I dreamed that I would explore space and make discoveries, but...”

There was a moment of silence, which became awkward with each passing second. Did the girl deliberately leave the sentence unfinished to make you feel uncomfortable, did she want you to ask your question, or did the silence seem tense only to you?

The wood in the fire continued to crackle rhythmically, breaking the silence in the clearing. As you watched the once glowing scarlet wood turn to jet black, you couldn't help but notice the analogy with human determination and faith. You believed that the xenomorph would someday leave you alone when he satisfied his desire to take revenge on you, reveling in the feeling of the chase.

Faith, like a weak flame, faded away.

"But"?” you ask, hinting to hear the continuation of the story.

“When I thought that death was about to take me away and I would get rid of this nightmare, I ended up here. And he too.” Ellen shrugged. Her tired gaze turned to your figure, slightly trembling from the cold; Louise herself did not care about any weather, be it the stuffiness of an abandoned cemetery somewhere in the desert or the bone-chilling cold of Ormond. “Honestly, I thought that the monster would hunt me more than others, but watching you, I made a small assumption...”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise and anticipation . You were very interested in other people’s words, but at the same time you felt somehow uneasy. If a stranger really needs something from you, then you can safely assume that his pursuit will never end and someday his razor-sharp fangs will end up in your body. The prospect of becoming his prey did not please you at all, but so far you have managed to escape even while being possessed by him.

“So, what's your guess?”

The former officer is silent. The look of her dark eyes slightly alarms and frightens you, and the next moment the girl will turn into her sworn enemy and attack you. The acidic blood will burn through your skin and reach your bones, with its claws it will open your stomach to tear and devour your insides with its sharp fangs. Fear bubbled in your chest.

“The next time you meet him, pay attention to whether the monster has left its scent on your body. Saliva, blood...”

...The xenomorph is behind you. He hisses when he receives a blow to his chitin-covered head from the boards. A nail driven into the wood manages to scratch the strong armor, causing green poisonous blood to spill. You scream when drops of acid fall on your legs - running immediately becomes painful and difficult, a stranger can easily catch up with you and hook you with his tail. But when you turn around to see if the killer is following you, you find that he is simply standing still and watching, and then walking in the opposite direction of you...

...The viscous saliva of the xenomorph spills across the floor in front of the locker in which you hid. The secretions of a creature from deep space are mixed with your blood, flowing down your arms and legs after a recent attack - the xenomorph's tail brushed your side. With a sharp movement, the monster opens the iron cabinet door, but instead of immediately picking you up with its main weapon, a huge paw hits the back of the cabinet next to your head. The big head creeps closer to you, and you think that your end has come, that now the second mouth of the xenomorph will make a hole in your head. The xenomorph's saliva running down your cheek makes you think about a lot of things...

“Suppose, if it was, then what?..”

Ripley sighed heavily before giving her answer.

“Then I have bad news. He chose you as his mate to create a new colony here.”

Finding yourself on the Nostromo again no longer seemed something scary to you, rather than meeting one-on-one with a xenomorph . The faint hope that in today's test there will be some other killer, and not your personal nightmare, was dispelled to dust as soon as one of the points of movement of the monster was noticed. The control center located directly in front of the generator gave the alien easy access to attack from behind without being noticed. Your hands trembled weakly from fear, but you went to the generator at your own peril and risk.

You retrieved and installed the remote fire turret before sitting down to repair the generator. Fearing the worst-case scenario and knowing your luck, you specifically made the fruiting of the Entity to successfully and quickly repair the generators in order to quickly escape from the cage created by the Entity. Your comrades: Meg , Ellen and Claudette , should have tried to buy you as much time as they could.

“Most likely, his next step will be courtship. For these creatures, it is the presentation of corpses as an indicator of their strength, so that the future couple will evaluate the abilities of the future partner.”

Ripley ’s words came at the wrong time, because you almost miss the reaction check, almost blowing up the almost finished generator. A nervous chuckle escapes your lips, but then you have to hold your attention as soon as the turret begins to warn you that the killer is close.

Having finished with the generator, you took the turret and moved to the next point, marked for you by the Entity in red. It was difficult and long to move with the installation, but it was better to do so, constantly knowing whether an alien was nearby, than to run away and evade the attacks of its tail. The generators marked in red formed a good triangle, depriving the killer of which was your first priority - the ideally close location of all three points allowed you not to waste time.

The fire turret began signaling almost hysterically as soon as you approached the generator and installed the equipment. In a couple of seconds, you reach the nearest stone shelter, which completely hides your figure behind it, before a tall xenomorph figure appears from the control room . He screams heart-rendingly, as if in pain, and you yourself also wince, either from the unpleasant sound, or because the creature is somewhat pathetic. With one blow, the creature destroyed the turret, which brought it out of its crawling state, depriving it of its main weapon, after which the killer looked around in search of the next victim.

The perfect weapon was so evil that during the long chase he failed to catch a single survivor, and now he was completely set on fire by the turret.

Not finding his next victim, the alien returned back to the dungeon, but you understood that it was too early to leave the shelter - perhaps the xenomorph was only hiding, and in fact was sitting near the exit from the tunnel, waiting for the brave man who had installed a weapon here. Long minutes pass and only then do you decide to return to the strong point, get a new fire turret and start repairing the generator.

When the generator was half finished, Meg's scream was heard . Most likely, the creature touched her with its tail or claws, then there was the sound of falling boards and another scream - acidic blood fell on the girl. You couldn't go help her even if you wanted to because your main task was fixing the generator.

This is how helplessness feels.

A heavy feeling settled in your chest. As if if you were there, you could help, but being obsessed with the xenomorph , he simply would not pay his attention to you, continuing to chase other survivors until you are the last one left. And one Entity knows that a creature from deep space will rise up, who also wants to make a new colony with you.

It is impossible to have children in the world of the Entity. This is an indisputable fact proven by many survivors, but hardly the stranger knew about it, otherwise why does he continue to haunt you? Unless, of course, the reason lies in close communication with Michael Myers. Thinking about this, a faint shadow of a smile appears on your exhausted face. The picture in your head of how a silent killer telepathically conveys some instructions to an extraterrestrial being, and he shakes his head and wags his tail like a dog, amused you. Perhaps you had simply gone crazy, but now it was difficult to imagine the xenomorph as a serious threat.

Until the moment you come face to face with him again.

Suspiciously quickly, Ellen is hung on a hook, and she comes to the point of fighting the Entity. The girl, who is not quite used to everything, loses several times in the fight, and you can clearly hear her bones cracking and crunching. This makes you feel uneasy, but you forcefully hold yourself in place and finish fixing the generator. Wounded Claudette is forced to run from the killer, and Meg is too far away to save Ripley . At your own peril and risk, hoping that the killer does not decide to change course, you run up to the brunette hanging on the hook and save her from the clutches of the Entity.

“Thank you,” the survivor nods gratefully as you begin treatment. The toolbox remains lying nearby while, armed with someone else's first aid kit, you heal the wounds of the former officer. “Next time, don’t take risks. I have no more attempts to save myself.”

Biting your lower lip, you could only nod obediently, agreeing with the words of others. If the girl is telling the truth, then it really won’t be possible to save her and the next hanging will send her to a meeting with the entity. I wonder if others have at least some attempts to save themselves or are you the only one who can still try to get off the hook? After saying goodbye to Ripley and picking up your tools, you go to fix the next generator.

A body that fell nearby made you scream in fear, and then the generator exploded, illuminating the area with hundreds of sparks and revealing your location to the killer. You froze, like a rabbit in the face of a boa constrictor and don’t know what to do: run, attracting attention to yourself and, perhaps, the stranger will be distracted by you, abandoning his prey. But the stranger who notices you is only watching.

“...presenting corpses as an indicator of one’s strength...”

Excruciatingly long.

“...so that the future couple can evaluate their abilities...”

You don’t even know where this creature’s eyes are, but you can say with certainty that the gaze of the alien monster is sliding over your figure.

"...future..."

The xenomorph slowly pierces Ripley's body with its tail. Lifts him in the air, turning him to face him. You see the grimace of horror on Ellen's beautiful face. A second later, the xenomorph's second mouth pierces her head, leaving a large hole in her forehead.

"...partner..."

With gloomy calm you watch the alien creature. It throws a lifeless corpse at your feet, as if it is appreciating its work. You can clearly hear that unspoken “are you satisfied, my future couple?” in the shrill squeak of someone else. You manage to stand still with all your willpower, especially when the monster comes inappropriately close to you. You feel the iron smell, heavy cold breath above your ear, and viscous saliva mixed with blood that flows down your shoulder below.

The xenomorph suddenly turns its head to the side when it senses the presence of another survivor. It was Meg, who came out at the wrong time from around the corner of the Nostromo wreckage. Her gaze darted from Ellen's corpse to the xenomorph standing next to you.

originally there was a paragraph in this chapter where the reader reflects on the outcome of his ordeal, but does not remember how it all ended. this is due to the fact that I am an adherent of the theory of amnesia of survivors and killers. Unfortunately, I had to abandon this, but I do not exclude the possibility that references could remain somewhere in the text.

[imgeekgirlfan]

The Curse of Cassandra [EP : I]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings:  Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader)  [The Acolyte]

Content Rating : Mature 18+  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: you have always denied your own power. But fate has its own path. Sometimes it can be changed, but often it cannot be avoided. You realized this truth when you met him for the first time, as you stepped into your seventeenth year.

Status: work in progress (This is a long fanfic that will be about 10+ chapters.)

➡  Intro // EP : II // EP : III // EP : IV // EP : V // EP : VI // EP : VII

[Episodes 1] There is no escape—we pay for the violence of our ancestors

"We were once far greater than this," That's what your mother often told you many times when you were much younger.

For the most part, the tales from your mother's lips were no different from myths. The details were ancient and blurred by time, seeming more like delusions than truths. People never believed anything she said, dismissing her as just another mad woman with an unsound mind.

You were the only one who fully believed your mother, not just because she was your mother.

But because you saw it, just as your mother had seen, and just as all your ancestors before them had seen.

The Awakening —that's what your mother called it. It was said that one of your distant ancestors could look back into the past and see thousands of years into the future.

Mother believed this was a gift, a great inherited legacy passed down through blood, bone, and spirit, strung together for countless eons.

You thought the opposite. You saw it more as a curse.

Since the collapse in the past, your lineage has greatly weakened, and not everyone could bear the Awakening like your great ancestors. Knowing too much, even knowing what shouldn't be known, was an unnatural mechanism that directly affected both body and mind. The more one saw, the more twisted and destroyed they became.

Thus, everyone's fate was not much different. Most ended up committing suicide or being killed. A few went mad, and even fewer were scorned and despised by others as being crazy.

Fortunately, your mother was the latter.

You firmly believed this, until your mother intentionally gave you poison to drink when you were fifteen.

"Drink it," Your mother voice was harsh as she placed the glass on the wooden table in front of you. Inside was a pungent blue liquid that smelled like cinnamon mixed with some kind of medicine. She had a glass in her own hand as well, gripping it tightly as if it were precious. Her blue eyes, once as dark as ink, were now pale and vacant, not even bothering to look at you.

For a moment, just a few seconds but feeling like an eternity, as the strange smell wafted into your nose, the awakening enveloped your senses. You looked up into your mother's eyes, acutely aware of what she was about to do.

"Ten percent, Hara," your mother told you, her voice flat and emotionless. "Worth the risk."

That was the last sentence before she drank the poisoned glass in one gulp. Your mother's entire body collapsed in front of you, and never woke up again.

Outsiders judged on their own that your mother was insane, deranged to the point of trying to commit suicide along with her own daughter using some strange, untraceable poison.

And since then, you have always denied your own power.

You didn't want to be like your mother, and you didn't want to end up like others in the past.

But fate has its own path. Sometimes it can be changed, but often it cannot be avoided.

You realized this truth when you met him for the first time, as you stepped into your seventeenth year.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, filled with panic. Your entire body hangs suspended in mid-air, swaying back and forth as you struggle to find a way to escape. But no matter how hard you try, it is useless. The straw rope from the trap binding your ankles is too tight, and the branch of the large tree to which the rope is attached is too strong. You know well that you have no way of getting out of here unless someone comes to help.

"Say ‘please’."

You look towards the voice, seeing an upside-down image of a man leaning against that tree. He wears an old black cloak with patches of mending here and there. One hand casually twirls a short knife, its sharp tip gleaming in flashes of sunlight.

You respond by spitting at him.

Of course, your saliva doesn't reach his face, barely making it to his feet. It becomes yet another futile attempt on your part. He laughs at you mockingly, and that laughter irritates you even more. You struggle harder until you can feel the straw rope fibers cutting into the flesh of your ankles. Blood begins to trickle out bit by bit.

"You're about to cut off your own legs, you know that?"

You stop your actions when he approaches. Those black eyes still gleam with amusement as he stands watching your pitiful state for a moment, deliberately torturing you a little for your defiance, before finally deciding to help.

One of his hands swiftly cuts the rope, while his other arm wraps around your waist to prevent you from headbutting the ground. You had never known his strength until today, discovering that he could carry your body and flip you back to standing on the ground with just one arm, without his expression changing one bit. As if you were just a plank of wood, not a full-grown human.

"You shouldn't run away like this," he says, gesturing around the dense forest. Wherever one looks, there is nothing but trees and grass packed tightly everywhere. "The planet Khofar is full of dangers. Even most bounty hunters don't like coming here much."

You already knew that, and it was the main reason why you chose to hide on this wild, forested planet for the past two years.

Who would have thought you'd meet someone else crazy and brave enough to come here too?

"What's here that's more dangerous than you?" You retort without hesitation.

You have never trusted this strange man, and this isn't the first time you have tried to escape from him. But whenever you manage to find a way to run, he always tracks you down, like a game of cat and mouse.

And you are quite sure that he enjoys hunting you. The gleam in his eyes reveals as much, clear, and undisguised.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The man smiles mischievously without flinching. His hand grips your upper arm, refusing to let go. You feel yourself shrink when standing close to him. He is as tall and large as a stone pillar, his sharp features with a slight beard giving off an atmosphere of stern seriousness. Even though there is a playful smile on his face, it does nothing to diminish his intimidating presence.

"Alright, little girl. Instead of just running away like this, don't you think it's time we sit down and have a real talk?"

He bends down, bringing his eyes level with yours. You see the scrutinizing, fault-finding look in his eyes as they survey every feature of your face, stripping you bare with his piercing gaze, trying to find the slightest sign of anything you might be hiding.

"Tell me, how does a small woman like you, who has nothing, end up becoming a wanted criminal with a bounty on her head?"

Wanted Criminal—that's what Qimir has called you since your first encounter, and it is the same reason you have been stuck with him for so long.

Someone, or perhaps many people, have decided to label you a criminal, putting a price on your head as if you were dangerous, even though you haven't done anything terrible at all.

Your only crime was being born into this lineage. That alone is enough to be branded as a danger, unworthy of living in any galaxy.

True, those events have long passed, so much so that most people have forgotten that your ancestry once existed in this universe. But there are still some groups who remember well. These are people who fear history will repeat itself, wanting to permanently erase the cursed bloodline, and those who desire to exploit the hidden power that exists only in your family line.

And when your mother chose to die early, there was no one left but you—the only bloodline of past greatness still breathing and sane. Now you are the final target being hunted relentlessly by those people.

You don't have many choices. The only way to survive safely is to keep running aimlessly, like a legless bird that never stops flying until death, trying to hide as discreetly as possible.

You have lived like this all along, never being caught once, and never revealing yourself to anyone. But even Homer sometimes nods. Eventually, failure creeps up on you unexpectedly when this strange, peculiar man appears.

Qimir is a smuggler and mercenary who takes on any job that pays well, legal or illegal. Like other bounty hunters, he seeks fortune by hunting you, but he managed to do what many others couldn't—he was the first to find you and capture you without getting his throat slit first.

You are puzzled by this man. It is strange that he doesn't just kill you but instead keeps you like a stray animal he has taken in. He doesn't imprison you but won't let you leave either. His mind is full of endless curiosity, questioning everything about you. He keeps asking you repeatedly why an ordinary girl like you has such a high bounty on your head.

Of course, you have no intention of answering him, no matter how much he persists.

"It seems everyone wants to get their hands on you. Did you know even the Jedi are looking for you?" Qimir had told you, his tone a mix of warning and intimidation. "You're not secretly some kind of Sith or something, are you?"

'Sith' is a forbidden word throughout the Empire. The name of an evil, ruthless sect that believes in absolute power and tyranny. They are the complete opposite of the Jedi, known as the guardians of virtue and keepers of peace in the universe.

Hearing this, you can't help but laugh derisively. To you, both Jedi and Sith are bizarre, extreme factions locked in an endless struggle, as if the entire universe were just black and white.

"I don't have the Force, so I can't be a Sith. And I can't be a Jedi either," you reveal, cautiously avoiding saying more than necessary. "I'm just me, nothing more."

Qimir stares at you intently, his eyes narrowing slightly and thick eyebrows furrowed. It is clear he doesn't believe what you say. If he had the Force, you think he must be trying to read your mind right now.

But even a Jedi couldn't do anything. You have learned many things from your mother's teachings, one of which is how to shield your mind. Without your permission, no one can invade your thoughts.

Qimir sighs and shakes his head slowly, eventually giving up his attempt to catch you lying. "Then you're useless," he says, and you see this as a great opportunity.

"Exactly. My mother used to say keeping a Tooka was more useful than keeping me," you say, biting your lip as your left leg throbs with pain from a deep wound. You are too tired to fight him and can't even walk properly, which only makes your words seem more plausible. "And now, with my injured leg, I'll just be a burden to you..."

Qimir glances at you again, considering the serious, solemn expression you are feigning. A slight smile tugs at his lips, nearly breaking into a laugh. He isn't fooled by your act.

"For a burden worth Nova Crystals, I'm willing to carry it," he says.

He doesn't just speak—in the blink of an eye, he wraps an arm around your waist and easily lifts your body over his shoulder, causing you to scream in surprise. Hearing the satisfied laughter from him only makes you more furious and resentful towards this man.

I must kill him and escape your resolve is firm, even though you know it won't be easy.

[l0serloki]

Early Mornings

(Chamber, Yoru, Phoenix, Breach)

A/N : There will be a part two to this with the valorant women. I'm finishing it up now and will link it here when it's done!

masterlist + part two

Chamber :

He’s quick to get up but very handsy. He knows you both need to get dressed but he can’t help himself.

“You’re too tempting mon amour. You cannot blame me.” 

He will help you get dressed as well if you ask. He enjoys picking things out for you to wear. (He also enjoys taking them off later in the day.)

Very soft and gentle. It’s only deserving for his little love.

Chamber’s warm hands rubbed against your cheek as his voice filled the silence. You groaned as you knew the daily routine he had set by now.

“Darling, you know you have to wake up.” He slowly peeled you back away from his embrace, your eyes adjusting as you woke up. In the past you had hated getting out of bed. It was cold and miserable and only meant you had to get up and actually do things. But with Chamber it hadn’t been as bad.

“There we are.” The Frenchman cooed into your ear as he helped you sit up, his palms digging into your shoulders. Your body relaxed against his touch as he eased you further up and to the side of the bed. 

“Would you like me to get you some clothes?” His voice was soft as he finally stood up, leaning down to leave a kiss against your forehead. You only nodded as you stretched out. 

His nimble hands slid on your top, leaning down to give you a kiss every time he had to move you. You only smiled as you enjoyed the intimacy. He could’ve dressed you up in a clown suit and it would’ve been worth it. 

Yoru :

He will be cranky. And complain about his ‘personal heater’ leaving him. (He will pull you back into bed multiple times before getting up.)

Half the time he won’t get up. He will convince you that any obligations either of you had are not worth it. Why would he bother with other people anyways?

When he does get up he will mumble curses under his breath. He will be grumpy for another two hours before he fully wakes up.

“Don’t.” Yoru grunted as your hand moved up his chest to wake him up. Turns out, the grumpy man was already sentient.

“Baby you know we need to get up. We promised Phoenix to help him on that mission today..” You whispered out and he turned to face you. Yoru’s arm wrapped around your torso, forcing you into his chest. You accepted your fate as you got comfortable against him.

“When have I ever listened to Phoenix?” He chided as his grip got even tighter. It would be futile to fight with him so you might as well get a bit more sleep....

Phoenix :

“Babe, five more minutes..” 

It’s never five more minutes and if you don’t drag him out of bed.. he will oversleep.

Once you finally pull him out of bed he’s full of life. He’s jumping around and pulling you against him as he presses kisses to your cheeks.

“Phoenix we have a mission today..” You groan as you smack your pillow into the man's head. He only grunted in response, throwing up his hand to give you a sarcastic middle finger.

“The mission isn’t for like six hours babe.” Phoenix rolled over, rubbing his palms against his eyes. You only let out an annoyed sigh.

“Try two. We still haven’t gotten our guns ready either.” 

Phoenix’s eyes widen a bit as you tell the time. His hands move to push himself out of the comfortable sheets.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We’ve got to get ready!” He pulled you in for a chaste kiss before hopping up.

Breach :

He snores and does not wake up easily. 

You could push him off the bed and he most likely would still be asleep. It’s almost unnatural. 

When he does wake up he stretches out and sits in bed for a few minutes before he does anything. Usually he pulls you into his chest and lays his head on top of yours. (It’s one of his favorite things about waking up.)

“How the hell are you not awake?” You groan as Breach lays face first against the ground. His snores echo in the room as you climb off the bed and pull him back up.

“Huh?” The man finally seems to be jostled awake as you struggle to pull him back into the sheets. 

“We have to get up!” You choke out as he falls against you, pushing his weight onto your chest. He only gives you a little grin as he pecks at your chin.

“Do we? Why don’t you push me off?” He teased as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck. You couldn’t possibly get rid of him when he was this needy.

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Hi!! I really really want to get into the academy era eu stuff, but I just have no idea where to start 😭😭😭 do you have any audio/novel/etc recs to start off with? Thank you so much!!

-✨️🪐 anon

Hello! So sorry I didn't see this sooner - I've been quite busy lately (busy enough I forgot to submit my Big Finish Short Trips this year...)

Anyway, for the Academy Era, the starting off point is generally Divided Loyalties. In this novel, there is a long dream sequence of the Academy Era. Since it is a dream, it might not be 100% accurate, but it's what we have.

Otherwise, most of the information we have on the Academy Era comes from the occasional reference in a bunch of different stories. Some of them have more Academy Era material than others...

We can get some pretty good insights from some DWEU material (beyond what is in the TV show). I won't list spoilers here just in case that wasn't what you were looking for (though I have other posts that do entail this information), but here's the list I can think of off the top of my head. Some of these are stories with just general young-Time-Tot era references (not necessarily at the Academy but still the itty bitty, pre-leaving Gallifrey guys), but I'll include them anyway. And some of these references are quick, so be prepared.

Novel: Divided Loyalties

Novel: Tomb of Valdemar

Novel: Deadly Reunion

Novel: Lungbarrow

Novel: The Death of Art

Novel: The Dark Path

Audio: Time in Office

Audio: Darkness and Light

Novel: The Time Lord Letters

Short story: The Nameless City

Audio: Planet of the Rani

Audio: Master

Comic: The Glorious Dead

Comic: Weapons of Past Destruction

Comic: Space in Dimension Relative in Time)

Short story: The Three Paths

Audio/Novel: Mission to Magnus

Novel: The Eight Doctors

Audio/Novel: Cold Fusion

Audio: The Eleven

Audio: Blood of the Time Lords

Audio: The Widow's Assassin

Audio: Crossed Lines

Short story: Celestial Intervention - A Gallifreyan Noir

Short story: The Legacy of Gallifrey

Novel: Timewyrm: Exodus

Novel: Goth Opera

Audio: The Toy

Short story: Birth of a Renegade

Short story: Rebel Rebel

Audio: Neverland

Audio: The Next Life

Novel: Island of Death

Novel: Unnatural History

Novel: Christmas on a Rational Planet

Audio: Disassembled

Comic: Flashback

Audio: Together in Eclectic Dreams

Audio: The Last Line

Short story: Report on Term's Work

Audio: The Wormery

Audio: Storm Warning

Novel: Cat's Cradle: Time's Crucible

Novel: The Infinity Doctors

Short story: Seven Deadly Sins

Audio: Order of the Daleks

Audio: The Apocalypse Element

Audio: Prisoners of Fate

Novel: Original Sin

Novel: The Twin Dilemma

Anyways, these are the ones that immediately pop to mind when I think of stories that have references. It's not a complete list, mind, just the ones in my head at the time of writing. They are also not in any order, just the order I thought of them.

Regardless, most of these are just references, and you may not want to read an entire novel for a single reference...If that is the case, let me know, and I can explain some more!

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 48: Fitz's Charms

Prev > Masterlist > Next

June 1905

TW: mind control, blood drinking

Fitz once again had a plan.

It wasn't much of one. But the past few days in the auction house, he'd had little to do but sleep, eat, play solitaire, read the books and magazines Alexander brought him, and think about how he could escape his seemingly inevitable fate.

It certainly didn't help that Alexander would fix him with a look of intense longing every time he returned to the room, catching Fitz in his gaze and invoking the intense, unnatural urge for fangs in his neck. The horror of the night of the auction hadn't washed that compulsion from his mind at all, and his dreams as he drifted off to sleep were full of  Alexander pulling him close, whispering his mesmeric song in Fitz's ear, humming softly as he bit into Fitz's tender flesh...

And yet, despite Alexander's very obvious desire, and the fact that he now owned Fitz (give or take his terrifying sire, who Fitz wished to put far from his mind), he never so much as laid a hand on him, explaining that he'd rather feed at home.

Fitz didn't accept this. They had complete privacy in the auction house room and  Alexander had originally intended to buy Fitz for exactly this purpose. He'd barely been able to hold himself back in the showroom, and he was obviously struggling to hold himself back now. No, there was something else at play. After giving it a great deal of thought, Fitz concluded that the most likely explanation was that Alexander did not want to grow too attached to him. Despite his grand promises, it was clearly difficult for Alexander to defy his sire in any way. If Alexander's plans to kill the Maestro failed, it would be much easier for Alexander if he didn't care, if he could simply hand over Fitz without a second thought.

Well, that wouldn't do.

Endearing himself to Alexander would be the key to his safety and eventually his escape, Fitz reckoned, particularly if Fitz could avoid getting entangled in inconvenient affection himself. It would possibly afford him more freedom and privilege, and the more Alexander valued him, the more he'd be spurred on to save Fitz from his cruel sire.

And there was one obvious way to start that process: enticing Alexander to feed.

The fact that this plan happened to dovetail with his own enthralled desires was just a happy accident, nothing more.

Fitz had been scheming the entire carriage ride to Alexander's manor, trying to look as enticing as possible in the shapeless frock the auction house had provided for him. Alexander spent most of the ride very interested in the bland scenery of the country road, looking anywhere but at Fitz, his aura betraying where his interests truly lay and sending Fitz's head spinning.

"Well, here we are. Please make yourself at home." said Alexander, removing his coat and shoes at the doorway as Fitz looked around. The manor looked considerably smaller than his childhood home, certainly older, and infused with the musty smell of old books.

A dusty intellectual, then, just as Fitz had suspected. He could work with that. Lord knows he'd charmed his way into the homes of many such an intellectual just by feigning interest in rare plants or mystery stories or whatever bee they had in their bonnet.

"I should show you around," saidAlexander. "This will be your home, now, and I want you to be comfortable. You're free to go where you please in the manor, and use what you will, as long as you don't harm the books or the instruments, or enter my private chambers uninvited. Is that clear?"

"Clear as crystal, sir," said Fitz, deliberately stepping much too close to Alexander, enjoying how he squirmed. It gave Fitz the welcome illusion that he had the upper hand, despite being locked into the manor of the vampire who owned him.

Alexander first took Fitz into an old-fashioned kitchen that was spotlessly clean. "I'll provide you with whatever food you request, but I'll expect you to cook it yourself. Can you cook?"

No, no he could not. Fitz's family had had a chef, and since running away, Fitz had only rented out rooms without access to a kitchen. He'd subsisted mainly on sandwiches, the cheapest diner food he could find, and, when he'd worked as a waiter, as much food from back of house as he could snatch. But Alexander didn't need to know that. How hard could basic cooking be? "I'll try not to burn the place down, sir."

"Burn the place down? You wouldn't --"

"That was a joke, sir."

"...Oh, yes." Alexander took a deep breath, apparently having taken that entirely seriously. 

"Are there any other thralls living here, sir?" Fitz already suspected the answer, given Alexander's air of desperation and how clean the kitchen was.

"No, it's only you."

"Very good, sir." That would certainly work to his advantage.

As Alexander left the kitchen and Fitz followed at his heels, he couldn't help but think of the food that awaited him. He believed that Alexander would keep him fed -- after all, he was apparently depending on Fitz alone for blood, and even the auction house had kept its prisoners fed well. His mouth was watering thinking of the steak and chicken he could be eating.

He'd just need to learn how to use a stove first. A minor detail.

"I hope you'll enjoy this. It's my music room," said Alexander, leading Fitz into an ornate room with a grand piano at its center. It was covered in a mess of sheet music and the bench was worn, indicating that it wasn't just a piano for show as many rich families had, but very well-used. An impressive collection of other instruments sat on the floor or hung from racks on the walls - a beautiful guitar that Fitz immediately coveted, several fine-looking violins, a brightly-painted harpsichord, a polished oboe.

"Yes, I do enjoy it, sir," said Fitz, lighting up. This was ideal -- music would be a way to pass the time and endear himself to his new master all at the same time. He gestured toward that gorgeous piano. "Do you mind, sir?" 

"Not at all. You did mention you play, didn't you?"

"I do, sir," said Fitz with a cheeky grin. "Just listen." He sat down at the bench, making a dramatic show of stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles, pleased to see Alexander giving him full attention. With a deft hand, he launched into a familiar ragtime tune, keeping time by tapping his foot on the floor. He was out of practice, having not played a music gig in several months, but despite a wrong note here and there he could still produce a pleasant enough tune. He looked up to see Alexander absolutely enraptured, a better response than expected considering his rusty piano skills.

"That was wonderful," he said. "What song was that? I've never heard it."

"You've never heard the Maple Leaf Rag, sir?" 

"I tend to be rather sheltered when it comes to newer music."

"Is that so, sir?" With a smile and a flourish, Fitz stood up and gestured to the piano bench. "In that case, I would like to hear some of your older music, if you don't mind playing, sir."

Alexander looked surprised and pleased at Fitz's request. "If you don't mind listening, I don't mind playing. It's far from perfect, though, I should warn you."

As Fitz leaned gently against the piano, Alexander took a small breath before starting in on the most complicated and arresting piano music Fitz had heard in his life. Nimble hands flew across the keys in patterns that were nearly impossible to follow with the naked eye, and despite Alexander claiming his performance was far from perfect, Fitz couldn't have identified one wrong note or missed beat if he tried. It was the sort of song and performance that demanded full attention, driving all other considerations out of the listener's head.

Despite the intense skill required to play the piece, Alexander's expression was not one of concentration. Instead, he seemed far away, as though his mind had departed his body.

"I'm a bit rusty. Apologies," said Alexander in all seriousness as he finished, as though he hadn't just given a virtuoso performance as casually as Fitz could plunk out a children's tune.

"That was... astounding, sir," said Fitz, caught off guard enough by the music that he didn't have a calculated answer. "I've never heard anything like it. What was the song?"

"It's a piano concerto written by a vampire composer, so not one you would have likely heard of. His works take advantage of the greater nimbleness afforded our kind." Alexander seemed oddly melancholy about having had the chance to show off a truly impressive skill. "Anyway, why don't we move on?"

He stood up abruptly from the piano bench, leaving Fitz to follow again, wondering what his next move should be. He'd thought the piano would be a winner, but it had only seemed to increase the distance between him and Alexander. 

"Allow me to show you my pride and joy, the library," said Alexander.

Fitz inwardly scoffed. How could a library possibly be more interesting than the music room? He'd seen plenty of personal libraries in his time, and had never been all that impressed by a rich person's ability to gather a bunch of dusty books they never actually read. Still, he'd have to pretend to be impressed.

It turned out that there was no need to pretend. This wasn't some small parlor with a few bookshelves. No, this so-called library actually took up what looked to be an entire wing of the manor. It was two stories high with bookshelves stretching straight to the ceiling, punctuated by rickety wooden ladders. And like the piano, it was very clearly in use, with books scattered all around the chairs and tables and lying in big stacks on a large wooden desk. 

"Well, what do you think?" said Alexander, clearly looking for approval in a way he hadn't with his piano playing.

"It's an astonishing amount of books, sir," said Fitz. "Have you actually read every one of these?"

"Most of them, yes, but there are some I haven't read cover to cover. Some of them are astoundingly dull histories that mostly have a place in cross-referencing other works."

Fitz leaned in close once more. "Astoundingly dull histories, sir? You certainly do know how to charm a man."

 Alexander didn't move away. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've attempting to charm me."

"And is it working, sir?" Fitz stepped closer, pleased when  Alexander found himself nearly pressed against one of his bookshelves.

"Perhaps."  Alexander seemed to be trying to compose himself. "Although I confess I don't see what the purpose is. At the auction house, you were trying to convince me to buy you. You did succeed, even if the ultimate outcome wasn't what either of us hoped. What are you trying to accomplish here?"

"Isn't it enough to want to please you, sir? Must you assume I have an ulterior motive?"

 Alexander seemed amused. "Oh, I know you have an ulterior motive. I'm only asking what it is."

"I was just thinking that you bought me for a reason, sir." Fitz had him practically backed up against the bookshelf by now. "And that reason so happens to coincide with the spell that our mutual acquaintance placed on me. So it's less of an ulterior motive, and more that our interests conveniently align."

 Alexander's eyes darted to Fitz's neck, his composure rapidly waning, and Fitz felt a thrill of power. For the first time since that fateful night when Miss Lily had volunteered to be his assistant, he felt like he had control over the situation, that he could skillfully manipulate things to go his way.

"Lily did condition you very well," said  Alexander, his voice wavering. "But I did intend for you to get settled in first before I sated my appetite."

"I'm pretty well settled, sir. I think I'm going to be able to make myself very comfortable here. But I don't want you holding back on what you really want to do. That never works out for anyone."

"Is that so?"

"You wanted me to offer my blood to you, didn't you, sir? That's what you told me when we first met. Well, here I am. Offering." Fitz shamelessly pulled aside the collar of his frock, exposing his neck, enjoying the way  Alexander's desire was settling around his mind, the way he had the vampire eating out of the palm of his hand. 

It happened so fast.

Fitz was being pushed onto the couch, cold hands gripping his shoulders, a mesmerizing song ringing in his ears. Unlike  Alexander's measured song at the auction house, this was desperate, needy, wrapping around Fitz's mind and pulling it beneath the waves before he could even comprehend what was happening. His plans and manipulation no longer mattered, dashed to pieces in the whirlpool of  Alexander's irresistible voice.

The only thing that mattered now was listening.

"You will obey, won't you?" whispered Alexander in his ear.

"Yes, Master." The instinctive reply tumbled from his lips, and he wasn't remotely prepared for how right it felt. How good he felt falling back into the magic.

No, the vampire was never eating out of the palm of his hand. That was an illusion, smoke and mirrors he set up to trick himself. Alexander was absolutely in control, and there was nothing he could do about it. But unlike the absolute control Alexander's sire had used on his body, this was like rest and calm and bliss all at once, quieting his busy mind, soothing it in a way he was rarely soothed, forcing a sweet surrender.

"You'll feel no pain. Only pleasure when I drink from you."

"Only pleasure, Master." That's it, that's all there was. Only pleasure from being buried in a tidal wave of his master's desire.

And then the fangs were in his neck, finally fulfilling the promise that was made to him the moment he'd been enthralled, and the remainder of his mind crumbled in an instant. His master drank hungrily from the twin wounds, lapping at the precious drops of blood, as Fitz slumped onto his shoulder, sinking into a euphoric daze. Fitz could somehow feel every drop of his master's intense desire for him, and it felt like Narcissus looking into his pool, like a starving man served a lavish banquet, like he would never be satiated.

He was wanted, oh, he was wanted and wanted and wanted --

The feeding was over too soon, too soon for Fitz to fully savor the dizziness in his head and the heaviness in his limbs from his master's feast, the proof of his quality. The proof that Fitz was worth something to someone.

"Such a good thrall," Alexander murmured as he cradled Fitz's head against his chest. "You're perfect, Fitz. You're absolutely perfect. And I'm not going to let anyone else touch you, not my sire, not anyone. You're mine."

"Yours, sir," said Fitz, and he had promised that very thing to so many people, but he'd never actually meant it until now.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next time, Alexander gets drunk.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump

[b00kdiary]

Dreamer | Rhysand

Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand begrudgingly goes to Hewn City to secure a marriage pact that will indefinitely bond the two Courts together- but the fine ladies of the Court of Nightmares are not what he wants or needs. Instead, he discovers Lady Y/N, and she has no qualms about telling him how he has failed this City and her. This is more than just coincidence, it’s fate.

Warnings: long chapters, mature content (18 +) swearing, eventual smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

"High Lord, Rhysand of the Night Court."

I reach the top of the dais as my name is announced, my footsteps echoing against the polished floor and the sound bounces through the room, through the tense silence. No one speaks, they barely breathe, as I slowly turn, my face a sheet of ice as I settle onto my throne.

I let a nonchalant smile tug at my lips, the dark mask of a tyrant slipping into place as I eye the endless room before me. A macabre and dreary setting with its ebony walls and onyx ceiling, the beasts carved into the cavernous stone a mirror to the type of Fae who lived in this City.

I emulate the darkness as I lean back, my long legs spreading apart and my fingers curling into the engraved snake form that curves around the throne, the head peering out over my shoulder, my own personal monster.

I cock my head at the dozens of males before me, Council Members, my violet eyes twinkling in amusement as they all remained bowed, knees pressed to the floor, heads lowered and waiting for my word.

"You may rise," I drawl, my tone the picture of boredom, and as Kier and his peers rise to their feet, I see the apprehension and distaste on their faces for me, for my inner circle. Kier observes me, his brown eyes flickering at the prolonged silence. "Kier?"

"As usual, it is an honour to have you here, High Lord," Kier inclines his head, scurrying forward as he speaks, his own mask of reverence slipping into place as he stops before me. "As the steward of Hewn City, I am delighted by your decision to unite our two Courts through marriage, as are the Council present here today."

I see the way my Court stiffens, Mor, Cassian and Azriel all flanked at the bottom of the dais seem to go unnaturally still, the stones in their eyes wholly- unable to hide their disapproval of this whole arrangement.

"We all have our duties, Kier, the Court must always come first," My lips tilt in a mocking smile, and Kier shrivels under the tendrils of dark power that dance around me, an omnipresent threat so at odds with my amused gaze, "My marriage to a Lady of Hewn City will be a victory for us all."

Marriage.

The word tastes like poison on my tongue, any hopes and dreams I had once harboured turning to ash in my mouth at the cold reality I was faced with. To marry a female, I didn't know or love, to mate with her and sire a child, and secure an alliance with the Court of Nightmares indefinitely.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown indeed.

"It will be an alliance venerated for generations to come, I'm sure," Kier smiles, an ugly, wretched sight and I saw Mor shiver in my peripheral, an imperceptible movement, a conditioned reaction to her father. "High Lord, may I introduce to you the fine ladies selected by the Council."

I brace myself, masking my dread with an entertained smirk, drawing on the worst parts of myself, the worst parts of this place to hide the male that roared in warning to me inside. A click of doors opening at my left, and then several soft footsteps echoing into the chamber.

I stare, unyielding and silent, as several young women stride into the room, their heads bowed and back straight, adorned with fine clothes and finer jewellery as they stop at the foot of the dais before me.

They were fine, lovely even, tall, and thin, typical of High Fae female beauty and yet, despite their soft smiles and delicate frames, I frown.

"You can't be serious, even you wouldn't be this cruel," Mor releases a horrified, tight breath and both Cassian and Azriel step forward in unison, an impenetrable wall, as Kier's eyes turn to Mor and his lip curls. "These 'fine ladies' are girls, children, how old are they?"

The room shifted at her sharp words, Kier tensing at the accusation and the males of the Council muttering amongst themselves, their eyes burning as they glared at my cousin- at her supposed insolence for speaking out of turn.

"Their age is of little significance, girl," Kier sneers, that simpering fool mask he wore melting into revulsion and anger as he took in his outcasted daughter. My fingers curled around the throne under me as he spoke, that pit of darkness inside me churning. "They have all had their first bleed-"

"Cauldron," Cassian swore, his dark hair shifting as he moved his gaze over to those girls, and I saw his throat bob at the sight- so young, broken, pawns moved and used in a game of power.

"You're disgusting," Mor hissed, and I heard the pain clawing at her throat, her face pulled into a devastated frown as she took in those girls- and it was as if she were looking into a mirror, to the girl she had once been. "These girls are not chattel; you cannot sell their innocence for your own gain-"

"These ladies are being honoured, girl, an honour that you will never understand," Kier snarled, his emphasis on honour so clear, an indirect assault on Mor's character, on the choice she made to free herself. "To marry the High Lord is a privilege, one these ladies are eager for-"

Azriel's shadows thrum around him, restless, wild, and I knew his control was wearing thin the longer Kier spoke, the longer those girls stood before us, trembling under the burden on their shoulders.

"Enough." One word, low and sinister, and every mouth in the room closed, every Fae in the room turned utterly still at the command.

I grit my teeth, letting the furious power within me radiate into the room, let it dance through the air, brush against my subjects, let them feel the warning, the threat, that I was. I smile as their faces pale, flinching back from the vile magic, a reminder that I could destroy them without even lifting a hand.

"Kier, I am going to choose to believe that this decision was made out of sheer stupidity rather than insolence," My voice is a calm storm, but my eyes- they rage with a current of violence and death, the kind that made males twice my age blanche- and they do. "I will choose to believe that you did not invite me here to waste my time- you wouldn't dare be so foolish, would you Kier?"

I shifted forward in my seat, my eyes narrowing down at the male, and it took all the restraint in me not to shatter every bone in his body, to not pluck his eyes from his head and tear his tongue from his mouth- and he sees that desire to inflict pain upon him in my gaze.

"Never, High Lord, I would not dream of-" Kier barely contains his stuttering words, a mixture of fear, indignation and humiliation lacing through his widening gaze, but like the worm he was, he bowed his head to me in remorse. "It was a grave misjudgement, one that will not be repeated again."

"Good- I desire to sire a child, Kier, not marry one," I sneer, my disgust prevalent across every hard inch of my face as I turn from Kier, moving my eyes across every last council member, "Just as I am sure you all agree, these girls have many more years left to enjoy their youth, yes?"

I make the threat clear in my words, make them clear in my eyes- touch these girls and die.

None oppose me, their hearts hammering in their chests as they nod their head in agreement, subservient and controlled- and a small kernel of satisfaction fills me, that they felt a fraction of what the girls before me did.

"Kier, join me in the Council Room," I stand from my chaise, and as if it were muscle memory, every single person in the room falls to a knee and drops their heads as I descend the stairs. "Let us discuss the consequences you'll all face should you disappoint me again."

***

"Y/N, a union between the High Lord and a Lady of Hewn City is exactly the chance we've been waiting for," Cassandra pestered, her wide eyes pleading with me, but I ignored her again, choosing to instead clean the Council Room for the next meeting with haste. "It's a chance for change."

"Who are you trying to convince, Cassie- me or yourself?" I mutter, raising a dark brow at her as I tuck in the oak chairs, shoving them into place harder than was needed. "This marriage is a farce, and you're deluding yourself by thinking otherwise."

Cassie groans, the sound reverberating through the empty room, and I try to not laugh at her as she rushes around the endless table, her sea-blue eyes rolling as she stops beside me.

"Why must you be such a pessimist?" Cassie demands, her cold, slim fingers ripping the papers from my hand and slamming them onto the table before me. "With a lady from our Court married to the High Lord, we can finally hope, we will have someone on our side- to help us, to fix this Cauldron-forsaken City-"

"And who would that be?" I scoff out a laugh, a bitter, hollow sound as I turn my hard gaze to her, strands of my loose hair brushing my hot cheeks as I move, "Thanatos's daughter despises the Court of Dreams, Kier's nieces care more about fine jewels and clothes than people, and the other daughters are afraid of their own shadows, they would shit themselves at the sight of the High Lord and his inner circle."

Cassie purses her lips at my harsh words, and I frown, sighing deeply at the look of dejection on her lovely face, hating myself for snuffing out the light that had filled her eyes. But it had to be done- some people were not meant to dream.

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I know you wish it were otherwise, I do too," I force back the lump in my throat as I turn from her, hating the way my lip trembled and my hands felt weak, "But this marriage will benefit nobody but the High Lord, his court, and the males of the Council- that's it. They have never and will never care, there is no one on our side but us."

Silence fills the room at my hoarse dead words, and the reality of them, the reality that we were truly and irrevocably stuck in this life, in this cycle of hell made my eyes burn.

"It saddens me that you feel that way, My Lady," A deep, velvety voice rasped from behind me, and the air went taut at the unfathomable power that penetrated the room.

Cassandra gasped, something spilling from her hand and dropping to the floor with a deafening crunch. My stomach twists into knots as I brace myself, all the blood leeching from my face as I turn- to where the High Lord stood, his inner circle and Kier watching on either side.

"High Lord," Cassie choked on the title, choked on her fear and before the male before us could speak, she stumbled down to a knee, her head bowed and her golden hair falling forward to shield the terror on her face.

I couldn't move, not even as the voice inside me screamed and begged for me to bow, to submit myself to him- for I had heard stories of Rhysand.

Of his abilities as a Daemati, able to shatter a person's mind without lifting a hand, of his ruthlessness as High Lord, reducing people to ash with a smile on his lovely face, of all the horrific things he had done in his five hundred years of existence.

And it seemed he saw it on my face, perhaps even saw it in my mind, the nightmares and tales, the horrors spread about him in the City, about the kind of male he was.

His violet gaze narrowed, the constellations in them beaming as he stared at me, as he cocked his head, his lips pursed into a thin line- as if observing me. I shook under the silent act, the unyielding hold he had over me, as well as the gazes of his court at his side.

"Y/N!" Cassie hissed under her breath, her head turning and her silver-lined eyes meeting mine, tears sullying the usually tranquil blue as she pleaded with me to move, to bow.

"Insolent girl," Kier spat, his gaze hard as he glared at me and the breath caught in my lungs as a dark eclipse of magic shot from him, striking against my stomach, hard enough that I lurched forward in pain and then another hit a second later, slamming into my jaw. "Bow before your High Lord."

I groaned as I fell to a knee, the impact of the bone against the polished floor striking through my whole leg and up my body, but that was nothing compared to the throb that burned through my stomach and the cut at my lip, the taste of metal filling my mouth.

I heard a gasp, a feminine sound of surprise and concern from above me as I leaned forward, my eyes pinched shut and every breath feeling like glass in my lungs as I tried to compose myself- forcing down the pain in my jaw, in my stomach, in my heart.

I heard footsteps and then the room went still, as if a blanket of ice had fallen over us.

"High Lord, she-she was being impudent-" Begging and broken words, riddled with fear and my eyes shot open at the sound of a sickening crunch, an agonised scream following it, and the aura of death filling the space.

"No, you are impudent, Kier," That voice again, but now it sounded different- the kind of mercilessness that could haunt a person's nightmares, that could be found in the darkest hollows of hell. "You do not touch her, or any other female, ever."

Another crunch and I recognise the sound now, it was bones splintering, tendons tearing, blood gushing and Kier cried out again, a horrible, strangled sound.

"Leave," The High Lord breathed the command, and I felt the floor shake under his restraint like he was funnelling his power down into the ground as an anchor. "and do not heal that hand, I want you to remember my words today, Kier."

I keep my head low, staring at the floor, unable to look up as footsteps bound away, fast and stumbling and I cringe at the sight of blood leaking against the floor, a trail following after Kier as he exits the room.

And despite the tendrils of pain still wrecking through me- I internally groaned at the thought of having to clean the blood up.

An amazed huff of air left the High Lord, it sounded almost like a laugh, but I didn't dare raise my head. Not even as he slowly sauntered over, his footsteps deliberate and slow, I didn't even look up when that trail of blood vanished, magicked away, leaving behind not even a stain in memory.

He stopped before me, and my heart thrummed so loud I knew they could all hear it.

"My Lady," Rhysand murmured, his voice soft now, like a caress of wind against my skin. I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth, my eyes fluttering as I lift my head- to see the hand he had reaching down for me. "Please, rise."

I blink at the outreached hand, heat filling my cheeks at Rhysand's tender gaze, any whisper of violence or darkness gone, replaced by something so much sweeter. I gnaw on my cheek, my hand sweating and shaking as I reach forward, gently placing my palm in his.

The second our hands connect, something charges through me, bright and sharp and strong and for a second Rhysand's eyes widen, just for a second, but then he blinks and it's gone- as if I had imagined it.

"Thank you, High Lord," I breathe and his fingers curl firmly around my palm as I wince, my knees shaking and knocking as I rise to my feet. He whispers something gently under his breath, his head glancing sideways, and I sigh when Cassandra rises too, her slender frame curling back as she stands.

I crane my neck to meet Rhysand's eyes, and upon seeing my face, seeing the cut leaking blood at my lip, his expression hardens. He still hadn't let go of my hand, his large, ringed fingers still gripping around me like a vice, calming the trembling shakes that ran through me.

"I apologise for Kier's actions," Rhysand sighed, his dark lashes fluttering as he slowly slipped his hand from mine, moving to the pocket of his jacket, his fingers pulling free the cloth there. My hand felt cold as it fell back to my side, but as Rhysand lifted the cloth between his fingers, my head hazed.

I didn't breathe, couldn't, as Rhysand gently brushed the soft cloth against the cut at my lip, soaking the material with blood and being so careful that I didn't even feel the pain stinging at the touch. I feel the surprised stare of Cassie at my side, of his family at his back, but nothing deterred Rhysand.

"I should be the one to apologise, High Lord," I stutter, finally feeling like I can breathe as he pulls his hand away, and I blink away the fog, clearing my throat as I step back, as I let the bubble, he created around us pop. "I spoke out of turn, and I should have bowed-"

"You don't need to apologise for your honesty or anything else," He shook his head, the soft waves of his blue-black hair shifting with the movement, and I forced myself to not stare at every inch of his handsome face. "I don't punish Ladies for words spoken in earnest between friends."

I nod, uncertainty and weariness shining in my gaze as I take in his intense half-smile, a smile that seems to brighten when I glance at Cassandra, looking equally as confused as me, and I shrug weakly.

"Though I will admit I am rather taken aback by your words, Lady Y/N," I shiver at the sound of my name on his silver tongue, at the way he cocked his head down at me, a purely predatory move, as he spoke. "I would like to hear more of your thoughts on the matter."

Hear my thoughts?

I go still at his easy words, at the question rather than a command, and Cassie releases a puff of air- like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room to placate her aching lungs.

"What?" I croak and then wince at the insolence behind my words, a habit that I couldn't shake in front of the High Lord. I pinch my eyes shut at the way his lip quirks, and my embarrassment is worsened by the small chuckle that General Cassian huffs out. "I mean- I'm not sure that's-"

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," Rhysand purred, nonchalance highlighted in every inch of his muscled form as he tucked the cloth back into his pocket and grinned at me, like a lion before devouring a lamb. "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

***

"There is no one on our side but us."

The words were so hollow and defeated, the type of ruined that spoke of no hopes, dreams, or future, just nothing. And it was hard to explain what I felt at the words, like a sharp pain as if she had reached into my chest and torn out my heart with her bare hand.

She said that they have never and will never care- 'they' being me, my court, the people around me now and the ones left behind in my City of Starlight.

Sincere words, loaded words, spoken by a female behind closed doors, in confidence to her friend- and yet, I had overheard.

I wasn't sure what to expect when stepping into this room and wasn't sure what kind of female I would be confronted with. I had anticipated a female full of loathing and darkness, a kind of anger that would burn in her eyes, that could be seen through every breath she took, in every inch of her skin as she moved.

And yet, as I stared at the girl before me, I was met with the exact opposite.

The other lady, Cassandra, had become a shaking mess the second her blue eyes laid upon me, her breaths gasping from her as if every one would be the last. She was terrified because that was all she knew in this city; it was all she knew of me.

But Lady Y/N was different- she was frightened by me, yes, I saw it in her doe-like eyes, saw it in the memories that flashed through her mind of me, the tales of my cruelty and brutality, the blood that stained my hands and the darkness that tainted my heart.

But she didn't look away, as if she couldn't.

Here she was faced with a monster that mothers warned their children about, yet she stared at me as if she saw me- and was as beguiled by me as I was by her.

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," I smile, the tightness in my chest easing as a stain tints her plump cheeks, and her chocolate eyes widen, "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

Her friend swallows, audible and thick, as if struggling to get down air and Azriel shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed as if concerned the girl might collapse. Y/N glances at her, and amusement fills me at the small, confused shrug she gives her.

"You won't uh-" She clears her throat, her hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, and I watch every single movement as she tucks the silken strand over a perfectly arched ear, revealing the smooth column of her neck. "You won't turn me to dust, right?"

I snort, a short and amazed sound, and she gnaws on her lip, avoiding the cut there and I have to begrudgingly tear my gaze away when my court steps forward, my brothers half-smiling and Mor looking at Y/N as if she was as charmed by her as I was.

"No, no, Lady Y/N," My mask slips and slips until it's completely gone, and I'm glad that Kier left, glad that none but her saw me like this because it felt freeing, to be in this Cauldron-forsaken place and be able to genuinely smile. "No one will be turned to dust, on my honour as High Lord."

"Please do tell us," Mor steps forward, a small smile on her red-pained lips and Y/N's breath hitches at the eyes on her, at the attention. "Contrary to what you may think, we do care."

Y/N considers, and I can hear her heart hammering in her chest, fast and loud and endless, but despite that she lifts her chin and something raw runs through me at the look in her eyes- the bravery.

"I- I think that Hewn City is a cesspit, full of the worst kind of Fae and every amoral despicable thing a person could do happens here," She breathes, and her soft body trembles with the exhale, as if speaking these words aloud were exactly the catharsis she needed. "And to be honest, I blame you for that."

Surprise- it fills me and every single other person in the room.

"Y/N!" Cassandra gasps, and her eyes seem to widen further, impossibly big, latching onto me and full of pleading, "She doesn't mean that- she must be more delirious than anticipated from the-"

"Cassie, please," Y/N scoffs, a hollow and low sound, and the tension in the air goes thick as they glance at each other. "Someone needs to say it, it might as well be me."

I fold my arms across my chest, my lips pursing as they stare at each other, some internal telepathic conflict waging between them, in their eyes and despite my abilities, despite the fact, that it would be so easy for me to slip into their minds and wade through all their thoughts, I don't.

I glanced back at my Court, who stood just behind me, and their faces were contemplative too- not angry, nor offended, but shocked- here was this girl, no older than twenty, with eyes as soft as a doe's, telling us exactly how we have failed.

"Please, continue," I nod, and I hope my eyes are encouraging, because even if I do not wish to hear her words, she was right, they needed to be said and I needed to hear them.

"For centuries, the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams have been segregated and somehow we've fallen into two categories: good and bad," She swallows, and something aches in my chest at the sorrow on her lovely face, the burden, "But no one is born bad, people aren't inherently evil but growing up in a place like this? What else is there but the horrors we see and endure, what else are we destined to become?"

Another shaky inhale, a more broken exhale, and my magic burn inside me as if every desperate breath from her is like a call and my body is begging in answer.

"Your court has washed their hands of us, all of us because it was easier to believe that we were all damned than to try to help- the small minority have ruined the majority," Silver lines her hardening gaze, and I feel us all, every single one of us, go tense at the single tear that trickled down her cheek.

I hear a strangled sound come from behind me and my burning gaze glances back- to Mor, tears brimming her eyes and her lips trembling, watching the girl before us, and feeling every single atom of hurt as if it were her own.

"Morrigan was lucky enough to escape this City, these people because she had you- but do you truly think that she is the only good person born here, that in all these years, she is the only one worthy of salvation?"

More tears leak down Mor's face and Y/N's, endless, eternal, years of suffering in one single moment and I feel the guilt of my actions barrel down at me, a truth that I have spent years avoiding coming to light, like a thunderbolt to the heart.

I let my magic hold me down, let it root me in my spot- because those tears on her cheeks are tormenting me, ruining me, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush them away.

"So, forgive me if I have no hope left, that died in me, in all of us, long ago," Y/N clears her throat, her chest rising and falling in powerful waves and my throat is as dry as sand as she wipes the tears from her cheeks, "I- I think we could have all been dreamers- if only you had given us the chance."

In five hundred years, the mask I wore never slipped, never faltered, never was hard to wear- until right now. Right now, as my gaze locked with her, as I saw all the horrors she endured, because of my neglect, I couldn't even find that mask within me- it was gone.

There's silence, heavy and long and burdensome for what feels like hours as I stare at her, and I don't think I could look away even if I wanted to do and I don't, I don't want to.

Y/N inhales a sharp breath as I stalk towards her and the magic in me dances and whirls and strikes through the air, dark and ominous and wholly powerful. My jaw locks as she grabs out to her friend, Cassandra whimpering as Y/N yanks the girl behind her- a shield, against me.

Brave- so utterly brave. Willing to face off with a male five hundred years her senior and her High Lord, to protect her friend.

A Queen in her own right.

I stop before her, so close that I feel her breasts brush my chest, feel the small trembles that wreck through her body, can smell the lavender and jasmine on her perfect skin. She raises her eyes to me, and I see every ounce of her character, her heart and soul, as she tries to not cower before me.

"How old are you, My Lady?" I mutter, and she shivers under my easy words, her brow furrowing at the non-threat. "And what do you do here, your role?"

"Twenty-one, High Lord." She swallows, her tongue flicking out nervously to wet her lips and my hands clench at the sight, at the moisture on her pink mouth. "My father was Captain of an import chain for the City, I was given the role of Lady-in-waiting as a reward for his work."

I sense the curiosity and shock of my court behind me, the way they imperceptibly inch closer to me, to us, drawn in by my words- by the intention behind them.

"You believe the alliance is a farce, that it wouldn't change anything?" I ask, softer, and my power slips from me, curling around her curved hips and soft thighs, moving through her silken hair and over her sensitive skin- and she shakes her head, unable to speak. "What if I were to find a Lady of Hewn City who shared your sentiments, who desired for change and salvation just as you do- would that make you more inclined to hope?"

Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath, her blue eyes widening- in realisation. And I felt the air tauten, my inner circle going still, knowingly.

But Y/N cocked her head, a youthful move, not seeing what was right in front of her.

"Yes, I think that you marrying a Lady who genuinely cares for this City and its people would be a step in the right direction," She considers, and I can't fight my smile at the tender, sincere, confusion that pinches her lovely face. "Though I seriously doubt you will find any such female here."

"Hm," A lazy grin stretches across my face, bright and sure, drawing from the feeling blooming in my chest, raw and new and terrifying as I stare down at her, "I already have."

"High Lord? I don't understand-" Her words melt into a gasp as my fingers caress her cheek, moving ever so gently against that sore cut at her lip- and satisfaction fills me when her eyes flutter, a breathy sound slipping from her.

"I have already found the perfect Lady to marry," Her face burns as I run my eyes languidly down her figure, across her entire face and body- and she stills as realisation fills her, "All you have to do is say yes, Y/N darling."

________

A/N

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[karingu]

inukag's conversation in ch 176... yea that one

This scene at the well in Ch 176, when Kagome asks to stay by Inuyasha, meant a lot to me… so I decided to do a whole ass formal translation for myself (which you can read at the way bottom, but it's probably not too different from what's already out there.)

While translating, I came across 3 details from the original text that I felt were super important 🤧

①　Everyone knows Inuyasha said that he must "give Kikyo his life" in the official Viz translation. Yes, in the original text, Inuyasha says:

命懸けで応えなくちゃならねえ。 In return, I must stake my life for Kikyo.

But that bolded part implies that staking his life for Kikyo is not something he necessarily wants to do out of his own free will, but something that he must do beyond his own will, if that makes sense. Right here, Inuyasha conveys clearly how he feels about the matter.

If he meant to say that he chose this out of his own volition, he would've said something like "...なくちゃいけない" which implies a will out of choice... But no, he said ならない, which implies it's "out of his control", so that gives clear insight to his feelings. He's not doing this because he wants to. He wants to stay with Kagome if he could, but he thinks his duty binds his fate to Kikyo, so therefore, this must be so.

+

②　Usually, Kagome is translated saying (to Inuyasha) "I want you to live." But I noticed something. She says:

"生きててほしい" ....not just "生きてほしい".

You might think, "Wha? That extra little word changes things?" HAHA well, if you care to know why... yes... bc she's using the present progressive form of that verb. So, I feel there's something missing in that translation.

Kagome doesn't just want Inuyasha to live (as in "be alive"), she wants him to keep on living. She wants to see him live past his trauma, to not give up his life. So, this is a bit of an interpretation, but I personally would translate what she's saying as "I want you to live on." Like when we wish for a friend going through hard times to not succumb to darkness :(

③　Finally, Sunrise had Kagome say something different in her final monologue (wow, what a surprise). (Note, Viz actually did translate this appropriately in the manga.)

In the anime, she just says...

楽しんでほしい。 I want you to be happy.

It's cute, but in the manga, she says...

楽しいことがあってもいい。 -> literally: It's okay to have happiness. -> It's okay (for you) to feel happy.

She's reassuring Inuyasha that it's alright to feel happiness, presumably despite his survivor's guilt. He told her at the start of their conversation, "But… to feel happy, to laugh, I shouldn't be doing these things." This is a response to that. It's so sweet.

+++

THAT'S IT!! There was A LOT of weight to this scene. It made me ugly cry until my eyes got swollen lol...

(if you'd like to read my full translation of their conversation, it is right here below~)

Note: I tried to translate as close to the original nuance of the Japanese text, so the sentence structure may sound unnatural at times.

(SFX: refreshing breeze)

Inuyasha: Kagome...

(Kagome sees him and begins to speak.)

Kagome: I thought about this the whole time I was back home. About you, Kikyo, and me…

Inuyasha: Kagome… I…

Kagome: I know. I know what your feelings are; that's why… I thought I can't be here anymore.

Inuyasha: Kagome… until I met you, I couldn't trust anyone. But you cried for my sake, you were always by my side. When I'm with you, Kagome, I feel happy. My heart is at ease. But… to feel happy, to laugh, I shouldn't be doing these things.

Inuyasha: Kikyo… she followed after me in death. In return, I must stake my life for Kikyo.

Kagome: I understand. I can't compete against her... because I still live.

Kagome: I thought about her a whole lot too. Kikyo and I, we're so completely different. Even with all this stuff about how I'm her reincarnation… well, anyway, I'm not Kikyo. My heart is my own.

Kagome: But you see, there is one thing. How Kikyo is feeling... I get it. I feel the same. We both want to see you, Inuyasha, one more time.

Kagome: You know, somehow, when I thought, "Don't Kikyo and I share the same feelings?", I became a little more at ease. Like, our feelings of wanting to see you are the same, aren't they... So, I gathered up the courage, and came to see you.

Inuyasha: Kagome… As for me, I wanted to see you too. But…

Kagome: I want to be with you*, Inuyasha. To forget about you, I can't do it.

(*T/N: She does not mean "be with you" in a romantic sense. She means to literally be near him, to exist by him, etc.)

Inuyasha: Kagome… what's the best way for me to respond to you?

Kagome: Inuyasha, let me ask you just one thing?

Inuyasha: Yeah…

Kagome: Is it okay if I stay with you?

(SFX: surprise...)

Inuyasha: You'll… stay for me?

Kagome: Yeah… (she smiles.)

Inuyasha and Kikyo's bond absolutely cannot be severed. That... I understand. But you know, Inuyasha? I thought about it… Our meeting was not just a coincidence either.

I want you to live on, Inuyasha.

Kagome: Let's go, Inuyasha.

Inuyasha: O-Oh, yeah, okay...

It's okay to feel happiness. I want you to laugh a lot. I don't know what I can do for you, but…

I will always be by your side.