#𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. SAVED.

[pennyellee]

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings (preview only): minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, incision wound, blood, suicide attempt, strong language, mentions of God, ...

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 583

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

author's note: well, yall, life is getting in my way, it's certainly keeping me from finishing this chapter, but it shouldn't be that long before I actually do. I wanted to drop a little preview before the sacred day I was born, which is tomorrow, 1-2-3 birthday depression. Enjoy the preview and stay tuned for the chapter. I'll be also answering some asks tomorrow, yes, i see them, and i love you all so so so so much, I just have very little of free time lately. See ya soon! lots of love, p. 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡🫧

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII

Time seemed to slow as Yoongi lunged forward, reaching out to stop her, but it was too late. The blade sliced through her skin, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as pain seared through her, her vision swimming with darkness. She felt Yoongi’s hands on her, his panicked voice calling out to her, but it was distant as if coming from a faraway place.

“Seokjin?!!” he shouted, his voice raw with desperation.

He cradled her in his arms, his hands trembling as he pressed against the wound, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood.

The sound of loud footsteps echoed in the corridor as others rushed forward to reach the doctor, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. But amidst the chaos, Y/N’s empty gaze remained fixed on Yoongi, her eyes still burning with flames.

“Stay with me, baby. Don’t leave me please.” Yoongi whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He pressed his lips to her forehead, willing her to hold on, to fight for her life.

But as he looked down at her pale, lifeless face, he knew that the road ahead would be long and fraught with challenges. For now, all he could do was pray that she would survive, that she would find the strength to forgive him and that they would someday find their way back to each other.

“Please don’t take her away from me, my Lord.”

Yoongi prayed that it was not too late to save her from the darkness that threatened to consume them both.

One thing remained clear in Yoongi’s mind: he would do whatever it took to save her, to make amends for the pain he had caused, and to prove to her that his love was worth fighting for.

Yoongi’s voice cut through the turmoil, his words a desperate plea for forgiveness. He begged for her to forgive him, to give him another chance to make things right. No more secrets, no more lies. No more pain. He was willing to rebuild their relationship from the ground up, on a foundation of honesty and trust.

The metallic scent of blood mingled with the tang of fear, thickening the air with a palpable sense of impending doom. He ripped one of his sleeves a while ago, pressing the roughly crimpled fabric to the wound, praying that Seokjin was near. Or did anyone hear him scream frantically enough to relay the message?

“You can’t leave me, baby, please. I promise we’ll work everything through.”

He kissed and caressed her hair with his free hand which was covered with her blood. Tears blurred his vision as his hand trembled at the sight. A blood he never wished to shed.

“Please, Y/N, you have to forgive me.” The weight of his actions pressed down on him like a leaden blanket, suffocating him with the weight of his mistakes.

“Fucking goddammit Yoongi!”

—

Y/N set the plates on the table, pouring the hot water into a kettle of green tea as he joined her at the table. They exchanged smiles, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the kitchen and the windows providing a magnificent view of the sea.

“I’ve been thinking,-�� she said with a smile on her face while she set the seaweed salad down in front of him. He hummed in response, reading today’s paper.

“About opening my practice.” He nodded, sipping his tea thoughtfully.

“Thought you wanted to wait until the babe arrives?”

.

.

.

.

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧

©pennyellee. please do not repost

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

PS: accounts highlighted in pink cannot be tagged, so if you want to be in the tag list, please make sure you have it allowed in your settings. 𖦹 ☼ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ♡

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @dinosolecito - @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567 - @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @missmin - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneyyyyyy - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife - @idkjustlovingbts @seonghwaexile

[petit-etoile]

　　　　　HELLO .ᐟ  welcome  to  PETIT-ÉTOILE  ♡   a  sideblog  dedicated  to  writing  fics  dedicated  to  &  sharing  headcanons  about  ASTARION  ANCUNÍN  from  BALDUR'S  GATE  3 .  penned  with  care  &  adoration  by  CARCOSA / ALUNE  ( 21+,  they/them,  cst . )  fic  ratings  will  range  from  GENERAL  AUDIENCES  to  EXPLICIT ;  there  will  be  no  dead  dove  content  on  this  blog,  however  there  will  be  canon-compliant  allusions  to  violence.  because  smut  will  be  present  on  this  blog,  NO  MINORS .  please  have  your  age  somewhere  visible  in  your  bio  or  you  will  be  blocked .ᐟ

　𝐈. ﹕masterlist  .  ⊱   a  list  of  all  my  fics  for  easy  accessibility .  please  consider  reblogging  &  commenting  if  you  enjoyed  my  work .ᐟ 　𝐈𝐈. ﹕ask box  .  ⊱   REQUESTS  OPEN .ᐟ  please  try  to  be  specific  when  requesting .  i  fill  requests  based  on  work  load,  interest  &  availability .  please  note  that  i  will  only  write  astarion  x  tav  requests,  with  emphasis  on  gender-neutral  tav  unless  otherwise  specified .  as  of  right  now,  i  do  not  take  fic  writing  commissions . 　𝐈𝐈𝐈. ﹕ ao3  .  ⊱   my  ao3  account  where  i  crosspost  my  fics .  please  do  not  reupload  my  fics  on  your  own  or  claim  my  fics  as  yours .  if  you  see  my  fics  being  reuploaded,  please  tell  me . 　𝐈𝐕. ﹕icon / banner credit  .  ⊱  my  icon  &  header  art  was  drawn  by the incredible  長崎　犬太 .  this  is  artwork  i  commissioned  for  my  personal  usage ,  so  please  do  not  reupload  this  artwork  or  claim  this  artwork  as  yours. 　𝐕.﹕art credit  .  ⊱  my  artwork  featured  in  my  pinned  post  was  drawn  by the incredible  長崎　犬太 .  this  is  artwork  i  commissioned  for  my  personal  usage ,  so  please  do  not  reupload  this  artwork  or  claim  this  artwork  as  yours. 　𝐕𝐈.﹕my  tav / astarion  .  ⊱  you  can  view  more  of  the  artwork  featuring  my  dark  urge  tav  x  astarion  using  this  tag .  everything  compiled  here  will  very  likely  just  be  artwork,  but  i  may  be  tempted  to  write  fic  for  them  eventually . 　𝐕𝐈𝐈. ﹕ taglist  .  ⊱  want  immediate  knowledge  of  when  i  post  my  fics ?  like  my  tag  list  or  subscribe  to  my  ao3  account  to  be  pinged  per  upload.  please  make  sure  your  blog  allows  for  tagging ,  otherwise  you  won't  be  notified  &  i  can't  tag  you . 　𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. ﹕ keepsakes  .  ⊱  sometimes  i  get  sent  very  motivating  &  sweet  asks  regarding  my  writing ,  so  i've  created  a  little  tag  where  all  the  nice  things  you  all  send  me  can  be  saved  so  i  can  look  back  on  them .  thank  you  for  your  support !!  without  you  &  your  prompts  &  likes / reblogs ,  i  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  all  this  inspiration.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒   ⊱

　⤷  basorexia  —  a  canon-complaint  series  of  drabbles  about  kissing .  astarion  x  dark  urge  tav 　⤷  a thousand lives, and one  —  a  canon-complaint  series  of  drabbles .  astarion x human tav 　⤷  et toi, et moi  —  an alternate-universe known as royalty au .  king astarion x knight-protector tav. 　⤷  say what you want，even if it's bad  —  a canon-compliant series, pre-vampirism to canon.  magistrate astarion x tav

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓 .ᐟ

  𝟐𝐊 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒   ⊱

　⤷  in the moonlight (my darling, do not fear)

  𝟏𝐊 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒   ⊱

  𝟓𝟎𝟎 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒   ⊱

　⤷  everything i see, everything i feel (you are my universe) 　⤷ your heart understood mine

[crybabychim]

❛your heart hurts, mine does, too.❜ 🫀

18+ ! dark kinks and dark content ahead. do not read if uncomfortable/triggered.

⸝⸝ ☆ navigation ⸝⸝ ★ main m.list.

박지민: park jimin

⌗ 𝐈. ; pirate!jimin forces his pretty princess to ride him.

⌗ 𝐈𝐈. ; mad hatter!jimin always wanted to fuck that tight little pussy.

⌗ 𝐈𝐈𝐈. ; mafia!jimin loves his pretty kitten.

⌗ 𝐈𝐕. ; vampire!jimin finds you alone in the woods.

⌗ 𝐕. ; vampire!jimin turns you into his little slave.

⌗ 𝐕𝐈. ; stalker!jimin breaks into your house.

⌗ 𝐕𝐈𝐈. ; daddy!jimin & his cam girl make a movie.

⌗ 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. ; ex bf!jimin will do what it takes to have you back.

⌗ 𝐈𝐗. ; siren!jimin loves small innocent humans like you.

⌗ 𝐗. ; vampire hunter!jimin has finally captured you.

⌗ 𝐗𝐈. ; demon!jimin has trained you to be his obedient little kitty.

⌗ 𝐗𝐈𝐈. ; hunter!jimin saves a fairy from getting frostbitten.

© 𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 | Do not repost or copy any of my work.

[ox1-lovesick]

I'M CRYING HOW DID I POST THE HUENINGKAI TIMESTAMP AND NOT NOTICE????*(#((@##

[eisiramdeus]

fc5 verse lore

[ltgallus]

TAG DROP.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟒𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

There is an obsessiveness about Rooster, but it is not an unwelcome obsessiveness, nothing devient about it. When I sit in the lounge with the other aviators--some of them talking lowly and waiting with unshielded impatience and others trying to get some shut-eye on the brown couches--and listen to the radio during dogfights, his obsession for preservation is wildly apparent. The way he preserves his speed, preserves the safety of himself and others. He is a natural-born leader when he’s in the air and falls into the position easily, as easily as falling into bed at the end of a long day. 

I think this stems from the loss of his father, a freak accident that was never on anyone’s radar--the kind of accident that people don’t even think of happening because it was truly perfect conditions when it occurred. Maybe he’s obsessed with the preservation of his team because he remembers what it was like when his father died and his mother was left by herself to not only pick up the pieces but to raise Rooster all by herself, something she never agreed to. What a lonely life she must’ve had, when a piece of herself was missing, gone forever, with no goodbye. A wound that never healed. And when I think this, my throat aches because it is how I feel about myself, my life--Maggie gone, my life emptier than it was supposed to be.

Sometimes, when I catch him looking down at the watch that I know was his father’s or when I pass Memorial Hall and Rooster is standing before Goose’s portrait with a deep want pulsing in his body, I want to tell him that I know what his mother must have felt like. I want to tell him that I lost a part of myself, too, and I never got to say goodbye. Maggie and Goose died similarly--in front of the person that loved them most, their life forever stalled right there in that horrifying moment. I want to tell him that I wish there was a part of Maggie, even if it was only half of her, that I could hold close and watch breathe and sneeze and hiccup and cry and laugh and grow. I want to tell Rooster that he probably saved his mother, unknowingly, his entire life. 

I don’t tell him this, though. I don’t tell him because even if there is an invisible string connecting us, even if things have been far too perfect, even if things have been frightfully easy for us, even if our time together has felt like a dream--I don’t know him the way I wish I did. 

“I feel like you know a part of myself that I don’t even know yet,” he had told me that very first night he came to my house, when Stevie was on his lap and the tequila was fading and he was creeping into my body. 

And I feel like he’s obsessed with me--with my home, with my cat, with my opinion. 

“I just--I want Admiral Simpson to respect me,” I’d told Bob, the styrofoam of my empty coffee cup partially destroyed beneath the wrath of my freezing fingers, “his approval means a lot to me. And, like, he was the one that picked me up by the bootstraps and I don’t want anyone to think that I’m just like--that I’m just like fucking a random pilot in the dorms or that I’m fucking--fuck, like multiple pilots or--!” 

Bob’s laughter, a dry and quiet kind of laughter, interrupted me. I blushed bright baby pink--I had a tendency to ramble when upset, especially when it was with someone I was comfortable with, and honestly--especially if it was Bob. 

He was reclined on the ugly brown couch in the lounge, which was both remarkably empty and remarkably bright, sunshine glimmering off every surface brightly. Bob had his own cup of coffee, half-full, which he sipped as I spoke. 

“Faye, you should give yourself more credit. Sure, you had some help when you were down, but ultimately you made the decision to get back up. Right?” 

I looked at his eyes, his earnest blue eyes that had never been anything but. His glasses were pristine, which I knew was because of the piece of velvet he kept in his pockets at all times to cleanse them, and his hair was brushed and neatly gelled. And his mouth, which was smiling softly, had never said anything even resembling unkind. 

He had played this part before many times, either talking Maggie out of fucking an army boy with a dirty mouth or trying to ease my worries about an upcoming assignment. And he had played the part of listener more than anything, nodding and smiling or frowning, reaching a consoling hand at the right moment. He was just plain good at being there, just plain good at listening. 

“Right,” I mumbled, but then I thought of my underwear in the pocket of Rooster’s flightsuit and then I was blushing all over again, “maybe I just shouldn’t mess around on base anymore.” 

He nodded, smiling with his nose crinkled. 

“That might be a good idea,” he said, “and maybe you shouldn’t tell anyone about it except for me. You know, just until you know what’s happening for sure, right?” 

I nodded rapidly. 

“You’re right, you’re so right. Bob…do you know why they call him Rooster?”

Bob had genuinely cocked his head then, leaning forward slightly with a question written all over his face. He was earnestly wondering, waiting for me to tell him why. 

He paused there for a long moment, looking up at me as I smiled guiltily, swallowing my laughter. And I watched his face fall then contort to a look of childlife embarrassment. His mouth opened and closed and then his eyes fluttered to his coffee cup, his cheeks blushed deeply. 

“I had to, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Maggie just possessed me.” 

Bob took a drink from his cup, shaking his head, smiling now. He was still very red. 

“Evidently so.” 

Ever since our encounter in his dorm, ever since Bob saved us from being caught by anyone else in the squadron, we have not so much as kissed each other on the job. I had told Rooster some of my conversation with Bob that evening, about my concerns with professionalism, my desire to keep work at work and home at home.

And he listened, nodded, then smiled. 

“Whatever you want,” he told me, “you call the shots, Lieutenant Ledger.”

But now that we are measuring our glances on base and only ghosting our fingers over each other when no one else is around to see, he is on my doorstep every single night, the Bronco parked right beside my car. I welcome him into my home each evening, never stopping to pause my record or the dinner on the stove. 

And then I’ll hurry back to the kitchen, my body flushed already, and he will put his bag in its unofficial-official location in my closet right beside my empty suitcases. Then he’ll make a pit-stop by the ottoman to pet Stevie for a few minutes, inhaling my home and dinner on the stove or in the oven. Then he comes through my kitchen doors-- with that fucking smile under his mustache and he’s wearing a t-shirt that hugs his body and his eyes are soft with sleep and his shoulders are practically glued to his ears with the stress of the mission--and sees me in my slippers and with my hair in a clip and my hands messy with flour or meat. And we just look at each other, drinking each other in for the first time, pretending like our stolen glances at work never happened at all. 

Then he’ll kiss me, wrap his arms around my waist and watch me whisk parmesan into an alfredo sauce or take steamed broccoli off a burner. And his body is so perfectly molded to mine that I want to let everything burn, want to just sink into his body and live in his arms forever. I want to just give up and let him carry me through life. 

But instead, I’ll kiss his shoulder and ask him if he wants a glass of wine at dinner. 

He kisses the top of my head before he grabs the wine glasses, which he found one evening while searching my cabinets and drawers out of an untamable wave of curiosity. And when I’m busy grabbing a loaf of bread from the stove or my hands are massaging kale, he will flip the record or pick a new one when the static at the end of a record curses through the speakers. 

And then when we eat dinner at the table and I’ve lit taper candles and finally turned the music down, he pulls my chair out for me and never starts eating until I’ve taken the first bite. He will ask me a million questions, internalizing every bit of our workday just for that moment--asking me what I thought when Hangman said this or when Maverick did that.

He has sunk comfortably into this repetition and I think that as much as he does this because he wants to, it is also maybe because I told him about my deep love for rigid routines. 

Right now it is a Wednesday and the sun is thinking about setting, falling deeper into the sky as it fades to an orange-gold. The clouds dotting the sky are beginning to pinken around the edges and the breeze is sweet and cool. It is maybe the coolest it has been all summer--all the windows in my house are open and the curtains are billowing softly. I have even lit incense so my house smells like patchouli and lavender. 

It is heading towards six in the evening and there is a sheet of carrots roasting in the oven, two chicken breasts sizzling in rosemary and olive oil on the stove, and raw cookie dough wrapped in the fridge to chill. 

I am leaning against the kitchen counter, biting my lip, straining to remember if the dough needs to be chilled overnight when my phone buzzes on the counter. 

Tramp: Grabbing a few bottles of that wine you like. Need anything else for dinner? Dessert? 

Me: Got it all covered here. Brown butter chocolate chip cookie dough is chilling now :) 

Me: Thanks for the wine, too. Trying to get into my pants or something? 

Tramp: Says the one with cookies baking…

Tramp: ;)

I can’t help the grin that is fighting its way to my lips, the blood that rushes straight to my head whenever I see his stupid nickname appear on my lockscreen. Fucking Rooster. 

I cross the kitchen and step into the living room, which smells like outside. The trees, the grass, the mud, the crisp evening air. Stevie is blinking at me from her usual spot, perched very still and silently. I only have to look at my collection for a moment before I know what I want to play. 

ABBA’s Voulez-Vous album starts as I walk back through the kitchen door. It smells like rosemary and garlic in here and the chicken is beginning to brown when I peer over the pan. It smells like Sunday nights when Maggie was alive--when I would make anyone in our squadron dinner in my old apartment, squeezing everyone into my living room and shooing everyone out of my galley kitchen when they attempted to help me. It reminds me of the four or five bottles of wine--all my favorite brand of prosecco--that would end up in my fridge because no one dared to show up empty-handed. 

I used to keep my records in wooden crates back then, stacked on top of each other under my thrifted record player. And everyone would take a crate and sift through, pulling records they wanted to listen to. And inevitably, Maggie would pick a Fleetwood Mac album and get everyone up and dancing while I minced garlic and mashed potatoes. I never felt left out--I used to live for those moments. Moments where everyone danced around my old coffee table and Bob warned everyone that they were being too loud and Maggie pretended like she knew how to read palms. When we would eat on the floor, sitting on couch cushions and balancing our plates on our knees. When we were all very young and nothing felt permanent.

And right now the music is so loud, loud like it was in my apartment all those years ago--the song Angeleyes is playing--that I almost don’t hear the front door open and close. I almost don’t hear Rooster mockingly crooning, “Honey, I’m home!” when he steps into the foyer. I almost don’t hear the brown paper bag in his arms rustle as he tries to take his boots off with no hands. I almost don’t hear it all, but I do. 

So when he’s standing in my entryway with my big wooden door locked behind him, dressed in jean shorts and an old UVA sweatshirt with his aviators pushing back into his curls and he’s singing along to ABBA under his breath, I am standing at the top of the stairs, smiling. 

It isn’t until he starts for the stairs that he notices me. He pauses, his feet scissored on different steps, and his eyes fall to my slippered feet and climb up, up my body until they’re resting on mine. The fist, the one that lives deep inside me, is clenching every muscle in my chest. This is how it goes when he sees me--his lips part before they break into a grin, his eyes glaze over with that look of devotion and affection, his body tenses and relaxes at the same time but in vastly different ways. 

When I see him for the first time in my home and not on base, my entire body feels like a San Diego summer: like golden sunshine and endless blue skies, like melted ice cream and scorching asphalt. I am blushing when I think about his mustache and how wet I want it to be, how soon I want his head between my legs again, how badly I want his body against mine. 

“You really are stupid pretty, Faye,” Rooster sighs, shaking his head thoughtfully, “I mean--just look at you, baby.” 

I have to roll my eyes to pretend like my stomach isn’t sitting in my chest. Fuck. 

“Give me my wine,” I smile, then add lowly, “tramp.”

He tsks softly and ascends the stairs expeditiously, hand coming to rest on my lower back. The paper bag rustles between us as he presses his chest against mine, grinning down at me so sweetly that I make a mental note to schedule a teeth cleaning. 

“Gimme some sugar,” he says. 

And if any other man on the planet had said that to me, me right now at my big age of twenty-six-years-old, I would have laughed them right out the door. But when he says it with his dark-colored eyes and his glimmering lips and his mustache and his sultry body pressed against me, I can do nothing but press my mouth against his. And I am not sure if I will ever get used to kissing him--his mustache tingling the space between my mouth and nose, his tongue faintly running across my bottom lip, his nose pressed against the side of my own. 

If he pressed his lips to one of my pulse-points and felt just how badly he makes my heart race, I would be done for. 

When he pulls away from my mouth, his scorching breath fans over my skin that’s already growing damp at the thought of his mouth on me. He sprinkles kisses to my chin and jaw and my cheeks and my neck and I am already gasping for air, pulling him closer. 

“Wait,” I say breathlessly, smiling with my chest flushed, “chicken! Gonna burn!” 

And he lets me go and I fall back, empty, wishing he could just hold me all the time and I would never feel alone. He’s grinning at me, looking around the house at the open windows and incense and Stevie on her ottoman. And just as I am about to step into the kitchen, he gently holds my hair in his hands and tugs one time so I’m turning to him again. Then he holds both my cheeks in his hands, thumbs rubbing those familiar soft circles, and looks down at me. 

“This is the best part of my day,” he says and even though his voice is teasing, his face is not. His eyes are serious and his mouth is smiling but honest. 

And maybe he means that the best part of his day is coming home to my house, which feels like his now, and eating my dinner and buying me wine and washing our dishes and listening to records and making me cum. But maybe because of who I am or who he is, or because he’s 35 and I’m 26, I know that he means holding me, seeing me is the best part of his day.

I hold his wrists and they’re very solid and warm beneath my palms. I think I could hold them forever. And then I move his left palm to my lips, guiding it with my grip. I kiss him one time there, in the middle of his open hand, batting my eyelashes at him. His lips part and I watch his breath get caught in his throat.

“Hold that for me, will you?” I whisper to him. 

I close my fingers around his left hand and curl his fingers into a fist. Then I kiss his middle knuckle before turning away and going through the kitchen door. Without turning around, I know he watches my moving figure--his mouth still open slightly--until the door closes on me. 

It’s something my mother used to do with me and Maggie. I don’t know why I did it, why it has made my chest ache so badly--but I know that a certain nostalgic glee is climbing all the way up, up, up my throat. I had forgotten all about that and remembered so suddenly when I brought his palm to my mouth. 

Everything is so easy in our evenings. Once his bag is put away and he has greeted Stevie, he stands behind me, kissing my throat and holding my hips against his. 

“Smells incredible,” he mumbles against my skin. 

His jaw fits perfectly in the slope of my body where my neck gives into my shoulder. The weight of his head feels very normal, very safe--like wearing an apron when I cook, like putting gloves on in the winter, like taking a warm shower on cold mornings. 

“Thank you,” I say softly, “set the table, yeah?” 

“Aye-aye, Lieutenant.” 

Even all this is easy--he somehow has memorized where everything is in my kitchen. He knows which wine glasses I prefer and which plates are for everyday use and which ones are saved for special occasions. He knows where I keep linen napkins and silverware and trivets. He whistles the entire time he sets my sweet dining room table, smiling like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do. 

“Let me get that,” he says, slipping a spare pair of oven mitts on before he opens the oven and retrieves the roasted carrots. 

He grins at me as he sets them on a trivet on the island. I want to faint. I want to cry. 

When we sit down to eat, each plated with a chicken breast and a heaping of roasted carrots and pieces of buttery sourdough, the song Lovers (Live A Little Longer) is playing. Just like always, he waits until I take a bite of chicken before he starts in on his food. It is an unspoken thing, something I’ve noticed because I watch him through my lashes. 

“You missed your calling,” Rooster says, nodding at his plate, “I don’t even like carrots.” 

This is what he does everytime I make him dinner and I know that it’s because his mother raised him with manners. He always opens the door for women, always acknowledges a new presence in the room, always makes sure I finish first. But his eyes are gleaming so prettily, so honestly that I know beneath those manners that he was raised with--he is just being painfully honest. 

“Heard Maverick talked to the Big Guy,” I say, meaning Ice. 

Rooster nods, exhaling from his nose. He shovels a bite into his mouth and sits back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. We are sitting across from each other, his back to one of the doors to the living room and my back against a warm window. 

“Hope he ripped him a new one,” Rooster says confidently. 

I take a sip of prosecco and it’s bubbly and dry on my tongue. He’s watching me and I set my elbows on the table before giving him a very small shrug. 

“You’re hard on him,” I say slowly, metering my tone and phrasing, “I’m sure it’s warranted. Is it?” 

Rooster is looking past me now. He is nodding slowly, biting his lips, thinking of what to say to me next. I take another bite. 

He answers while I’m chewing, “We have a history.” 

Another sip of prosecco and his eyes find mine. I’m smiling teasingly, cutting another bite for myself. He’s watching me with his hands on either side of his plate. 

“Mysterious,” I whisper, but don’t press. 

He chuckles. 

“Hangman’s got a thing for you,” Rooster says, adopting my teasing smile, “making goo-goo eyes at you all day today. Puffing up his chest, practicing his cock-walk.” 

“I thought only rooster’s did that?” 

I bite my lip when he narrows his eyes into mine. 

“I think I even heard him ask Bob about you,” he teases, nonchalantly shrugging. 

“And what did he ask Bob?” 

A beat passes. Rooster is teasing me. It makes me giddy. I remain composed, though--lips on the surface of my wine glass, fork resting softly in my left hand. 

“If you were looking for a new pilot,” he answers finally. 

Then a stone sinks in my belly. And I don’t mean for it to happen but my face drops, drops like my heart in my chest, like my eyes dropping from Rooster’s to the taper candle instead. I can feel it--the gloss over my eyes, the slack in my brow, the frown pulling my lips, the blush creeping out of my cheeks and into my hands--and I can feel Rooster stiffen across from me. 

I can’t help it and I don’t want it to happen and I don’t mean for it to happen, but I think about the day Maggie died. I think about trekking through the snow and the gnarly tree roots and mud until I found her on the forest floor, lying on her back in the tuft of her parachute. And from far away, I wondered if she was just sleeping, just hit her head and lost consciousness on the way down. But when I came closer, stood above her and saw her unmoving eyes and her bloody scalp and her contorted limbs--I knew that she was dead. I think about our jet that exploded in the air and the twenty-mile radius our shrapnel covered. I think about how I laid beside her, somewhere between awake and asleep, somewhere between alive and dead for eleven hours before my ESAT turned on. I don’t remember moving my fingers to it, don’t remember turning it. It was off and then it was on and Search and Rescue was hovering above me. 

I look up at Rooster and smile again, pretending like there are no tears dotting the corners of my eyes, pretending like I’m not choking back a lump in my throat. Pretending like I’m not thinking about Maggie’s body.

He’s across from me, his plate abandoned, hands holding either side of the table like he’s getting ready to push himself up and come to me. He doesn’t soften when I smile--his eyes search mine like he’s looking for some kind of injury, like he thinks my wounds are visible. External. 

“Already found myself a pilot,” I say, but my voice cracks. 

I take another drink and start cutting my chicken again. 

“What happened just now?” 

His confidence never ceases to amaze me, to knock the breath out of my mouth. He will bring to light any part of a conversation, mention any look or expression and press about it. And lying to him, skirting around something he’s curious about--it’s futile.

“You know I’m never going to fly again, right?” 

I say this without looking up. 

He breathes. His hands are still framing his plate, curled into soft fists. 

“I guess I didn’t know that,” he says, “I thought eventually you would get back up there.” 

This isn't like falling off a horse. You don’t just pull yourself up by the bootstraps and hop back on. Maybe it would be like that if a horse stomped my sister to death and dragged her around a loose-dirt arena for hours. 

“Nope,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying so hard to blink my tears away, “I’m fine where I am.” 

And usually when I tell people this, they shift uncomfortably, but nod. Usually when I tell people this, they aren’t Naval Aviators and they don’t really understand the brevity of what I’ve said. Usually people just assume I won’t get back up there. 

But not Rooster. 

“Doesn’t that feel kind of like a waste?” 

When he asks this, his voice is even and steady. He is not being malicious, never is. He is just asking me a question over the dinner I made for us, at the table he set. 

I cross my arms before my plate and meet his eyes. The taper candles are burning lower and lower, wax melting onto the clay holders. I search his face--his open eyes, his neutral mouth. 

“A waste of what? Naval resources? Training?” 

I wish I didn't sound bitter, but I do. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

“Talent,” he answers. 

Just like that, he’s knocked me off my feet again. Sometimes I am ready for a fight--my tone dripping in bitterness, the stone in my belly growing steadily until it’s a fucking boulder and compressing my lungs. Sometimes I am already putting up the defense, balling my fists, narrowing my eyes. Maybe I’m protecting my peace--maybe I’m protecting my open wounds. 

I square my jaw. He’s still watching me softly. The record has finished and turns emptily. I cannot stand the silence. 

“I’m gonna pick a new record,” I whisper, balling my linen and putting it on the table. 

He doesn’t move from his spot, but his eyes follow me all the way past the table and out to the living room. When the door shuts behind me, shields me from Rooster, I have to hold my knees and take a deep, deep breath. 

Somehow he is the first person that has ever challenged me that way--somehow he is the first person who has argued with me without actually arguing with me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, searching the shelf for a new record, hastily wiping the bitter tears from my cheeks. 

The windows are still open and the sun is setting finally and the room glows orange. I graze my fingers over the records, shaking a little bit. I hastily turn on Seasons of Your Day by Mazzy Star and let a few seconds of In the Kingdom play while I wipe my cheeks hastily. I think of Bob’s teasing words; no crying in the Navy.

I walk back into the kitchen and Rooster hasn’t resumed eating. It makes me ache. I want to touch him, his shoulder, but I feel too fucked up suddenly. Like I have witnessed things people shouldn’t and it has permanently damaged me--damaged my heart and the way I feel things. 

Like he knows this, he reaches out and holds my wrist as I am passing him to my own plate. His fingers hold my wrist securely, but not tightly. He is begging me, silently, to look at him. That’s all it takes to make my head turn. His face looks like the word please. He’s begging me, begging me. 

“The wound is still fresh,” I say, sounding less bitter and more sad, “and you didn’t say anything wrong, but I just--I just won’t fly again. There’s not even a question. I just…can’t. I can’t, Bradley. I won’t.” 

He is nodding and shaking his head almost at the same time, lips parted. He pulls me closer to him by the wrist until I’m sitting on his knee. He wraps his arms around my torso--my arms, my waist--and secures his hands in my lap as he kisses my hair and neck. 

“I didn’t mean to fight you,” he tells me, “you don’t have to explain yourself, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby.” 

“You didn’t know,” I whisper, “I’m not mad at you. It just…hurts still.” 

A beat passes and he rests his nose on my neck, pushing through my hair. 

“Where does it hurt, honey?” 

For a moment, all I can hear is the flickering candle, Mazzy Star, and Rooster’s breath mirroring my own. He tightens his arms around me and I lean back just enough to straighten my back, giving him more of my weight. His legs, his glorious thighs, split so I sit lower on him. I rest my cheek against his forehead, heart steady. 

“Here,” I say, pointing to my chest. 

Like I’m nothing, like the laws of gravity are not applicable to me, he scoops me up in his arms tightly. I stiffen, but then he’s kissing the side of my neck and standing, carrying me to the living room. It’s almost completely dark now. 

He lays me down on the rug, hovering over me as I lay very still, very compliant. 

“Here?” he asks, pointing to the same spot I had pointed to. 

I bite my lip and nod and his head comes down slowly. He presses his lips to the middle of my chest, over my heart, and lingers there just breathing into my knit sweater. His hands are on either side of my arms and he keeps his face there a moment longer, pressing another quick kiss before he comes up to look at me. 

I’m trying very hard not to cry. 

“Where else?” He asks and he means it and I know he’s really asking me what happened to me? What happened to me when my sister died? Why won’t I fly again? 

With shaking fingers, I point to the scar on my jaw. The tree branch. 

He wastes no time, moving up to press slow, sensual kisses along the entire scar. It is a jagged one, white now, but used to be bright pink on my face. It starts almost at my ear and runs all along my jawline, stopping at the point of my chin. My face is hot.

“Where else?” He mumbles against my skin. 

His mustache prickles me, feels so good.

“My vocal cords,” I whisper, “they were bruised. From…” 

I can’t make myself say it. Bruised from screaming, screaming my sister’s name, wailing like a banshee when I saw her dead body on the parachute. 

He doesn’t ask. He kisses all along my throat, his right hand holding my waist. 

“The pressure--it burst my eardrum on my right side.” 

 He moves up slowly, sprinkling an abundance of warm kisses on my ear.

I point to my forehead. My concussion. 

“I hit my head coming down, too.” 

His lips are there again and he’s still holding me tight under him. 

“I was so confused,” I whisper to him, “I would get lost driving around my hometown. I would get lost on base.” 

He nods, still kissing my head. 

“Tell me everywhere it hurt, baby,” he whispers. 

“Here,” I say pointing to my right shoulder, “dislocated when I punched out.” 

His hair tickles me when his lips come down on my shoulder. 

“And I had frostbite on both my hands. Moderate. All my fingers.” 

He sits up and moves so he is straddling me. I love his weight on top of me. It makes me want to close my eyes, put up my hands, and fall asleep. He’s looking down at me with very soft, very serious eyes. He takes my right hand, never breaking his eyes away from mine, and kisses the tips of each of my fingers. I am the one that has to close my eyes--I feel like I”m burning up, I feel like I’m on fire. 

Common Burn is playing. 

“Look at me, honey,” he whispers, picking my left hand up, “wanna see your pretty eyes. Pretty, brown eyes.” 

When I open my eyes, he’s kissing my left fingers--starting at my thumb and ending on my pinkie. My chest is almost heaving now. 

“Here,” I point to my left wrist, “sprained.” 

He pulls my left wrist to his mouth and kisses all the way around it, holding my open hand against his face so he can kiss my palm. And he doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything, but closes my fingers softly so I am holding his kiss. Here, hold this for me, would you?

“Four ribs on my left side,” I tell him, “the tree.” 

So he finally lowers himself, his fingers pulling at the hem of my sweater, nudging it up and up until my skin gooses in the crisp air conditioning. I almost squirm at the feeling of his lips there, but instead I just close my eyes. Wasn’t it enough that I’d lost my sister? Wasn’t it enough that I’d watched her die? I was in so much genuine pain after she died, physically and emotionally and mentally. That’s how the vicodin had started--very seriously, very truthfully. I needed to not feel the ache in my ribs and the throb in my head and the scabs on my fingers. 

He lays his cheek on my naked belly and my fingers find his hair almost entirely on instinct. He relaxes into me and I hold him there against me. 

“Can I tell you something without you looking at me differently?” 

“Differently?” he asks softly. 

I screw my eyes shut. 

“Pitying me.” 

He nods, kissing the space between my ribs. I stare at the ceiling again. 

“When you have a twin…sometimes you can feel what they do,” I start and he stiffens against me, bringing his eyes to the underside of my jaw, “and I felt everything Maggie did. All the good parts--when she was happy, when she was in love. I knew what she was thinking and she knew what I was thinking, too. But I felt the bad parts, too--I knew when she was blushing and when she had a pimple coming on.” 

I take a deep breath and Rooster holds me tighter, like he knows what I’m going to say. 

“And so I felt it when she died,” I say calmly, breathing through my nose. 

And I’m going to say more, can feel the words dribbling up my throat, but I don’t. Nobody in the world needs to know what I felt that day. When her bladder released. When she screamed my name. When she cried all the way down. When she thrashed as her cords snapped. When she hit the ground. 

“Oh, Faye,” Rooster coos. 

He thinks about what to say and I know it’s because he wants to say, you poor baby.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” 

I feel like he’s just pushed me off a skyscraper. Like I’m falling through the air, really free-falling, flailing. Like the wind has been knocked out of me. Because doesn’t he know that I wanted to be dead for a long time after she died? That I was barely keeping myself alive? That I never thought I would feel as happy as I do right now with him on top of me in my living room, on my rug, dinner forgotten and taper candles melting? Doesn’t he know that?

My mouth is dry. 

“You know, if I ever got into a jet again,” I started, sighing, “I would never fly with Hangman.” 

And then we are laughing, his chest rumbling against the flat part of my hips and my legs. His breath is hot on my bare skin and I want to stay here always. 

“Who would you fly with?” 

I pretend to think, feeling the blush evading my cheeks and chest. 

“Phoenix, probably,” I whisper. 

He groans against me while I laugh. 

“You’re breaking my heart over here, honey!”

Then we just lay there, on the floor. The wind blows gently into the room, tickling the exposed skin of my belly that Rooster’s hand is splayed over. He’s stroking me, just like he always does, and letting his head rest on my breasts. I’m playing with his hair, looking up at the ceiling with dry eyes. There is an uncertain weight rendering from my body and seeping into the rugs below me. My heart feels bigger than before. 

“Remember our first date?” He asks. 

I stifle a laugh. 

“What do you consider our first date?” 

He sighs into my skin, holding me tighter. 

“Flat Rock Beach,” he says softly, “cherry wine, figs.”

My throat feels tight. I nod, keep his hair between my fingers, keep holding him to me. 

“‘Course I do,” I whisper, “it was eight days ago.” 

He pinches my skin softly and I bite my lip. He moves so his chin is resting on my breast now, digging slightly into the soft tissue there. It’s so close to hurting me, but not close enough for me to tell him to move. I think even if he was hurting me, I would never push him away from me. 

“And remember when you told me to be angry?” 

I pull my brow together, biting a smile. 

“Yes,” I whisper. 

“Can I tell you what makes me angry--you know, give a little part of it away.” 

I am a puddle again, here on the floor. The lines on his forehead are faintly pressed into his skin when he brings his eyebrows together very slightly, just pinches them together as his eyes narrow. 

“Always.” 

He sighs before he says it and I can feel his pulse start to race on my thigh. 

“Maverick pulled my papers from the Naval Academy.” 

And I can see it with my own eyes--see the uncertain weight rendering and leaking onto my body from his. I want to take it in my hands and keep it safe, keep it with me. He doesn’t have to carry it anymore. 

My chest is tight. 

“Why would he do that?” I ask softly, raking my hands through his curls. 

Despite himself, his eyes slip shut and he sighs, leaning into my touch. It’s like whenever I touch him, he has no choice but to relax. It makes me want to kiss him all over. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, “it was all I had left and he took it away from me. It took four years off my career, Faye. Four years.” 

I frown. Poor baby. I want to pity him. Instead, I sigh, keeping my fingers in his hair, keeping his chin on my breast. 

“He was close with your father,” I say and his eyes find mine, “wasn’t he?” 

He knows that I heard everything Hangman had said in the training room. Maverick was flying when Goose died.

“They were best friends,” Rooster whispers, his voice breaking very softly. 

I nod. 

“Maybe he didn’t want to lose you, Bradley.” 

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: listen...................I am a puddle of mush at this point. and so, so mentally ill. kisses!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[jardaddy-a]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀 ( 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐈 - 𝐗𝐈𝐈 )

Contains the basic lore and information of World I-VI sanctuaries located in Sanctum Natura.

Top Row: Le Musee, L’Hopital, La Mer Bottom Row: L’Orchestre, Le Ciel, La Constella

                                  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐘𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄  

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐈: 𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐄 ━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐒.

This sanctuary is reigned over the LudeServa: Renaissance. Le Musee is the sanctuary that protects and preserves ancient Laniatura items, artworks, literature, treasures, and relics scattered throughout time. It is rumored that the very weapons used by the Ancient Heroes are preserved within this domain, save for the Tarot Cards used by The Great Priestess. ( OST: X )

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

Renaissance is a lively Deity, a very talented painter and sculptor. She’s responsible for all of the statue pieces scattered throughout the thirteen sanctuaries, as her sisters often commission her for her work. She’s adamant with the preservation and protection of Laniaturian relics, undesiring them to fall into the wrong hands and used for sinister intentions. Her Insignes Royaux is a supernatural paintbrush. Anything she fabricates with the brush becomes reality.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

The members of Le Musee are creators and designers all named after notable artworks. The members consist of artists, writers, art enthusiasts, and collectors. They’re responsible for storing and maintaining the protection of the ancient relics as well as traveling in the mortal realm to locate and collect more ancient artifacts before they fall into the wrong hands. Some of them even go as far as to restore the damaged relics back to its original state.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

The sanctuary of Musee can be jarring at most, because the world is riddled in surrealistic settings, as if one where roaming around an interactive art exhibit. The sky is reminiscent to Van Gogh’s starry night. The main estate where the members reside and the citadel is located high resembles a large and grandeur museum, the estate is vast as it contains the exhibits where the relics and collections of Laniaturian creators are stored. Statues, paintings, and other artworks fill the halls of Musee. Underneath the estate is the hidden chambers that contain the most dangerous artifacts and weapons of power. Only the members of Musee have access to this location.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐋’𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 ━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄.

This sanctuary is reigned over by the LudeServa: Medica. L’Hopital is the medical institution for Laniaturians suffering different sorts of diseases, curses, and illness (whether or not they’re of supernatural cause). L’Hopital is also where the members of Natura get admitted to recuperate when their regeneration takes longer due to serious and severe injuries during missions and operations, as well as an asylum for Laniaturas who suffer from mental illnesses or severe trauma due to their experiences in the human realm. ( OST: X )

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀

Medica is a no-nonsense deity as she’s responsible for the health and lives of many Laniaturian patients that seek aid within her domain. She’s always seen with a medical mask upon her face and rarely removes it. She desires to save, prolong, and preserve the lives of her people. She has two Insignes Royaux, her eye glasses and a syringe. Her eyeglasses can easily located the sources of pain or injury and can easily detect if a Laniatura is ill or has a disability, while her syringe contains her special medicine that helps sedate and calm erratic Laniatura.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

The members of L’Hopital are Laniaturian medical staff, forensics professionals, patients, embalmers, etc. Most of which carefully handle all of their Laniaturian patients and ensure their recovery, although they also handle funeral rites for those who were unable to survive or recover. Due to the demand of L’Hopital’s staff for the sickly, the members divide themselves into day and night shifts, while others assist during either periods. The members are named after medicinal drugs, hospital items or equipment.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

L’Hopital’s Sanctuary looks like a vast Medical Institution. Most of the structures are reminiscent to Victorian-period architecture.  The main estate is separate from the main hospital for sanitary purposes. The domain constantly swaddled in a cloudy weather, a very somber atmosphere. Besides being a medical institution, beyond the forests of Hopital is a vast cemetery covered in yellow roses for their Laniaturian patients who failed to survive, since Laniaturas aren’t given proper burial rites in the human realm, L’Hopital takes it upon themselves to properly bury their patients in their lands and collaborate with Serre to help the souls pass on peacefully. Unlike most Hospitals or Asylums from that time period, the hospital’s interior is more friendly and accommodating, complete with enrichment areas to aid patients to recover and relax, as Hopital prioritizes physical as well as mental health. L’Hopital is the only sanctuary in Natura that opens their gates late at night to aid any incoming emergency patients.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐗: 𝐋𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐑 ━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇𝐒.

This sanctuary is reigned over by the LudeServa: Pacific. This oceanic sanctuary rests in the depths of the seas. With the aims and intentions to protect and defend the creatures of the ocean and the depths itself. ( OST: X )

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂

Pacific is one of the most relaxed and somnolent deities among her sisters, she can shift in-between a humanoid and sirenic form. She has the power to command the seas and its beasts. Her goal is to protect the waters of Existencia and defend the living creatures the reside within its depths. Her Insignes Royaux is a lyre, her music can control the tides of the sea and beckon all creatures to follow her command.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒

The members of La Mer are individuals with the abilities to manipulate the water element, command the creatures of the sea or has the ability to take their form. Every member of this domain is given the permanent ability to breathe and thrive underwater. They’re tasked with protecting the waters of Existencia, and prevent humanity from misusing and abusing the ocean’s natural resources or hunting down the supernatural creatures who lurk in the deep. The members are all named after oceanic terms or sea creatures.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

La Mer is a vast underwater sanctuary, known for its abundant coral reefs, sea life, and deep trenches. The design and structure is inspired from the fabled city of Atlantis that sunk to the depths of the sea. The structures are lavishly constructed spires and palaces made of alabaster and pearl, their sources of light come from bioluminescent creatures. The main estate of La Mer sits in middle of a vast coral reef, constantly illuminated in sunlight or moonshine. Odd enough, its always the full moon during the nights in La Mer. As for visitation rights, visitors are advised to wear special bracelets given by the members as soon as they pass through the gates, since they will be greeted by endless ocean since the sanctuary resides in the depths, there is no sign of land. The bracelets give them ability to breathe underwater, the bracelets automatically shattering as soon as their visit is over to prevent misuse.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐗: 𝐋’𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄 ━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂.

This sanctuary is reigned over by the LudeServa: Cadence. This grandiose metropolitan city is the land for the aspiring Laniaturian performers, L’Orchestre is known as the City of Entertainment and Music, as most performances held by famous artists are showcased within the sanctuary, it serves as a record and archive of musical pieces and screenplays crafted by late laniaturian composers. ( OST: X )

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

Cadence is musically-gifted deity; being a talented opera singer, musician, composer, and conductor. A diva on-stage but very soft-spoken and socially anxious off-stage. She’s known for her alluring, hypnotic voice. Although she lowers the supernatural effects of her voice, it can be a deadly weapon under the wrong intentions. She knows her ins and outs on-stage and she guides her members during stage performances. Her goal is to connect and touch the hearts of humanity through the art of entertainment. Her Insignes Royaux is a conducting baton, in which she is able to manipulate the sounds all around her, either to amplify or mute it. Deliberately messing with the hearing of her intended targets and distort their focus.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

Often jokingly dubbed as the Cantio-type central of Natura, the members of L’Orchestre are musicians, composers, singers, and performers in musical and theatrical arts. Each of them are named after an instrument. Their role in Sanctum Natura is to serve as spies in the human realm since their professions and talents help sway human perception to their favor and they’re able to blend in amongst humanity. They provide intel to the rest of Natura as well as be able to sway humanity to reconsider their hatred against their race through the art of music and performance. They also serve as the best distractions during missions as they can force attention amongst themselves using their talents.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

L’Orchestre’s sanctuary design is reminiscent to a 1920′s Metropolitan City mixed with Beaux-Arts architecture. A large city surrounds the main estate of La Orchestre that takes a form of a grand opera house from the 18th century. High skyscrapers, 1920′s vehicles, and airships (crafted by la energie’s members) are prominent in this domain, as it is frequented by visitors all over Existencia who wish to see live performances from Laniaturas. Lights of neon lights, signs, and advertisements illuminate this bustling city. Within the main estate, the sounds are amplified to magnify the effects of their abilities.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐗𝐈: 𝐋𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐋 ━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄.

This sanctuary is reigned by the LudeServa: Atmos. While La Mer is in the depths of the seas, this supernatural sanctum resides up in the clouds. This sanctuary serves as the home of messengers, navigators, and explorers. Those who intend to preserve and protect the sacred laniatura locations in the mortal realm and they also serve as the messengers of the Deities, serving as middlemen between the mortal realm and the Divine Sanctums.  ( OST: X )

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐓𝐌𝐎𝐒

Atmos is a navigator deity, and the younger twin of Andromeda. She keeps records of all the Laniaturian sanctuaries and ancient locations and ensures that her members are properly safeguarding them from human hands. She operates a plane crafted by her sister Joule and uses it to easily navigate herself throughout her sanctuary. It is rumored that she has a pair of feathered wings underneath the cloak she always wears, but no one has ever seen her unveil it or fly with it, and up to this day it remains a mystery. She has two Insignes Royaux, a map and a golden fountain pen. The Map contains all of the sacred locations and Sanctum Celare Sanctuaries in Existencia, and the fountain pen helps her send urgent messages to the recipients of her choice. The messages she sends take form of floating golden letters, the only downside to her pen is that she can only communicate in the Latin language with it, hence in most cases, Laniaturas are the only ones who can understand her.  

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐍𝐒

The members of Le Ciel are messengers, navigators, inventors, and explorers. A good number of them have the power of flight. They serve as messengers of the LudeServas to the Laniaturas who hide in Sanctum Celare or those who remain in the human realm. Like the angels in myths and stories, they serve to warn their people of impending danger, and keep them from harm. Other than messengers, they regularly roam the mortal realm to locate supernatural residues and ruins left behind by Ancient Laniaturas. In the series, they assist Le Jardin in attempting to locate the tomb of the ancients. All the members are named after Clouds or Atmospheric terms.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

Le Ciel rests atop white cumulus clouds. The sanctuary is a cozy city in the sky, most of the sanctum’s structures are inspired by Renaissance architecture and forged with white marble. The sanctuary’s city is bustling with recreational areas such as bakeries, cloud parks, libraries, workshops, and sky terminals. The skies of the sanctuary are bustling with air traffic from the operating planes and airships that circle around the vast city. Le Ciel is popular for its post office, most members of Sanctum Natura send their letters and packages through Le Ciel and the Horizon deliver these packages to their friends in the mortal realm. The main estate takes form of an extravagant estate sitting at the highest cloud of the domain.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐗𝐈𝐈: 𝐋𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 ━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄.

This sanctuary is reigned by the LudeServa: Andromeda, the temple sanctuary sits in the heart of space. This sanctuary is home to Laniaturas with incredibly obscure abilities. Due to their divine abilities, they cannot live and thrive normally amongst mortals. Hence they isolate themselves in this holy temple. The sanctuary is also home to Fate’s Library, which houses records of the past, present, and future of Existencia. ( OST: X )

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐀

Andromeda is the elder twin of Atmos, a very reclusive deity with the fondness for Astronomy. She has the power to control celestial bodies and vividly see premonitions and impending disasters but she is cursed to never be able to utter and warn others since she would fall into a year-long coma as punishment for any vision she says. Due to her morbid abilities, she’s long isolated herself from others hence why her sanctuary sits at the very heart of space. Her Insignes Royaux is a golden telescope. The telescope helps her look through far locations and observe the mortal realm without the need of leaving the Sanctum.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

The constellations are Laniaturas with incredibly uncanny, god-like, and dangerous supernatural abilities. Some of them are seers with vivid premonitions of the future while others have the ability to manipulate celestial bodies, or cause mass destruction. Due to the members’ abilities, they’re dangerous to be around the mortal realm hence they heavily isolate themselves and long stripped themselves of mortal desires, remaining faithful and pious to Existence. They serve as the Goddess’ devout followers and messengers. They’re also tasked to be the temporary guardians of Fate’s Library. Due to Fate being absent and no deity is currently managing the Library that contains records of the past, present, and future of Existencia, the records are at a risk at the hands of Sanctum Technica who will attempt to alter the records. The members are named after constellations and serve as the first line of defense in Natura due their powerful abilities.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

La Constella is a sanctuary that sits in the middle of space, the sanctuary takes form of a floating temple, surrounded with bright nebula and constellations. The domain’s structures are reminiscent to Gothic architecture and built with silver and gold materials. Several floating islands are connected through golden bridges, and the central temple serves as the main estate of the sanctuary. La Constella’s main estate is also the temporary home for Fate’s Library where the members safeguard the deity’s records, their responsibility lies in guarding its locked entrance, hence no member has ever entered the fabled Library since it contains the world’s unforeseeable destiny.

[ncsrin]

                NESRIN DE VRIES . MARLYE VON TRESSEL                                                   | WC LIST |

*marlye é uma pessoa com traços de psicopatia e sadismo então a maioria desses plots seria algo mais pesado e sério. caso isso te incomode basta me chamar que combinamos coisas mais tranquilas e leves!

*nenhum dos plots abaixo tem gênero específico

.

𝐈. 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO inspo: be careful making wishes in the dark

MUSE não sabia onde estava se metendo quando começou a andar próximo dos vampiros e sem saída para o que viria, acabou sendo uma das pessoas que caiu nos encantos e lábia de Marlye, que usa MUSE para executar os trabalhos que deseja, por mais fúteis que as vezes possam ser.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO inspo: dancing with the devil. playing with the enemy

Podem ser opostos ou simplesmente se detestarem, mas uma coisa é inegável: a química entre MUSE e Marlye e mesmo que tentem negar isso, eventualmente sempre acabam ficando outra vez.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @aethrawaller ) inspo: tell me, would you kill to save a life? tell me, would you kill to prove you’re right?

Enquanto MUSE é o sinônimo de bondade e heroísmo, Marlye vê ali a possibilidade de criar novos jogos e cenários. Num ninho de provocações e cenários absurdos que faz MUSE passar, Marlye coloca toda a bondade alheia à prova a fim de comprovar que ninguém é 100% bom em todas as situações.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 | FECHADO ( @notgryff ) inspo: can’t fight the darkness deep in me is where she likes to keep haunting my wicked dreams

GODRIC e Marlye tiveram uma longa relação desde que ela o transformou e o trouxe para seu lado. Quando GODRIC começa a questionar seus métodos, Marlye arma para que ele seja morto, mas o vampiro escapa e a mata primeiro. Ou ao menos era o que pensava já que agora ela retornou a Storybrooke pronta para perturbá-lo outra vez.

𝐕. 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @sleepyhcvd ) inspo: this night ain’t for the faint of hearts. we’re the wicked ones

MUSE pode se achar de bom coração, mas a certa rebeldia que possui em si acabou aproximando de Marlye, que usa exatamente isso para mostrar como a vida sem freios é muito mais interessante. [caso queira alguma decadência de caráter de um char seu, esse plot é perfeito pra isso!]

𝐕𝐈. 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO inspo: crawling on the back door, didn’t leave a mark. no one knows it’s you miss jackson

MUSE está investigando certos assassinatos suspeitos pela cidade e acaba tendo Marlye como uma de suas principais suspeitas. No intuito de descobrir mais coisas, MUSE cria cenários para se aproximar dela, mal sabendo o jogo perigoso em que está se metendo.

𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO inspo: i torture you. i’m a slave to your game. i’m just a sucker for pain

MUSE é um dos pacientes de Marlye (ela é psiquiatra) e como ela usa principalmente o trabalho para brincar e torturar pessoas, MUSE é uma de suas vítimas.

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐑 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @sabrinaschneider ) inspo: so you wanna start a war?

MUSE e Marlye possuem antigas intrigas e em Storybrooke não é diferente. Em seu passado a vampira destruiu multidões e lugares sem nem hesitar então não é nenhuma surpresa ter uma lista vasta de inimigos que a odeiam e buscam vingança.

𝐈𝐗. 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @thcevilone ) inspo: we’re kings of the killing, we’re out for blood

MUSE e Marlye são aliados, apoiando os planos e tramoias um do outro para que atinjam os próprios desejos custe o que custar. (cnn principalmente para outros vampiros, mas serve para qualquer vilão/neutro!)

𝐗. 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋, 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO inspo: do not try me. devil, devil. cannot buy me, devil, devil

MUSE sente absurda atração por Marlye, mas se recusa a se aproximar dela por saber (ou desconfiar) do quão terrível e perigosa é a vampira. Marlye, por outro lado, adora o jogo de gato e rato.

𝐗𝐈. 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @hawthornedaddy ) inspo: the world doesn’t need another dream girl

MUSE é o completo oposto do que Marlye é e representa, o que a deixa curiosa sobre por quanto tempo MUSE segue vivendo em seu próprio conto de fadas e dando a si mesma o papel de destruí-lo.

𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @maribelwasathena ) inspo: who’s the enemy? don’t know what to believe. it’s living in the shadows

MUSE tem absoluta certeza que alguém está de vigia e em constante perseguição consigo e chama Marlye, quem pensa ser sua amiga ou aliada, para ajudar no assunto, nem mesmo percebendo que é ela que está por trás disso, aos poucos levando MUSE à completa loucura e paranoia.

𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO inspo: oh lord, heaven knows we belong way down bellow

MUSE trabalha no hospital assim como Marlye, compactuando com todo o horror que acontece por lá, seja das perseguições, torturas ou devaneios. Com objetivos semelhantes de perturbarem quem está ao redor, acabam se tornando aliados quando o assunto é esse.

𝐗𝐈𝐕. 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐆𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 | ABERTO . ILIMITADO ( @thcgoodone ) inspo: fire meet gasoline, i’m burning alive

MUSE e Marlye tem uma relação que não envolve nada além de sexo casual, sempre ligando um para o outro quando precisam desligar do mundo ao redor. Com o tempo, contudo, acabam percebendo que se parecem muito mais do que pensavam e possuem outros gostos terríveis em comum.