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rainrot4me · 8 months ago

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On Unholy Terms

Summary: You’re an exorcist sent by the church to investigate a graveyard deemed to be unholy. After stumbling upon a ‘demon’, your determination quickly falters.

Characters: Eyeless Jack x Exorcist! Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Probably definitely blasphemous, cunnilingus, big size difference, jack fucks you on a tombstone, vaginal, shaming, forceful entry, slight humiliation, biting, some blood, choking, degradation

Words: 3.6k

A/N: There’s slight symbolism of Christianity/Catholicism, please take it lightheartedly. I don’t mean to be rude :’)

This was stupid and you knew it.

You trudged through the overgrown grass, your skirt constantly getting caught on thorns and twigs littering the ground. The rosary you clutched close to your chest was cold, giving you some stability as your fear grew the deeper you went into the woods.

The church had sent you to investigate a series of murders near an old, abandoned chapel that had been left dormant after funding ran scarce. Several years ago, you had visited the church on different occasions, but as you entered the clearing, it looked anything but familiar.

Dense fog surrounded the area, the evening sky casting a dark orange glow through the forest. The rusty flashlight in your opposite hand did little to aid your vision as you stepped closer to the overgrown building. Vines and debris had overtaken the small church, and the beautiful stained glass windows shattered or faded from the lack of upkeep. It felt depressing, the ground looking anything but holy now.

You shuffled around the side of the building, the dark oak doors boarded together, police caution tape decorating the step’s railings. You sighed, shining your flashlight onto the rest of the building, but finding nothing worth interest. You thought the church was idiotic, this was a job for investigators, police or something, not some young exorcist who barely got work as it was. However, the church had deemed this case a holy one considering it was on sacred ground. Nonetheless, if you felt this was out of your pay grade, you would give the cops a call yourself.

You walked around the back of the building, a wide field revealing rows and rows of tombstones and crosses. A cemetery. A small gravel path led to an arched gate, a beautiful design etched onto the iron bars. You signed a cross, kissing your fingers before stepping through the threshold, showing respect to the grounds.

The sun was dipping behind the trees, a dark sky looming as the fog surrounded you making it harder to see. You stepped carefully through the assorted headstones, each reading off a different name you felt too busy to acknowledge. A crow called somewhere in the distance, startling you slightly as you shone your flashlight around frantically. Your nerves were getting to you, the stale air making it harder to breathe. So far, nothing had stood out to you, no signs of life or commotion, let alone dead bodies that were so frequently reported. You felt restless wanting to leave so quickly, but you had to report something back or you would be penalized.

Trudging the gravel path, you stumbled upon a rather large mausoleum. The beautifully designed pillars lead to its gated entrance. You shone your flashlight at the doors, goosebumps running up your arms as you decided to go inside. You stepped onto the marble steps, the rusted gate creaking loudly as you swung it open. You clutched your rosary tightly, sweat running across your forehead as you silently cursed yourself. The tomb was dark and stuffy, with plaques of the deceased marking where they lay in the marble coffins. You angled your flashlight, eyeing the old but stunning design of the interior. You stepped further into the tomb, several dark doorways gained your curiosity. You stepped toward one, shining your flashlight in but seeing nothing except bookshelves lined with what you presumed to be death records and documents of the deceased outside. You gulped, stepping to another one.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your flashlight landed on an assortment of blankets and pillows nestled into a corner, several water bottles and books askew across the floor nearby. Your heartbeat became uneasy, fear creeping into you as you took a step back, the rosary pinching your hand as you clutched it tighter. Maybe it was nothing, maybe some squatter had used the building to camp out for the night. You tried to calm yourself, wiping the sweat from your face with the back of your sleeve. A cool breeze wafted into the tomb, fluttering your skirt around your ankles as you continued searching the rooms. Suddenly, a loud screech filled your ears, sending your blood cold and you stumbling back onto your backside. You screamed as you threw your flashlight up quickly, frantically searching for the noise, panting heavily. Shining a flashlight on a crow desperately flapping his wings to escape the building, screeching again as he flew out and into the night.

You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths in you steadied yourself, blaming your imagination on your jumpiness. It seemed there was nothing but annoying birds and dusty graves, but no sign of any ghostly killer. You hoisted yourself up, reaching down to dust off your skirt before collecting yourself and shining your flashlight up again. That’s when you saw it, a tall figure resting his weight against the door frame of a darkened room. You held your breath, begging your body not to move as you could feel the tears well in your ears. The figure's ragged breaths echoed off the marble walls, his head angled to the side as if he was gawking at you. Your eyes flickered quickly, scanning his moves and praying he by some miracle moved on and let you leave. You prayed you would leave with no story to tell, but now you feared you wouldn’t leave at all.

The man pushed himself off the doorway, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket and leaning in to meet your gaze. He towered over you, a good bit too. You wanted to run, to turn around and sprint out the doorway and never look back, but he interrupted your thoughts. “You’re a pest,” he grunted, looking you up and down as he slid the hood of his hoodie off of his head. He seemed to be wearing some creepy mask, the dark eyes sending your heart pounding in your chest. But his voice was calm, soothing almost, if it wasn’t handing you an insult. You gulped, standing up straight and letting go of the rosary hanging from your neck as you gripped your flashlight tighter.

“Why are you here? Who are you?” You croaked, voice catching in your throat from fear. You didn’t know why you were interrogating him, but this newfound bravery was short-lived as he stepped closer to you abruptly. You gasped, clenching the flashlight closer to you as he towered over you, head cocked and pressed too close for comfort. You whined, tears emerging again as his ragged breaths filled your ears. The rotten stench coming from him was consuming the whole room and your senses alike, making you close your eyes before tears threatened to spill.

“I think a better question,” he snarled, sending a shiver through you. “Is why are you here?”

You peeled your eyes open, bringing your hand up to grip your rosary again. “I was sent… sent by the church.” You squirmed, knees slowly buckling under you as his presence pressed down on you. “Oh..” He groaned, standing straight again, running a hand through his spikey brown hair. “A holy little thing, huh? Come to catch some ghosts?” You could hear the grin in his voice, his hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck until he caught sight of your rosary. He reached out sharply, taking the cross from your hands and pulling it to him, straining your neck to come towards him. You squealed, throwing your hands out and placing them against his chest as he examined the charm, trying your damnest to keep distance between the two of you. He chuckled, following the necklace up and squeezing the ends together, choking your neck slightly from the tension. “I’m afraid God won’t help you here, little thing.”

He tugged your necklace tighter, pulling you flush against him as his hands landed on either side of your face. He forced you to look up at him, tears pricking your eyes again and again. “Such a pretty thing, though. What a shame some old church sent you away to your death.” He lifted his hand to slide his mask up over his nose, revealing the jagged smile hiding behind. He separated his teeth, a long grotesque tongue slinking out and falling below his chin. It was inhumanly long, your eyes blowing wide at the horror as you began to tremble under his grasp. “Oh, God…”

He leaned closer, passing your face and finding the crook of your neck, sliding his long tongue against the bare skin with a growl. You tensed, a slight moan leaving your mouth at the chill running down your spine from the sensation. The man stopped, retracting his tongue from your neck and leaning back slowly, bringing his face to meet yours. His unsure face turned to a manic grin, his jagged teeth shining in the night light as his hands slid down from your face to wrap around your neck and slowly grip. He squeezed every so gently, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your breath hitch. “How unholy…” He chuckles, sliding his hands down further to sit at each side of your waist. You freeze, embarrassment hitting you as his gaze looks all over you now. “Now that I look at you, you ain’t half bad. Your little church get-up is… rather tempting for someone so ordained.” He purrs. You flush red, your mouth running dry at his lustful comments towards you as you squirm under his grasp. He leans down, mouth inches from yours as he stares directly into your eyes. “You’re not as godly as you let on, are you?” He whispers, tucking the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he taunts you.

Your face blows red, eyes refusing to look at his face and deciding his hoodie is much more interesting. He laughs, standing up straight and sliding his arms under your legs, hoisting you up over his shoulder with your butt sitting high in the air. You squeal, gripping the back of his sweatshirt and pulling desperately as he walks out into the night air, a cool breeze blowing your hair into your face. “I’ve decided to treat myself tonight,” He boasts loudly to you, walking you over to a rather large headstone and setting you on top softly. “Thank you, Lord, for this meal.” He taunts, sliding down to his knees in front of you and sliding his hands up and down your thighs. You begin to panic, gripping the cold concrete under your hands as you try to balance yourself and focus on the man’s movements at the same time.

“W-Wait! Please!” You beg, bringing your knees to your chest as he tries to slide your skirt up your legs. “I don’t even know your name…” You croak, eyes wide as he stares into your fearful face. He grins, gripping your ankles and bringing them back down to dangle in front of him. “Jack. It’s Jack. And I promise, you won’t forget it by the end of tonight.” He chuckles, gripping the bottom of your skirt and sliding it up your legs, scrunching it up at your waist so he gets a full view of your lacy panties. You shove your thighs together, blocking his view as you shudder a breath. Jack slides his cold hands between your locked thighs, prying them open as he places each leg on his shoulders. He hooks his fingers under the hem of your panties, sliding them down and hooking them on your ankle as he slides closer, his face moving in closer to the apex of your thighs. You hold your breath, your core aching as you feel his hot breath pant against your soaked lips. “Hallelujah.”

Jack grips your thighs tightly as he licks a thick stripe between your folds, a ragged gasp shooting from your mouth as you slam your eyes shut. His tongue circles your entrance, flicking lightly against your clit as you arch your back against the feeling. He groans at the taste, pressing his tongue into you slowly, relishing in every flavor of your pussy he can taste. You moan out, his tongue lapping at the juices leaking out of you as your arousal grinds your hips against his face. Jack chuckles against you, sucking on your lips as he curls his tongue inside of you, making you whine. He grips your thighs tighter, your legs dangling off of his shoulders as his fingers hold onto you so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises. “Ahh- Jack…” You groan, sliding your hand into his hair and gripping tightly to stabilize yourself. You feel the white heat coming over you as you groan against him, hips bucking as his tongue continues to curl and throb inside of you. Your release comes quickly, an unfamiliar ecstasy overtaking you as you come on his tongue.

Jack groans against you, continuing to slide his tongue in and out of you as his nose brushes against your clit. He’s not stopping, if anything he’s speeding up his movements and driving his tongue deeper into your cunt. You whimper loudly, the sensitivity overriding you as you begin to squirm away from his touch. He only grips tighter, pulling your hips up and off of the tombstone as he presses his face deeper into your folds. Your thighs spasm, gripping tightly around his head while he laps at your pleasure. You begin to sob, gripping his hair tighter and pulling forcefully as you try to pull his head from your core. “Please! Please, it hurts… God- Jack!” You grip your hands in his hair, accidentally knocking his mask back and off of his head as you stutter your hips against his tongue. All of a sudden his movements stop, his tongue slowly sliding out of you as you stop in horror. His face, rather, his eyes. The lack of them makes your stomach drop. His eye sockets are nothing but pools of black tar, dripping down his face and staining his gray-ish skin. It’s like you can’t move, your pulsing cunt still sitting inches away from his face as he glares, or seems to be glaring, into your eyes.

“W- What in hell’s name…” You croak, Jack slowly releasing your thighs and sliding his hands up your legs, pressing against them to stand himself up. He chuckles. “Hell exactly, little thing.” Your eyes hold wide, your fear unallowing you to move. “D- Demon…” You whimper, your legs dropping back down and dangling off the end of the tombstone. He smiles, reaching to unbutton his pants slowly, your eyes shooting between them and his terrifying face. “A demon who just made you cum,” He slides his zipper down, pulling his cock out and slowly stroking it as he looks down at you, the red angry head pulsing as he slowly chews his lip in between his teeth.

“What would God say…? Hm? His holy little thing lusting after a demon spawn?” Jack grins, stepping forward and hooking his hands under your knees, bringing them around his waist. He pushes your skirt back up, exposing your dripping cunt to his large cock as it twitches between your legs. He’s very large, actually, fear striking you as you wonder if something like that would even fit inside of you. Jack notices you eyeing him, sliding his hands around your back and gripping you tightly as he positions himself at your entrance. Jack leans forward, placing a soft kiss against your forehead while he reaches his thumb to slowly circle your clit, a breathy moan escaping your lips.

You watch carefully as he pushes into you, his tip stretching your entrance open and stopping when you begin to whine, gripping the shoulder of his sweatshirt tightly. Jack presses kisses against your forehead, breathing deeply as he works your clit trying to get you to relax on his length. He’s barely even in yet and you’re already so tight.

Large tears threaten to spill as Jack slowly nudges his dick inside of you. He’s so big, the girth of him catching on your entrance as he’s forced to press deeper and deeper inside. You whine and squirm, his hold on your hips not allowing you to back away from the stretch and sensitivity. Jack’s thumb rubs your clit quicker, his breath becoming labored as he slowly begins to thrust into you. It won’t slide easily, so he becomes contempt with tugging and shallowly nudging his cock-head into your warm core. Tears spill from your eyes, your mouth hanging open as you try to babble your pleas. “S’bigmm.. Shit-” You hiss, whining as you sob through the stretch of your cunt. Jack presses kisses against your forehead, licking your tears up as they fall. He whispers to you, cooing his praise into your ear as he grunts and curses. “You can take it…” He mouths your neck, licking against your skin as his eyes begin to slowly roll. “We’ll make it fit.” He grunts, nudging your thighs open with his legs as he grabs your back.

Jack shoves his cock inside of you, your cunt pulling him in and throbbing against the stretch and pain of it all. He can’t hold back, your cunt so warm and wet that he moans into your neck, lapping at it before he bites down on the skin, sinking his jagged teeth in and making you scream. He latches on, the taste of warm blood coating his mouth and sending him into a frenzy. He pulls his length out all the way to the tip before slamming in and reaching so deeply inside of you that it makes your breath catch in your throat. You moan loudly, tears streaming down your cheeks as your head lulls back, Jack’s thrusts sharp and deep as you grip his sweatshirt for stability.

Jack retracts his teeth from your neck, lapping at the blood trickling down as he thrusts into you like an animal. He holds you tightly against him, his fingers gripping into your back as he groans his pleasure into the crook of your neck. “Ssgood.. Mm- fuck! You’re suckin’ me so good..” You grip his hair, hips stuttering against his thrusts and matching his pace. You hook your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as possible. The stretch of his cock feels so glorious with each press against your g-spot.

He kisses against your neck, moving up to your cheek and then meeting your lips, pressing them roughly against yours as he makes out with you. You groan into his mouth, his tongue sliding in and muffling your sounds of pleasure. He slides his hands out, hooking them under your legs and hoisting you up. He holds you against him in the air, fucking up into you like his personal fleshlight. You moan loudly into his mouth, his tongue exploring every crevice of your mouth as you roll your eyes. He slides his hand out from under your leg, gripping the rosary around your neck and pulling it tightly, cutting off your airway. He smiles against your mouth, hearing your labored breathing gasping as he pulls the necklace tighter. “You just love this don'tcha? Little thing milking me so good.” He groans, his hips stuttering faster inside of you, his cock jabbing deeply inside of you.

“Mmcomin- Jack-” You moan, air escaping you as you feel your cunt squeezing tightly around Jack’s length. He grunts, mouth hanging open as he stares into your flushed face, his cock twitching inside of you. He presses his lips against yours again, breathing in your moans as he feels you constrict against him. You moan out, pleasure washing over you as you cum on his cock, squeezing tightly around him. Jack grunts, unable to thrust anymore, he ruts up into your cunt, groaning loudly into your mouth as he spills into you. His thrusts eventually stop, bottoming out into you as he releases your necklace, you gasp, catching your breath again.

Jack holds you tightly against him, breathing deeply into your neck as you catch your own. He slowly pulls out of you, and you wince from the pull. His seed spills down your legs, a groan escaping your lips at the lack of fullness you regrettably loved. Jack sets you on your feet, reaching to swipe his finger between your folds and sending a jolt through your body. He brings his fingers to his mouth, lapping up his and your juices and sighing at the wonderful taste. He pulls your skirt down, pressing a kiss against your forehead before zipping his jeans back up himself.

You shift on your feet, relishing in the kisses he places on your skin. “Uhm- Tha-” Jack places his hand over your mouth, leaning down to look you in your eyes. “Run along, little thing. Get back to your stuffy old church.” He leans down, picking up his mask and sliding it back over his face, bringing his hood up to completely cover himself again. You clutch your rosary softly, the cool night air blowing your hair slowly as Jack waves you off. “Will I ever get to… see you again?” You cringe at the desperation in your voice, shuffling on your feet. Jack crooks his neck again, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If I ever see you again, I’m afraid I’ll be eating a whole lot more than just that little pussy of yours,” he chuckles.

You smile at him, turning to walk back down the gravel path as you see Jack make his way back towards the mausoleum. As you pass under the gated archway, you smile to yourself, holding your rosary closely.

What the hell were you going to tell the church now?

Thanks for reading!

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fireheartpages · 2 months ago

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terrible idea | b.d.

bodhi durran x reader chapter two. series masterlist summary: everyone has their demons, you just chose to run from yours. straight to basgiath war college. and definitely not towards the grinning tall, dark, and handsome marked rider that seemed too kind to be in a hardened place like the rider's quadrant. leave it to you to catch his attention word count: almost 2.5k notes: second person pov with she/her pronouns. reader has a last name and a dirty dancing esque nickname. questionable geographic knowledge of the continent and use of modern fairy tales & fables for metaphors and allegories. if rebecca yarros can put her chronic illness in her story so can i. enjoy the second part of whatever my brain has been brewing for the past few days! there will be two ish more parts :DD half of this was written while wine tipsy and all of it was proofread while wine drunk and very sleepy, so we die like men

You take a deep breath in, and push it out, suppressing a shiver. It was cold in September. What the hell.

Being from the coast of Tyrrendor means you thought you were prepared for cold weather. The coast is cold. It's always windy. You would go swimming in cold water. And then you came to Morraine in the fall. Fuck, it was cold. It made everything hurt.

You ball your hands into fists, ignoring the way the skin on your hands protests. The Gauntlet seems to taunt you as you stare up at it, like a looming, overbearing giant ready to knock you down the minute you try to climb the beanstalk. You and Violet have been the only ones not to complete the course thus far.

She came up next to you, handing you a healing slave that you accept gratefully. You tug off the gloves, smothering the place where your palm met the knuckle in it. It makes the joint pain a bit more bearable, but you're still trying to find something that relieved the dry, cracked, and flaking skin there, or the welts that materialize and wake you up with how badly they hurt.

The freezing cold wind and rain in September certainly doesn't help. Fucking Morraine weather. Why does the north have to be so cold?

You slip the black leather back over your hands, fastening your gloved as tight as they could go to avoid slipping and handed the salve back to Violet.

"It's not as windy today," she remarks.

"I don't think wind is our biggest operative here," you say in response, and she laughs.

She nods at you, a twinkle in her eye telling you she has a new plan. She murmurs something under her breath before turning her attention to the hall that leads to the course, and you wipe the gloves against the flight leathers you'd donned that morning, as if that would rough up the palms and keep you from slipping.

It happened every time. Anything balance or footwork related was easy. In fact, you were the fastest in most areas, by a long shot. Impressively fast on the granite columns and rotating timbers, but you struggle with the iron rails. Sometimes, if you picked out the wrong gloves, you would slip right off. You were lucky your reflexes were fast, able to wrap a rope around your hand until you could tug a glove off. You ended nearly every session with rope burns cracking the skin of your hands.

Someone brushes past you, and as you turn to see who they were, Ridoc invades your space, his hands cupping your shoulders. He spins you back around, and shoves you another step down the hallway.

"Stop being nervous. You've got this."

"I haven't made it all the way up once," you remark, brow furrowing.

"Violet's gonna do it," he said firmly, casting a glance back to where her and Dain are having a heated conversation in whispers.

"She is, and so are you," Rhiannon chimes in. "We all are. It's going to be fine."

"The Gauntlet isn't even the hardest part about today," Sawyer grumbles, and all three of you shoot him a look. He shrugs. "I'm just saying."

The light is growing bigger now at the end of the hallway, and you're about to take up positions to start. Dain is gone, leaving Violet sucking down deep breaths behind you. And you feel like you're going to crawl out of your own skin.

"Ridoc," You say, spinning towards him. "I need a favor."

"Yeah?"

"Let me climb you."

Ridoc lets out a surprised laugh that's more akin to a yelp. "If you wanna take me to bed, Baby, all you had to do was ask. I just don't think this is the best place to--"

"Put your arm up," you snap. "I need to check the traction on these gloves. I think it's why I can't get past the rails, or the chimney."

Ridoc does as he's asked, and you jump up, grabbing for his arm. You grunt as your hand slides right off, and he wraps an arm around you to keep you from tipping both of you over. Frustrated, you rip the gloves off, wiping the salve off on your pants. Sawyer extends a handkerchief.

This is a terrible idea.

"Professor," you saw, as the rest of your squad files onto the landing. "Can I go last?"

Emetterio looks at you like you've grown a second head, bushy dark brows raising, but he relents. "Sure."

You nod, staring at the line of cadets in front of you, slotting into the back behind Tynan and Luca. Make sure your squad gets up all the way. You don't care if anyone else slips on the leftover lotion on your hands.

Because after Violet makes it up both the chimney and the vertical incline, you dare to let yourself hope. And then the last two are down, and then it's your turn.

This is a terrible idea.

The buoy balls had given you grief before, but with the amount of adrenaline in your body, you danced across them like the columns and timbers and logs. It was easy, and then you were standing in front of the iron rails. You were going to die--

An idea comes to you, and it takes half a second before you decide it's worth the time you waste. You rip the gloves from your pocket, knotting the fingers together, and hold them to each hand, gripping the rail.

You palm the rail as you swing your body across, using the traction of the iron and your skin to hand on, while the leather guards your skin from the ramifications. The sky is darkening, and you can tell it's about to rain, making you hurry along, one hand at a time, adjusting the grip of the gloved underneath your hands. Being able to use your nails to dig into the gloves, and the tension of the gloves to support your weight. You're maybe three feet from the edge before you feel it--a stitch snaps, and the leather begins to wrap.

You slip. It's an incremental fall, but it's there, and it jacks up your heart rate. It makes your palms sweat. It makes you lose your grip on the gloves.

You lose one hand, and scramble to grab the glove again as the other hand slips.

"Swing!" It's Violet's voice. She sounds frantic. "Swing yourself over. You're close!"

The distance between you and the edge looks insurmountable right now. But you listen. And you swing.

And Violet was right. You were closer than you'd thought, and you land on the edge.

You make it up the rest of the course without an issue.

"Holy shit," Violet breathes as you scramble onto the landing. "Your hands."

Holy shit. Your hands is right.

"I thought mine were bad." She rips free a piece of your shirt and goes to soak up the blood coating your hands, and you immediately yelp when the fabric makes contact.

"I'm sorry!" Violet gasps. "I'm sorry--"

"No," you insist. "It was bad before I went--"

"Put your gloves on."

The voice sends a shiver down your spine.

You turn and--it's him. Bodhi. You freeze, reset, check functions--

"What did you just say to me?"

"Put your gloves back on," Bodhi says, and his voice holds and urgency you make a note not to underplay, on that has you obeying without protest.

Not without question, though. "Why?"

"You're about to walk in front of a shit ton of dragons that have no loyalty to you. And you have a gaping, open wound that was troubling you even before it was inflicted." His eyes are soft, even with his harsh words.

Right. Weakness.

You wince as you slide on each glove, holding his gaze. "No more leaking," you say, holding your hands up.

Presentation passes in a flurry, and it's as you're walking through the quad later that you spin around at the sound of your name being called. You're tired, the adrenaline having drained out of your body until you're left a shell of energy--okay with the idea of somthing, less inclined to be able to follow through.

You'd made it through presentation, though. Not all of you had, but your friends had. That had to count for something. A Green had taken an interest in you, as well as a Blue. You had a preference for the Greens--you wanted a sharp mind--but the blue had looked at you with such keen eyes.

All of this to say you'd even be chosen. It was all up in the air at this point.

Bodhi--the boy from the challenge, and from the Gauntlet-- is jogging up to you. He has something in his hand, and you furrow your brow. You were making your way back from the infirmary, the healers not bothering to do much with your hands. The skin would never heal completely, anyway.

"Hi," Bodhi says, and you can't help but crack a smile.

"Hi," you say in return.

"Hi," he says again, and then shakes his head. "Your hands. Are they okay?"

"Oh," you say, honestly taken aback. Smart. Okay. You can do better than this, he's just a boy--

"Here," he says, extending something to you.

"Oh, no," you say. Okay. Maybe try for multiple syllables this time. "Please don't." Or not.

The way his face falls is comparable to buildings crumbling. To cities being leveled. It was Rome after Nero.

This is a terrible idea.

"It's not joint pain," you say quickly. "I mean, it is, but it's mostly my skin. It splits and gets really dry. That's why it hurts and bleeds."

"I figured," Bodhi says, with equal enthusiasm. "The blood, I--"

He takes a sharp, deep, and sudden breath, gaze meeting yours with an intensity that makes you falter. He opens the salve, and a soft, oaty scent floats to you. It's unlike the cool mint of Violet's salve. It's a balm, a lotion.

"You didn't use the ropes. I was watching your squad, and Violet did, which is why her hands were bleeding. But you didn't. And you wear the gloves all the time, so I just kind of figured..."

You swallow past the tightness in your throat. He motions to the bench next to you, underneath the wilting tree, and a few leaves make for their descent as you sit, side by side.

"Xaden mentioned something about Violet's salve, and I've seen you flinch when you put it on before," he says, eyes on the little round tin, and you're suddenly hit with the fact that this man has paid any attention to you.

"It's for joint pain," you explain. "Which can help, but the skin is my issue. When it's cold, or wet, or too dry, or I touch something--kind of all the time, but it gets worse with certain triggers. And the cold is one, and it is so much colder here than home."

Bodhi offers you the balm. "Where's home?"

"Tyrrandor."

He sucks in a breath.

"Near Lewellen. About as far south as you can go. Warm," you laugh. "Much warmer than anywhere in Morraine."

"I can imagine," Bodhi says, and he grins at you, and your world stops moving with the force of his focus on you. You were entranced. Holy shit, he was gorgeous. "Is that where your balance comes from?"

"I'd think so," you say. "We surf a lot down there. and I took dance classes as a kid. Well, before my mom died, so not too many--"

Idiot. Fuck, here's a marked one, a rebellion kid, and you're trying to talk about your damn mom--

'It's okay," Bodhi says. "You don't have to mince your words with me."

You nod. "My mom was apart of the rebellion."

You feel his gaze as it scans you from top to bottom. A question there--why you were from Lewellen, and not Aretia, and where your Mark was. The Mark you deserved, that he would never find.

"I'm not marked," you explain. "My dad ran off with me, basically, mid-rebellion. I never saw her again, only read her name on a death roll once I was enrolled here."

"So, he..."

"Was against the rebellion. Yes."

"And you..."

"Are. Not. No, I--" You suck down a deep breath, shifting where you sat, and trying to ignore the way his gaze bore into you. "I came to get away from him. I came to... see the death roll."

You hear a sharp breath in from beside you.

"I had to know for sure," you say quickly. "This was about the only place I could find out. And my town, after the rebellion, they would sponsor you, send you to school, but only if you were enlisted in the Rider's Quadrant."

Bodhi nods, averting his gaze and seeming to chew on the information you had given him.

"I did what I needed to. And I'm here. If i can survive Threshing, I might jut make it out." You smile at him, but he doesn't return it. Instead, the furrow in his bow only deepens. "That's the idea, at least."

"So, you didn't want to be a rider?" Bodhi asks.

"Gods, no," you say, under your breath, like it's a swear. "Surviving is a gift. And I won' take it for granted. But I'm fighting to do so."

"And your hands--"

"Kind of wounds that never heal, yeah." You turn them palm-up, staring down at them and wondering how you two had gotten so off track. "They're worse up here. The cold, I think, and the gloves make it hurt less upon contact, but I think it makes the skin worse when I take them off." You shake your head. "Some dragon rider I'll be, when I can't use my hands to do anything. If I had known how bad they would be up here, I would have gone to the Scribes or something, at least."

"Here." He extends the open tin, the soft smell of the balm wafting up to you, and something in your chest stirs. "I figured it was a skin thing, so this may help. I know a healer."

"You do?"

"Yeah!" He nearly chirps the word out. "She and her girlfriend helped make it for me."

"Oh," you say, swallowing. "That's really kind. Of all three of you. Thank you."

"Of course." Ne nods. "And for the record, you're going to make an amazing dragon rider."

It looks like it caused him pain to stand up, as his hands curled into fists. You knew the feeling well.

"I'll see you," he says.

"Yes," you return. "I will see you."

He walks away, and you watch him go, attempting to puzzle out where that had come from.

And just what it had cost him to make this balm.

#if they have months like july and august im gonna assume they had rome and nero #bodhi durran #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi durran x you #fourth wing x you #fourth wing #empyrean #rebecca yarros #iron flame #emmmaswrites

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grande-forge · 17 days ago

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Classic vs. Modern Stair Railings: Which One Suits Your Home?

Gone are the days when railings were merely safety tools for stairs. Stair railings play an important part in enhancing the allure of staircases which themselves are crucial design features that can increase the overall aesthetic of your space. Choosing the right railing design that blends in with your interior adds to the visual appeal of the home in addition to providing safety. Whether you are renovating an existing staircase or designing a new one, the choice between classic and modern stair railings can be overwhelming. To help you out with this dilemma, this guide covers essential details like designs for railings classic to modern, types of railings from brass railing to cast iron railing, styles of railings from minimalism to contemporary, their pros and cons, and so much more.

#Brass Railing India #Cast Iron Railing

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 4 months ago

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One - The Price of Victory | Series Masterlist

Summary: As a deposed Aemond licks his wounds from a long fought war, Lady Rosaleen embarks from Raventree Hall to meet her husband-to-be | Word Count: 7.1k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage

The throne sat empty.

The great Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror loomed above, its twisted, jagged shadows flickering in the candlelight. Aemond stood before it, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his single violet eye fixed on the seat his brother had died fighting to secure.

He had once seen death, stared it right in the face that bore Daemon Targaryen's likeness, all for the worthiness of ruling from that very seat.

And yet he still did not possess the authority to sit it. Despite the fight through the flames, the blood, the agony. The sacrifices.

The war had been won, the Blacks were defeated, scattered or dead. And yet the realm was far from whole. He had thought the Green victory would bring order, that their triumph would be enough to heal the scars left by his brother’s rule and Rhaenyra’s rebellion. But Aegon’s sudden death had shattered the fragile stability they had only just begun to claim. Without heirs to secure what his brother had left behind.

He had returned to King’s Landing bloodied and battered, prepared to embrace whatever welcome awaited him. But his mother, his dear, grief-stricken mother, had not greeted him with open arms and cries of joy. She had wept and railed against him, her voice breaking as her fists struck his chest, powerless but furious. The Dance, with all its death and fire, had torn her heart to pieces, and though she had welcomed him home, the weight of her grief had been clear.

“Do you see what we are left with?” she had asked him, her voice rough and hoarse from the nights of mourning. Aemond remembered the rawness of her face, the pale grief etched into every line. “A land left in ruin. A son who cannot sit the throne. And my girl…my only girl…”

He felt the blood that remained in his weakened body drain from his face. He had heard vague murmurings of Helaena's sorrow after the death of Jaehaerys, but no one had prepared him for the truth that now burned in his mother’s haunted eyes.

At least Rhaenyra had taken mercy on little Jaehaera. She remained, not unlike Rhaenyra’s own sons, locked away, but now protectively in Alicent’s wing of the Keep under the close eyes of her grandmother. Aemond himself felt a responsibility toward his niece, she was a small, fragile thing, with Helaena’s soft eyes and gentle manner, bearing the scars of tragedy but untouched by the fire and vengeance that had consumed her kin.

She was but a child. But her presence was a silent, solemn reminder of the sister he felt he had failed.

The damage from the Dance was more severe than any one man could hope to repair. Rhaenyra had left the realm in disarray, her supporters either dead or reduced to whispers of rebellion. Houses that had once stood tall were now in ruin, their lands burned and loyalty frayed. Aegon’s death had formed a dark power vacuum, and already, ambitious Lords, eyes glimmering with the sweet promise of power, were already pressing their influence and claims.

Of course, there was still the question of Rhaenyra’s two trueborn surviving sons. Aegon the Younger and little Viserys. Glorified prisoners, yes, but their very existence cast a long shadow over Aemond’s claim. Both boys, with the ability to inspire rebellion in those who still held a candle to Rhaenyra’s long lost claim. The Council ceaselessly debated what to do with the boys in the tower, under guard, whether they might be kept as hostages, or if the crown would be safer without them drawing breath another day longer than necessary.

He found himself thinking of Alys, who said she had been with child and indeed appeared as such the last time he had seen her.

Alys had known him too well, perhaps better than he’d ever allowed anyone else. She’d known what fuelled him, what burned within him even when he’d barely grasped it himself. He had abandoned her for what he thought could have been his last moments above Gods Eye Lake. She had looked at him that final time with something unspoken in her gaze, with weight of words she hadn’t voiced. She had sworn she was carrying his child, and he’d believed her, if only because Alys Rivers had always known how to see truths that others could not.

When word had first spread of his fall, when the ravens bore news of his assumed death, she had slipped away, disappearing from Harrenhal without a trace. Even if she had birthed his child, the council would not care for another bastard to claim any place in his line, nor would his mother or his brother have allowed it. Aemond knew this, he had known it even when he had found comfort in Alys’ arms, seeking something to fill the gnawing emptiness.

He could only assume she was either gone, or dead. And the child? If there ever was one. Were they dead too?

He clenched his jaw, willing the thought from his mind. Alys belonged to the past, like the ghosts of every flame he’d left smoldering in his path.

Aemond found himself alone, pondering to himself, without even the energy to write his warring thoughts on paper. What was there to write about anymore? The war was over. This was a time to rebuild. To heal. And yet he felt the cold, claw of guilt at his throat, no closer to the throne than he had been before.

The Small Council chambers felt barren, and Aemond’s position was heavily felt, having not been granted his seat at the head of the table this time around. He rolled his shoulder, the scars where Daemon had plunged Dark Sister through flesh and muscle stretching uncomfortably. The Maesters had said he’d be left with less mobility, but that it should not affect his duties.

He was not sure whether to be pleased about that.

Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Larys Strong, Ser Jasper Wylde and Maester Gerardys sat in silence, their expressions carefully measured. At the far end of the table sat his mother, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze steady. It was a wonder to Aemond the men that sat around this table were not dead following Rhaenyra’s short but tumultuous reign. He wondered if the shadows of war had made them distrustful of one another. In this there was no doubt. If Aemond himself were to have an opinion on anyone, it was Maester Gerardys, now more a prisoner than an ally, unable to flee King's Landing after the Pretender and Aegon’s death.

It seemed this opinion was shared, for several pairs of eyes carefully scanned the room. And he was not left without a lingering glance himself, the Kinslayer.

“We need the Riverlands pacified,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice broke through the silence, his eyes scanning the room. “The lords there are restless. House Tully may have bent the knee, but it was under duress. Loyalty is fragile.”

“The Tullys are irrelevant,” Aemond growled, his eye narrowing as he leaned forward. “They supported Rhaenyra. They will suffer for it, as will every house that stood against us.”

“And yet we need them,” Tyland insisted, “the Riverlands cannot be held by fear alone. We must bring them back into the fold, to rebuild what has fallen.”

Aemond caught the judgmental glimpse in Alicent’s expression. The corners of her lips were turned downwards. It was no wonder, she had lost her two eldest children, and by extension perhaps blamed Aemond partly for it. In fact, there was no doubt in his mind that she did, though she dare not voice it.

They were already fractured enough as it was.

“I have reduced the Riverlands to ash, burned their keeps and their armies, and yet you stand here telling me I need to beg for their loyalty?”

A soft voice cut through the tension. “That is not what they mean, Aemond.”

Alicent’s voice was gentle, but firm, and the council fell silent as she spoke.

“They do not question your strength,” she continued, her green eyes meeting his. “They question the realm’s ability to follow. A marriage, an alliance with the right house, will show the lords that the crown offers stability, not just fire and blood.”

Aemond stared at his mother for a moment, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Alicent, ever the pragmatist, was right. Without a wife, without an alliance, the crown would slip further from his grasp.

“You would see me tied to a family that fought against us,” Aemond said slowly, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. “You would have me wed a traitor’s kin. Some whore who seeks to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“I would see you rule, Aemond. Truly rule, not as a weapon to be feared, but as a king to be respected. And to do that, we need allies.”

“And who, exactly, do you propose I marry?” Aemond asked, his voice cold.

Tyland cleared his throat. “The Riverlands are still unstable. House Tully has suffered greatly, but they remain the strongest house in the region. Grover Tully’s granddaughter is of age, though her appearance leaves much to be desired. A marriage such as that would secure their loyalty.”

“The Tullys.” Aemond spat.

Tyland shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing the prince’s temper. “It is not ideal, I admit,” he said carefully, “but their support is crucial if we are to stabilise the Riverlands.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust. “No. I will not be tied to the Tullys. I’d sooner burn what’s left of their lands than share my bed with one of them.”

A tense silence filled the room as the council exchanged glances. Alicent watched her son closely, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She knew Aemond’s pride, his thirst for vengeance. But there was more at stake now than settling old grudges.

After a moment, Lord Larys Strong spoke up, his voice as soft and measured as always. “House Blackwood, though they suffered under war, there remains both a sister and cousin of the late Lord Willem Blackwood. Women of good health and said to be pleasing to the eye. The Blackwoods supported the Pretender at first, yes, but their rivalry with the Brackens runs deep. It would not take much to sway them to our side, especially with the promise of a marriage alliance.”

Tyland hummed, “The Blackwoods... their lands are a stone’s throw from Harrenhal, are they not?”

“Indeed,” Larys replied, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “They hold Raventree Hall, a strong seat. Though damaged, they are still a proud family, and their loyalty would go a long way in solidifying our control over the Riverlands.”

Aemond considered this, his anger still simmering beneath the surface, but the suggestion intrigued him more than the idea of wedding a Tully. The Blackwoods were an old family, their lineage stretching back to the First Men. And unlike the Tullys, they had the potential to be turned, to be controlled. He could see a use in them.

“Alysanne, the sister,” Aemond murmured, his lips twisting slightly. “She has a temper. Is that not so?” He glanced at Lord Larys, who inclined his head ever so slightly, confirming it with an almost imperceptible smile.

“A reputation, yes,” Larys replied smoothly. “But they say she is fierce in her loyalties as well.”

“Fierce,” Aemond repeated, with a faint note of disdain. “We need stability, not fire in my bedchambers. If I am to wed, I require someone who knows restraint.”

Tyland tilted his head thoughtfully. “The cousin,” he interjected. “Lady Rosaleen. Younger, unwed, and without Alysanne’s...spirited reputation. It’s said she has a measured disposition, more practical.”

“And this cousin,” Aemond said slowly, his gaze returning to the council, “she is... acceptable?”

Tyland nodded quickly, seizing the opportunity to move the conversation forward. “From all accounts, yes. A match with her would be seen as favorable to the Blackwoods, and the lords of the Riverlands might look more kindly on us if they see a prominent house backing your rule.”

Alicent, who had remained silent thus far, finally spoke, her voice calm and deliberate. “The Blackwoods may not have the strength of the Tullys, but they are more easily brought into the fold. And they have ties to the Vale as well. It would be a stronger alliance than it first appears.”

Aemond listened, his jaw tight as Alicent spoke. How calm she was, how assured, as if this were all some grand plan of her own design. It was as though they believed they were managing him, holding the crown above him like a carrot, promising him power only if he agreed to be led like a child.

He was a Targaryen prince. He had brought the realm to its knees, put cities to flame, fought on dragonback while others schemed in dark rooms. And now, these men, the same who had depended on him to break Rhaenyra’s forces, were telling him he needed a marriage to prove his worth?

“Very well,” he said, his voice firm. “If Rosaleen Blackwood is suitable, then send word. I’ll not spend weeks deliberating over this.”

Tyland and the other councilors nodded, clearly eager to push forward without provoking his anger further. But Alicent held his gaze, her eyes full of a quiet resolve that only deepened his resentment.

“Power must be won and held,” she said softly. “A wise ruler knows when to fight, and when to accept what the realm demands.”

Aemond’s lip curled slightly. “I need no lessons on ruling from those who never took up the sword themselves,” he replied, his voice low, his words laced with a veiled challenge.

Alicent’s face remained still, her expression unreadable, but he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Good, he thought bitterly. Let her see what she had turned him into.

Lord Tyland shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, sensing the tension in the air. "If there are no further questions, my prince, we shall proceed with sending word to House Blackwood," he said cautiously, glancing at Alicent as he stood, signalling to the other lords.

One by one, the men nodded their obedience and filed out, though each cast a furtive glance at Aemond as they went, as if wary of stirring his already simmering ire. When the doors finally closed, Alicent alone remained, her gaze fixed on her son, unreadable but purposeful.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he returned her stare, waiting for her to speak first. And when she did not, his voice came firm. “If you have something to say then do.”

"Aemond," Alicent began softly, her voice calm but with a mother’s authority. "You will listen to me on this matter. I did not orchestrate this alliance to spite you, nor do I take pleasure in it. It is meant to steady your rule, to make the people look upon you as something other than..." she hesitated, then continued, "other than the prince who left them in flames."

Aemond’s jaw clenched at her words, and he felt a surge of resentment well up within him. “It is the council, and you, who seem to think my claim is not enough, that I must be leashed to a wife for the sake of ‘stability.’ Do you think that will fix what’s broken?” His voice dropped to a low hiss. “Or do you fear what I might do if left unattended?”

“You know very well I do.”

A tense silence followed, her words sinking in, and she took a steadying breath, her voice laced with something colder than he had ever heard from her before. “Do you think this is what I wanted for you? You were once my smallest son, sensitive and watchful. You had no dragon, and you bore your lack of one as if it were a wound carved into your very soul. When you lost your eye, I defended you against your father and Rhaenyra both. I demanded justice for you. I would have gone to war for you then.” She paused, her gaze piercing, unrelenting. “But I did not know that you, too, would someday thrive at war, against all the blood that is ours.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered as her words cut through him, and Alicent pressed on, each sentence ringing with controlled pain. “And Lucerys, Aemond. A boy. A boy not much older than you were then. And you watched your brother maim himself in pursuit of a throne he barely understood.”

“It was not me who put him there–”

“The throne. All these horrors in its name, and you still cling to it. You are not that boy who sought justice anymore. I cannot treat you as if you are, because you, too, are changed. Changed beyond anything I could ever have imagined.”

She took a long breath, her expression softening only slightly. “I know you have lived your own horrors, seen and endured things I’ll never understand. But that does not release you from what you have done. This realm is broken, Aemond, and I do not have the luxury of turning a blind eye any longer. If you wish to rule, you will do so not as my boy but as a man who understands the destruction he has wrought and the lives he is responsible for now.

“And you will do so with a wife, of our choosing, at your side.”

"You speak as though I have any choice in the matter," he said, his voice low and controlled, though the bitterness was unmistakable. His single eye burned into hers, searching for any trace of the mother he had once known, the one who had stood by him when no one else would.

How was it that this woman could make him feel comfort and resentment in the same breath?

Alicent held his gaze unwavering, her own resolve as firm as stone. "You always had a choice, Aemond.”

Aemond stood in silence, the weight of her final words pressing down on him like an anchor. There would be no turning back. No reclaiming the innocence of his youth, no undoing the choices that had irrevocably altered the course of his life. But Aemond would not forget her role in this, nor the way she and the council wielded his title like a weapon to keep him in line.

He was a Targaryen, and he would have his due, with or without their approval.

Since that night Aegon had humiliated him, Aemond hadn’t set foot on the Street of Silk. The thought of returning filled him with distaste. He could still feel the shame that had burned through him that night, searing hotter than any physical pleasure he might have found there.

Any lingering need had fizzled away, replaced by something colder, harder. The women in those dimly lit chambers had meant nothing to him then, and they would mean even less now. He had no desire to seek warmth in the arms of strangers when he had seen, firsthand, how shallow and fleeting those comforts could be.

When it would come to his new bride, would he even feel it then?

The Blackwoods, the Riverlands, a marriage alliance, these were the scraps thrown to a prince who had taken up arms and shed blood for the realm.

As dawn crept over the Red Keep, Aemond resolved himself to the path laid before him. He would marry Lady Rosaleen Blackwood, claim the title that was his by right, and bring the Riverlands into submission. But they would not break him.

He was fire and blood, a Targaryen prince, and he would see his will done, even if the realm itself had to bend to him.

The first morning light broke over the twisted, ancient branches of the great weirwood in Raventree Hall’s courtyard. She stood by the open window of her chamber, allowing the cool air to fill her lungs as she watched the courtyard stir to life. Despite her resolve, there was a fluttering anticipation in her chest.

The summons had come suddenly, a raven delivered in the dead of night, sealed with the unmistakable mark of the crown. She, Rosaleen Blackwood, was to wed Prince Aemond Targaryen. A prince known for his ferocity, his scars, and his dragon.

This would change everything.

There was no one in her family who truly expected her to embrace the idea of a Targaryen husband. She was willful, outspoken, a trait her dear late mother said would lead to her ruin one day. But for Rosaleen, she had seen too many Blackwood women fade into quiet, thankless marriages to lesser lords.

Surely, Rosaleen thought, there was more to life than that.

A knock came at her door. “Cousin?” called a familiar voice, light and lilting. “Are you prepared to greet your new future with a crown on your head and steel in your heart?”

Rosaleen smirked and turned from the window. Her cousin, Alysanne Blackwood, stood in the doorway with a mischievous look in her eyes. Alysanne was slender, quick with her wit, and one of the few people she could say she truly trusted. Her cousin’s easy humor balanced Rosaleen’s own seriousness and had kept her sane through many difficult times.

“Steel, perhaps,” Rosaleen replied with a half-smile. “I’ll not be donning a crown just yet, Aly. And I’ll thank you not to go spreading that nonsense, either.”

Alysanne grinned, unfazed. “Come now, surely you see the humor in this. A Targaryen prince, no less! Though from what I hear, he’s as likely to bite your head off as he is to kiss your hand.”

Rosaleen rolled her eyes. “I imagine he’s as dangerous as they say. I just wonder if the prince is worth the legend they’ve made of him.”

“I don’t know that you’ll be in the habit of judging such things as worth or value,” Alysanne teased. “But you’re right to be wary. These Targaryens, fire and blood, they say. Not exactly the family motto one would choose for a quiet, married life.”

“A quiet life was never in my plans, cousin, and you know it. This marriage will be many things, but quiet is not one of them.”

The confidence in her voice gave way to a faint gleam of excitement.

“Of course,” Rosaleen said, her thoughts settling on her decision, “I’m taking you with me, along with several of the girls. They’re packing now.”

Alysanne raised her brows in mock surprise. “Is that so?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Rosaleen replied, her tone pragmatic. “My ladies will be my eyes, my ears, and my voice in King’s Landing. I’ll not go into that place with only strangers and stiff-backed lords watching me.”

“The prince may not be pleased to find his bride arriving with such strength in numbers.”

Rosaleen shrugged, unconcerned. “If he’s displeased, then it will be the first of many he’ll have to learn to bear.”

Alysanne nodded approvingly, clearly delighted at the thought of the Targaryen prince squirming. “I’ll pack my wittiest retorts.”

Alysanne’s laughter echoed down the corridor as she left, the sound fading as Rosaleen returned to her walls, donned with decorations, lost in thought. She knew there would be whispers, even accusations of ambition. She was no fool, she understood the risks involved. Marrying into a family of dragonlords was no simple task, especially when her family was deeply rooted in the traditions of the Riverlands.

Yet, she could not deny the thrill that had taken root in her heart. A Blackwood married to a Targaryen. It was a match that would change the fortunes of her house, potentially even the future of the kingdom itself. And if Aemond expected her to cower in the shadow of his dragon, he would find himself sorely disappointed.

The night was cool and quiet, as if in mourning. The moon cast pale light across the yard, making the gnarled branches of the dead weirwood glisten like skeletal fingers reaching up to the seven heavens. Perched along the branches, dozens of black ravens watched her with beady eyes, heads cocking as she neared, almost as if they recognised her.

This old tree had been known to her family for generations, its twisted, pale trunk and dark, blood-red leaves a constant reminder of their allegiance to the Old Gods. Who they were. Though the tree was long dead, the ravens still came, roosting among its branches as if drawn to its silent power. They had been her confidants since childhood, and tonight, she felt a pang of sorrow leaving them behind.

"Rosaleen."

The familiar voice came from behind her, soft and steady. Her father’s tone held a subtle mix of warmth and worry, the same note she had heard in his voice ever since the raven had brought the news of her betrothal. Rosaleen turned to face him, meeting his serious gaze, flickering slightly to the cane held firmly in his grip. In the dim moonlight, his face was shadowed, lines of worry etched deep into his weathered features. He looked at her as if he wanted to memorise every detail of his only daughter’s face before she departed for the dangers awaiting her in King’s Landing.

“This will be my last night with the weirwood for a while,” she replied, managing a small smile. “I thought it only fitting to say my farewells.”

Her father hummed, smiling, but bittersweet, “I wish I could go beyond seeing you off, my sweet.”

It was no surprise that her father was not well enough to accompany her to the capital. For as long as she has known her father his body had been fragile, and the pain in his leg had only travelled north to the rest of his ageing body. It was not worth holding against him, Rosaleen thought, she was his only child, and it was heart wrenching enough for him, she thought, to watch her fly the nest.

“It is alright,” she replied, “Aly has a sharp tongue and wit, she will make sure I am there safely.”

Her father hummed, half-amused, stepping closer, his eyes scanning the ancient branches above them. “I don’t need to tell you that this life is…dangerous, Rosaleen,” he began, his tone both gentle and firm. “The Targaryens aren’t like us. They’re like fire, burning bright but unpredictable. What may seem like warmth today could become a blazing inferno tomorrow.”

Rosaleen’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had no illusions about what awaited her in King’s Landing. Marrying into House Targaryen was no mere arrangement of names and alliances, it was a bond with an ancient family that wielded fire and blood as its inheritance.

But she was not afraid.

He was but a man.

Her father studied her, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. “You are strong-willed, daughter. I know this. But should there come a time of need…” he stepped closer, urgent, “send a raven to me with a black feather. Whatever the message, I shall know what it means. And I will come with an army to fetch you, come what may.”

Her heart ached, but she didn’t let the emotion show. She knew he needed to see her strength now more than ever.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You know I shall not be calling on this lightly.”

“I know, Rosaleen.” He gave her a sad, quiet smile. “But I also know that you are still my daughter, no matter whose court you find yourself in.”

A raven above cawed, the sharp call echoing through the silent yard. She felt the shadows of her ancestors around her, felt the weight of their legacy in her blood and bones. And she felt, in that moment, a swell of both pride and bittersweet finality. Her father had given her everything he could.

Tomorrow, she would leave Raventree Hall, but she would carry all of it with her.

Her father gave her one last long look, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Make them remember that fire may scorch the land, but the rivers remember their own.”

With a final nod, he left her to the night, leaving only the ravens and the weirwood to bear witness to her silent vows.

There was little privacy to be found within her retinue. With her father too ill even to make the two-week journey to King’s Landing, the responsibility of her male escort had fallen to Maester Carwyn, a young and less-experienced maester, but one who could be trusted to serve her family’s interests.

The older, more skilled healer had remained at Raventree Hall to tend to her father, whose health could not afford his absence. But Rosaleen knew that Carwyn’s loyalty was unquestionable, and, in time, should she have children, she would feel secure knowing that it was Carwyn overseeing their care. And hers.

The journey south was slow, the landscape unfolding before them in bleak tones of ash and ruin. The scars of war marred the Riverlands, fields once green and fertile now charred to barren emptiness, village after village reduced to smoldering ruins.

Rosaleen watched the silent devastation with a hard-set jaw, her gaze lingering on the skeletal remains of homes and the blackened husks of trees that stretched to the horizon. This was Aemond Targaryen’s doing, he and his dragon, Vhagar, had unleashed their wrath here. And now she was being offered to him as a balm to soothe the damage he had wrought.

As they neared Harrenhal, its twisted, melted towers looming on the horizon, Rosaleen found herself lost in thought. The ominous fortress held a particular weight in her mind, not just for its reputation, but because this had been the place where Aemond had nearly met his end in the bloody war.

She had heard the stories of his injuries, the months he spent in agony. How strange, she thought, to be heading to meet him now, healed, yet still scarred by the same war that had left the Riverlands in ruin.

"Look at this wasteland," Alysanne muttered under her breath, loud enough for Rosaleen and their cousin, Arianne, to hear. "The Targaryens scorch the very earth they rule over and then wonder why we don’t all bow down with gratitude.”

Rosaleen gave her a warning look, though inwardly she shared the sentiment. "Careful, Aly. The journey is long yet, and King's Landing is still ahead of us.”

Alysanne’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. "I’ll say what I like. I’m a Blackwood, not some Targaryen leech. And I’m sure your husband-to-be would do well to remember that.” Her tone was more playful than bitter, but Rosaleen could tell that her cousin’s words carried an edge.

She would have to be careful of that.

In contrast, Arianne, her cousin on her mother's Piper side, had a softer presence. Where Alysanne’s remarks came wrapped in thorns, Arianne’s were gentle, as if she considered the feelings of each listener before she spoke. She wore her femininity openly, her manners delicate, and her voice always lilting with warmth.

“Surely it’s better to look forward now. The war is over. What good is it to dwell on all this destruction?” Arianne said softly, casting a glance around at the desolation.

“Better to look forward?” Alysanne scoffed. “Yes, to look forward to watching my dear cousin bound to a man who thinks the Riverlands are his to burn on a whim.” She shook her head, tossing a rebellious lock of dark hair from her face. “Forgive me if I don’t swoon over the thought of Rosaleen sharing a bed with Aemond Targaryen.”

“And why not? I hear he’s quite… striking. People say he wears a sapphire where his eye once was and hides it behind a leather patch, so he doesn’t frighten the women at court,” Arianne countered gently.

Alysanne let out a derisive laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Striking, perhaps, if one finds it charming to bed a man with blood on his hands. The very same hands that set these villages to the torch.”

Rosaleen had to press her lips together to keep herself from smiling. If she were to save her practicality, she would have to reign Aly in no doubt. “It’s the match I was given, and the match I must make. Railing against it won’t change that.”

Alysanne snorted. "Of course. But I will not hold my tongue in front of any man.”

Rosaleen smiled faintly. “If it’s your goal to ruffle feathers in the Red Keep, I have no doubt you’ll manage.”

She beamed with pride at the notion, whereas Arianne turned once again to her book, peering amongst the faded pages. She knew better than to quell the fiery personality of her kin.

It was only when they were south of Gods Eye Lake that anyone was able to see the sprawling landscape before them, and King's Landing sat proud in the distance. Mighty and grand.

He is there. Rosaleen though, the beating of her heart elevated slightly with anticipation.

Since halfway through their journey, Aly had stayed in the same carriage as Maester Carwyn, suffering with motion sickness from the ceaseless rocking. So Rosaleen glanced at Arianne, who watched with equal interest as the gates of King's Landing came into view.

“Are you nervous?”

Rosaleen wet her lips, dry from days of travelling. She thought of little more than the idea of a nice warm bath. “I think you are more nervous than I, sweet cousin.”

Arianne gave a tight lipped smile, and looked away, clutching her book, “I suppose I am. I have never ventured this far, and I am worried for you.”

“Do not worry for me,” Rosaleen replied, reaching over to place a comforting hand atop Arianne’s. “I knew what I was to face when we left Raventree. This marriage,” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “this marriage is my duty to our house. I do not fear the Targaryens, nor King’s Landing.”

Arianne sighed, her gaze drifting to the sprawling city. “It’s just that I don’t understand… how you can be so calm. There are so many stories about this place, about the people here, and the court. And Aemond—”

“Yes,” Rosaleen cut in softly. “But stories have a way of growing beyond the truth. I will judge him for myself when we meet.”

“I suppose you’re right. But if you ever need someone, anyone… well, you’ll have me here.” She managed a small, encouraging smile.

Rosaleen returned the smile, her fingers still gently clasping Arianne’s hand. “And I’m grateful for it. We may find we need each other more than either of us expects in this strange place.”

As the carriage rolled through the city gates, the noise of the capital filled their ears, the bellowing of merchants, the shouts of city guards, and the rustle of countless people moving through the winding streets. Rosaleen watched as they passed narrow alleyways, the crowded market stalls, the curious eyes of passersby who glanced at the small procession from Raventree Hall.

Above the din, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and Rosaleen realised with a start that the Keep itself loomed closer, its high stone walls towering above them as they passed through the final gate. It felt like stepping into another world, a world that pulsed with its own heartbeat of secrets, dangers, and alliances yet to be forged.

The carriage came to a halt, and Rosaleen straightened her spine, taking one last look at Arianne’s worried face before the door opened. They shared a brief, comforting smile before Rosaleen descended, feeling the heavy air of the capital settle over her.

This was to be her new home.

The great gate of the Red Keep loomed before her, the sunlight shimmering over the cobbled courtyard where her retinue assembled, heads low in a mix of awe and wariness. Her own eyes swept over the towering walls before settling on the figures awaiting her arrival.

At the forefront stood Lady Alicent Hightower, her expression poised and watchful, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her, Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, regarded her with an unreadable gaze, his features giving nothing away. He dipped his head in a formal greeting as Rosaleen approached flanked behind by her ladies and Maester Carwyn.

"Lady Rosaleen," Wylde greeted, his voice cool and authoritative. "Welcome to King's Landing. On behalf of the council, we thank you for your journey."

Rosaleen curtsied deeply, her gaze briefly catching his. “Lord Wylde,” she said, her tone measured yet firm.

Alicent stepped forward, features softened. “Lady Rosaleen,” she said, her voice gentle but layered with authority. “It is good to finally meet you. I trust the journey treated you well?”

She offered her a deeper curtsy, her ladies doing the same with a small bow of their heads. “The road was long, Your Grace. But I am grateful to be here at last.”

A small, approving smile touched Alicent's lips, though her eyes remained sharp. “I’ve arranged for you to refresh yourself, and your chambers have been prepared to your family’s specifications.”

Rosaleen noted the formal tone, the careful selection of words, this was a woman as deliberate as any lord, accustomed to weighing every detail. “I shall endeavor to make myself worthy of the honor.”

Alicent nodded, her face betraying neither warmth nor indifference, only the weight of years spent managing such exchanges.

“I was sorry to hear of Lord Blackwood’s condition,” Alicent continued, “I have sent word to wish him well.”

A flash of surprise passed Rosaleen’s gaze. Whether it was a cold formality or a genuine gesture to extend courtesy to her family, it shocked her either way.

“Thank you, Your Grace, that's very kind.”

Her retinue had already begun to carry her personal belongings inside, diligently guided by servants of the Red Keep alike.

"Aemond is occupied this morning with matters of council," she continued smoothly, "but he looks forward to meeting you in the gardens once his duties are concluded."

There was no doubt that Alicent’s words were meant as both an apology and an expectation, a signal that her son’s duties came first, even before his own betrothed. But it did nothing to sway Rosaleen. A prince of the realm, this is exactly what she expected.

Lord Wylde spoke up, his voice carrying a hint of warning masked beneath polite formality. “You’ll find King’s Landing can be as unpredictable as the river currents of your homeland, my lady. But with such resilience as yours, we have no doubt you’ll thrive.”

Rosaleen met his gaze, giving nothing away. "The Riverlands are not so easily shaken. My lord. And nor am I," she said, a faint smile touching her lips.

If she were to look behind her, Arianne would be none the wiser, and Alysanne would be pressing her lips together to keep herself from giggling.

Alicent’s mouth too twitched, perhaps in approval, perhaps in caution. “Come,” she said, her hand gesturing toward the towering gates. “We’ll escort you inside. You must be eager to rest.”

Rosaleen followed Lady Alicent and Lord Wylde through the towering gates, their footsteps echoing in the vast stone corridors of the Red Keep. She felt the immense weight of the Keep settle around her, a sprawling, ancient place that loomed with shadows and secrets, its stone walls seeming to pulse with a life of their own.

They passed through grand halls lined with tapestries woven with the sigils of the great houses, the Targaryen dragons fierce and proud among them. Rosaleen’s eyes took in the details, the fine, intricate designs of each banner, the threads as precise as the histories they represented. She marvelled at the craftsmanship, at the reminders of both bloodshed and legacy. The Red Keep was beautiful, but intimidatingly so.

This is your new home, she reminded herself, feeling a tightness settle in her chest at the thought. She was no stranger to vast halls, for Raventree Hall had its own deep roots and ancient mysteries, but here the walls seemed to lean in, to judge her even as they welcomed her.

There was a coldness to the Keep that Raventree’s worn stones lacked, a reminder that here, she was an outsider.

As they ascended a wide staircase, Lady Alicent glanced back at her, observing her carefully, perhaps to gauge her reaction.

“You will find the Keep to be as boundless as the city itself,” Alicent said, her tone precise and measured, “though I daresay it can feel smaller than it truly is.”

She nodded though the Dowager Queen did not see. But she understood how a place as vast as this could be confining in its own way.

Eventually, Alicent led her up another staircase and down a quieter hall. “These will be your chambers,” Alicent said, pausing before an oak door, “most recently held by my daughter, Helaena.”

Rosaleen inclined her head, feeling the weight of that knowledge settle over her like a shroud. Helaena, the gentle princess, and then a queen, who had known her own tragedies, her life a mystery and a sadness to most of the realm. Rosaleen looked at the door, wondering if the walls within held her ghost still.

Alicent’s face softened, if only briefly, and she gestured for Rosaleen to enter. Her retinue were placing various items personal to her in indistinguishable piles, her ladies long since taken to their own suitable chambers. The furnishings were elegant yet subdued, and though the bedchamber was fit for a queen, it bore an undeniable emptiness, as though awaiting something, or someone, to bring it back to life.

Rosaleen turned back to Alicent and inclined her head respectfully. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused, taking in the faint sadness that seemed to shadow the Queen Dowager’s eyes. “I am deeply sorry for her passing. Her loss is felt beyond these walls.”

Alicent’s expression softened, though her gaze remained guarded, like she was accustomed to protecting her grief. For a brief moment, a glimmer of pain surfaced, a rawness in her eyes that she quickly concealed.

“Thank you,” Alicent replied, her voice quiet and even. She waited a beat before she nodded, gesturing to the walls around them. “Make it your own,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “In time, you may come to find comfort within these walls, as my daughter did.”

A reply was ready on her lips. But Lord Wylde, who had stood at the door, cleared his throat.

“If I may, Lady Rosaleen, Prince Aemond will be expecting you in the gardens shortly.”

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you would like to be tagged!

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ealdormanink · 2 months ago

Note

Can you write one with Ivar? ❤️

Reader is daughter of King Harald and shes friends and in love with Ivar and she has to marry one of the Ragnarssons and they all want her and she ofc chooses Ivar and he cant believe it.

Written in the Stars

Ivar the boneless x female reader!

A/N: thank you for this request! I hope you like it!!

King Harald's fleet's sails cast long shadows over Kattegat's iron-grey waters. Y/N's fingers traced the wooden railing of her father's ship, her eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline. The familiar silhouettes of the great hall and the busy docks stirred memories that made her heart flutter against her ribs.

The salty breeze carried whispers of past winters spent poring over maps by candlelight, of shared laughter echoing through empty halls when everyone else had retired, of piercing blue eyes that saw her - truly saw her - for who she was.

"The winds have favored us." Harald's voice broke through the symphony of creaking wood and splashing waves. Y/N's fingers stilled on the railing, though she couldn't quite suppress the way her lips curved upward.

Through the morning mist, familiar figures emerged on the docks. There, among his brothers, sat Ivar in his chariot. Even from this distance, the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met across the narrowing stretch of water, and five years of friendship hung in the space between them.

The ship's bow cut through the last few meters of fjord. As they docked, Ubbe's voice carried across the harbor, "Welcome to Kattegat, King Harald." His eyes lingered on Y/N, calculating and considering in a way that made her spine stiffen.

Hvitserk stepped forward, extending his hand to help her onto the dock. "Princess Y/N." His smile was warm, practiced. "The gods have blessed us with your return."

The wooden planks creaked under her boots as she accepted his assistance, but her attention was drawn to the subtle shift in Ivar's posture, the way his knuckles whitened around the edge of his chariot.

"The journey must have been tiring." Ivar's voice cut through the pleasantries like a blade through silk. His eyes hadn't left her face since she'd first appeared on deck. "Perhaps the princess would prefer to rest before tonight's festivities."

"Always so concerned, brother." Sigurd's words dripped with mockery. "Or perhaps you're simply eager to monopolize her time, as usual?"

Y/N's fingers unconsciously found the silver pendant at her throat - a gift from Ivar, carved with runes they'd deciphered together during one of their many late-night conversations. Those nights when they'd abandon the noise of the great hall, finding solace in ancient sagas and battle strategies that only they seemed to understand.

The great hall buzzed with activity as servants prepared for the evening's feast. Y/N's chambers overlooked the main square, where memories lingered in every corner. Her fingers traced the windowsill where, years ago, she'd first found Ivar alone, poring over his father's old maps.

"Your form is wrong." The echo of her younger self's voice played in her mind. She'd corrected his interpretation of the English coastline that day, earning not his usual sharp retort, but a look of genuine surprise. That was the first time he'd smiled at her - really smiled.

A knock at the door pulled her from the memory. Astrid, one of the servants, entered with fresh water.

"The sons of Ragnar are asking after you, Princess." Astrid's eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. "All of them."

The weight of unspoken words hung in the air. Everyone knew why Harald had brought his daughter to Kattegat this time. Alliances needed to be strengthened, and marriage was the surest way.

Y/N's feet carried her to the courtyard, where she found Ubbe first. He stood tall, every inch the eldest brother, watching the training grounds with calculated interest.

"You've grown more beautiful since we last met." His voice was diplomatic, measured. He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the political ambition in his eyes. "A union between us would bring great strength to both our people."

Before she could respond, Hvitserk appeared, twirling a knife between his fingers. "Brother, you sound like you're negotiating a trade deal." His easy smile didn't quite mask the hunger in his gaze. "Our princess deserves poetry, not politics."

Y/N's eyes drifted past them both, landing on the familiar figure by the weapons rack. Ivar sat cleaning his axe - the same one she'd helped him choose three winters ago. His movements were precise, following the pattern she'd shown him: three strokes down, one across, just as her mother had taught her.

"Still pining after the cripple?" Sigurd's voice slithered from behind her. "You could have any of us, yet you waste your time with him."

The familiar surge of protective anger rose in her chest, but before she could speak, Ivar's axe embedded itself in the post beside Sigurd's head.

"Your aim is improving," Y/N said, the words falling naturally from her lips, an old joke between them. "Though you're still pulling slightly to the left."

"Perhaps I need another lesson." Ivar's eyes met hers, and for a moment, they were back in that first winter, when she'd spent hours helping him adjust his throwing technique, never once mentioning his legs, focusing only on his strength.

The feast hall glowed with firelight, casting dancing shadows across faces both familiar and strange. Y/N sat at the high table, her father's words still ringing in her ears: "You must choose one of Ragnar's sons before the next full moon."

Her eyes drifted across the hall, watching the brothers in turn. Ubbe stood among the warriors, every gesture calculated to display his leadership. Hvitserk charmed a group of shield-maidens, though his gaze kept finding its way back to her. Sigurd strummed his oud, his song carrying notes of barely concealed mockery.

And Ivar... Ivar sat in his usual corner, away from the crowds, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. The same spot where they'd spent countless evenings discussing everything from battle tactics to the gods themselves.

"Do you remember," his voice caught her off guard as she approached his table, drawn to him as always, "the night you taught me about the stars?"

How could she forget? They'd stayed up until dawn, her finger pointing out constellations while he told her the stories behind each one. She'd never told him that she'd already known them all - she'd just wanted to hear his voice, to see the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of the gods.

"You were a terrible student," she teased, sliding onto the bench beside him. The familiar scent of leather and metal wrapped around her like an old blanket. "You kept making up new constellations."

"And you kept believing them." His smile, rare and genuine, made her heart stutter. "Until you realized I was describing shapes that looked like Sigurd falling off a horse."

A comfortable silence fell between them, filled with years of shared moments and unspoken words. Around them, the feast continued, but they existed in their own world, just as they always had.

"They're all watching you," Ivar said finally, his voice tight. "My brothers. They all want you."

"Let them watch." Her fingers found the edge of the table, inches from his. "They don't see me the way you do."

"And how do I see you?" His question came out barely above a whisper, vulnerable in a way only she was allowed to witness.

"Like I'm more than just Harald's daughter. Like I'm..." She paused, remembering all the times he'd challenged her mind, valued her opinions, trusted her judgment. "Like I'm me."

The firelight caught the silver of his arm ring - the one she'd helped him forge two summers ago, their fingers working the metal together as she'd steadied his hand.

The moment of choice arrived with the rising moon. The great hall fell silent as Y/N stood before the assembled crowd, her father's expectant gaze heavy upon her shoulders. Four brothers stood before her, four possible futures stretched out like paths in the darkness.

Ubbe stepped forward first, ever the diplomat. "Choose wisely, Princess. The future of our peoples rests upon this decision." His words echoed against the wooden walls, practiced and perfect.

Hvitserk offered her a playful wink. "Choose with your heart, not your head." His charm sparkled like sunlight on water, beautiful but fleeting.

Sigurd simply smirked, his fingers still wrapped around his oud. "Though some choices," his eyes flickered to Ivar, "might be less... conventional than others."

And Ivar... Ivar remained still, his eyes fixed on the ground. She could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped his crutch - a gesture she'd learned meant he was preparing himself for disappointment.

Y/N's feet carried her forward, past Ubbe's calculated smile, past Hvitserk's outstretched hand, past Sigurd's mocking gaze. She stopped before Ivar, close enough to see the subtle tremor in his hands.

"I choose Ivar Ragnarsson," her voice rang clear through the hall. "I choose the man who saw me as an equal before he saw me as a princess."

Ivar's head snapped up, disbelief warring with hope in his ice-blue eyes. "You can't," he whispered, for her ears alone. "You deserve someone who can-"

"I deserve someone who challenges my mind," she cut him off, her hand finding his cheek. "Someone who values my thoughts as much as my title. Someone who taught me to read the stars, even while making up constellations to make me laugh."

The hall erupted in murmurs, but Y/N heard only the sharp intake of Ivar's breath. His free hand found hers, trembling slightly.

"You've always been my choice," she continued, soft enough that only he could hear. "Since that first day when you argued with me about the English coastline. Since every night we spent planning battles and reading sagas. Since every moment you saw me for who I am, not who I was born to be."

"But I'm-" he started.

"You're Ivar," she said simply. "My Ivar. The only one who's ever matched me, challenged me, understood me. The only one I could ever choose."

Slowly, like dawn breaking over the horizon, a smile spread across Ivar's face - not his usual smirk, but the real smile she'd come to treasure. His fingers tightened around hers, and in that moment, they were back in every shared laugh, every quiet conversation, every silent understanding that had led them here.

"The gods themselves couldn't have given me a greater gift," he whispered, and Y/N saw in his eyes the same truth she'd known all along - that some choices are made long before they're spoken aloud, written in the stars they'd watched together all those nights ago.

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless #oneshot #ragnar lothbrok #vikings #vikings x reader #x reader #halfdan the black #the last kingdom #finan #romance

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letorip · 10 months ago

Text

i heard your name [ii]

“i want you so, i can hardly let you go, please be mine for a time, now and forever”

===+++===

pairing: cairo sweet x reader

summary: after several weeks of trying to run in the opposite direction, you find you can no longer evade the magnetic pull yanking you towards her

warnings: explicit but gender neutral sexual content, being used both physically and emotionally, 'lover boy' is used ironic and is still considered gender neutral, implied teacher-student relationships

word count: 6.4k

A/N: definitely making another already because it’s kind of getting juicy. again inspired by pale fire and hot summer nights.

===+++===

You had always heard that people looked like their pets, but it had never occurred to you that someone could look like their house. Standing in front of Lovell Hill, it was impossible anyone else but Cairo Sweet lived there.

The building stood tall, with white towering ionic columns that reached to hold up the dark clay tile roofing like soft angelic hands lifted to the sky. Everything about the house was big, with a giant, wide cedar porch and a towering balcony that looked out over the small garden in front of its door.

You had figured Cairo was well off from her clothes and general overabundance of education, but this screamed a wealth so extreme it almost wasn’t computing in your brain. Not with your own tawdry house that had only been built two years ago and was about the size of Cairo’s home if you sliced it by a quarter.

You had seen homes like these in movies or on the home improvement channels. Most motels had the home improvement channels on the TV, and you had watched with a sense of awe, sitting on the mouldy carpet late at night with your mom asleep behind you, looking at the muted tours of the homes with a private envy.

Such grandeur was incomprehensible and didn’t exist beyond the screen and TV magic. Or, that’s what you thought until you stood at the end of her garden, with all its greenery and a few lines of flowers, looking up at the front door.

It was quite the dilemma, to knock or not to knock. You could turn around right now, save yourself a whole bunch of sleepless nights and half a brain if you just told her you felt sick and had to cancel. She’d be annoyed, sure, but maybe Cairo being angry was better than Cairo being hungry.

You weren’t all too sure you wouldn’t try to satiate her hunger, and that was a dangerous game to play. Since she had sat down beside you in class, fleeting had been slowly drifting away, and you found yourself clutching onto what little of it you had left, rebuking the witchcraft that seemed to tug you to her.

You were about to do that, walk away, but then the door to the balcony swung open, and out Cairo came, leaning over the railing with a smile, and you felt your own heart clutch to your ribs. She propped her head up on her palm, peering down at you.

“Are you coming in?” She asked, laughing. “You’ve been standing there for ten minutes.”

“I’m just looking. At the landscaping,” you called up to her, and it was mostly true, though Cairo laughed like you were being funny. You felt a blush rising to your cheeks. Fleeting, you idiot.

“It’s my parents’ house. I know it’s a bit much,” said Cairo, standing up straighter.

“A bit?” you said, the sarcasm worming its way into your voice. It was a lot much.

“Yeah,” she replied, smiling at you again all bright. “A bit.” You smiled back, holding a hand up to cover your eyes so you could continue to stare at her on the balcony in the sun, like your own Juliet.

“Can I come inside?” You asked, taking a few steps forward into the shadow the roof of her house casted over the ground. Cairo seemed to find a playfulness with the question, and you were left there like a moron, wondering why she was laughing again.

“No, actually,” she said. “I invited you here to make you walk over here and then walk home.”

“Did you."

“I did,” she nodded, having fun. “I’ll be down in a minute when I’m done with something; the front door is unlocked."

"That seems unsafe," you said.

She raised her eyebrows at you. "Why, are you worried for my safety?"

You shrugged, deciding neutrality was the best policy. There wasn't anything wrong with saying you were worried about her as a friend, but you knew she would draw some strange entendre. "I would worry about random people wandering in, to be honest."

Cairo shook her head. "Not here in Tennessee. Now go inside. The longer you stall me the longer it takes me to finish what I'm doing." With that, she disappeared back inside, leaving you on her porch. You swallowed the lump in your throat and went inside.

Cairo Sweet's house was much like her soul, in grandeur and in wealth. Even in the foyer, which was where you found yourself, the walls seemed to reach up much like the pillars, raised towards the covered sky. A grand staircase led up to the second floor, and with the soft closing of the door behind you, Cairo called out from up the stairs.

"You can go into the kitchen, I left some wine out on the counter."

You blinked. "Wine?" You said back, making sure you were hearing correctly. Cairo's laugh floated down from the second floor.

"Yes, 'wine.'" You had never had anything like wine before, though the way she threw it out so casually made you think she was no stranger to the concept.

The kitchen was the room right off to the left of the foyer, with a large bay window and some checkered ceramic tiling on the floor. In the centre sat an old gas range stove, a similar shade of green as the walls. The brass handle curved down to the drawer on the bottom, and it looked like a droll little mouth underneath the knobs.

On the white marbled countertop that boxed the stove in was a set of two glasses and a bottle of reddish wine that was three quarters full. The entire room was immaculately clean, with the perfectly angled chairs sitting around the nook table in the corner and the utterly spotless surfaces, both floor and table.

It looked just like those staged houses on the home improvement channels, and you wandered over to peer into the glass hutch, which was piled up with books in stacks around it. The top cabinet held an array of glassware, some of them gathering dust. They were pretty, and you leaned in to the ceramic ones with antique designs etched into the sides. You wanted to own dishes like those, someday.

"The plates are pretty, aren't they? It’s a real shame about the led.” You spun around to find Cairo behind you. Your heart immediately started doing a backflip in your chest. Cairo was no longer in the soft shirt and shorts she had been wearing on her balcony— no. Instead, she was now in a silky cream-coloured dress, one that clung to the curves of her body and hung elegantly from her shoulders in a way that made the tips of your ears warm.

She walked right up to you as if there was no difference, staring at the plate you had been looking at with what couldn't possibly be a genuine curiosity. Up close it was clear she had put on some makeup, her lips glossy and pink and her eyes dark. She had to know she was playing you like a fiddle.

You watched her in laser focus as she nodded at the plate. "My parents bought that one from a village in the Swiss Alps."

"What?" you mumbled, clever as always.

"The plate," she said, like it was obvious. "Most of the plates in there are from Switzerland or China."

"Oh...cool."

Cairo brushed past it, gesturing back to the bottle that sat on the counter. "Would you like some?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her back.

"But what would your parents say?" you asked. Mostly you were looking for any excuse not to, but you were also filled with curiosity. Cairo Sweet hadn't just fallen out of a coconut tree— she was the product of whatever her parents were like and you desired to put two and two together, and for that to make it make sense.

"They're not here right now," she replied, walking right over to the bottle and pulling the cork straight out. You swallowed but followed her over, and Cairo grabbed a glass to pour it into.

"So you live here?" It was a genuine question, and part of you was still struggling to understand that this was just someone's everyday lifestyle. Cairo nodded.

"That's what Winnie asked me too, when she first saw it. People say my house is haunted."

"They do?"

"Yeah," she said. "Lovell Hill. It's famous, or at least around here it is."

"Well... is it true?"

Cairo shook her head. "Sorry to disappoint. Only thing that lives here is me."

"And your parents?"

Her mouth thinned into a line at the question, but she spoke quickly. "Yes, them too." Then Cairo held up a glass. "Would you like some?"

"Uh, no thanks. We should probably start on the assignment...," you trailed off. Cairo was staring you down with a certain glint in her eye. “What?”

"You've never drank before," she said. It wasn't a question, and you could feel heat going back to your face. To any other person, you'd have no problem saying no, but to her you felt your breath catch in your throat.

"Uh, I have, I just don't want any right now," you lied. And Cairo knew you were lying, judging from the smile she watched you with. But she only shrugged.

"You can have some of mine later, then," she said, straightening up and walking out of the kitchen. You followed her like a proper guest, like she was a tour guide helping you through the jungle. You warily tailed her out of there and up the stairs.

On the landing there were even more books, in large, towering stacks near the railing, ended on each side by potted plants and small floor decorations. You stopped, taking a thick paperback from off the top of one stack and turning it over to read the back. “Have you really read all of these?” You asked. Cairo turned.

“Not all of them, no. Most of them belong to my parents, so they’re cheesy spy thrillers and soapy romances.”

You nodded. “My mom reads those ones too.”

“Anyways, what do you read?” Cairo asked, walking over to you and taking the book from your hands to look at it herself. You shrugged.

“For a while there, anything I could get my hands on.”

She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, just that my mother didn't take me to bookstores a lot," you said, having gotten comfortable with lying. In reality, you had mostly read travel books and magazines from gas stations, since those were really the only places you and your mother stopped often. You didn't start actually reading book-books until you were about ten, and your mom bought you a kindle for your birthday.

But giving Cairo the truth would mean telling her you were on the road a lot, which would mean telling her about why it was you moved so often, which would mean telling her you would probably be leaving soon, so you lied. It was typically a better idea to vanish without warning one day, off to another state like you had been one giant bad dream.

"Mm," she hummed it agreement, putting the book back down and leading the way into a door that stood at the far end of the hall. "My parents didn't either, when they realised I bought like ten or twelve at a time," she said, tugging you into her bedroom.

It was exactly like you could have imagined it, with a darker shade of green and ebony wainscoting that matched the grand bed in the middle of the room with fluffy, lush bedding and a near mountain of pillows in the centre.

"Well then," Cairo drawled. "Shall we?"

The smirk she was staring at you with sent a shiver down your spine. You gave her a cautious nod and pulled your backpack off of your back.

===+++===

You had your paper almost completely done within an hour of laying down on Cairo's bed to write it, though in the corner where Cairo sat typing hers, she seemed incredibly frustrated. You had only been observing her a little, watching her type what could've maybe been a few words and then immediately holding down the delete key until they were all gone.

You understood to a certain extent— windows were so unbelievably symbolic it was possible to go in millions of directions when writing your story. But you were almost done, and inspiration had hit you from the moment you knew what your symbol was meant to be.

You put the final finishing sentences in where they were meant to go, and put down your pen, sitting up to crack your fingers and stretch your back. Cairo looked up at you, eyes glaring.

"You're finished?" Her tone was sharp, and you looked around the room in surprise.

"Yeah?" You replied. Cairo narrowed her eyes at you.

"How," she demanded sitting up in her chair and slamming her laptop shut.

You shrugged. "I don't know, I kind of rushed it anyhow."

"Let me read it, (Y/n)," Cairo said, holding her hand out. You leaned forwards and tossed the paper to her, rolling over onto your back to stare up at the ceiling while she read it. She had one of those popcorn roofs, with bumps all over it, and you found yourself tracing a little path in your mind.

"This is..." she said after a few minutes. You turned your head to look at her sideways. "This is really good," said Cairo, but in a way that made your eyebrows furrow.

"Why'd you say it like that?" you asked, sitting up from where you had been laying.

"Like what?" She asked standing up from her chair and walking towards you, to lean on one of the bedposts. You swallowed.

"I... don't know," you muttered.

"Hm," she hummed. "I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"The astronaut. The one who goes crazy in outer space from looking out the window on his solo mission. Is that supposed to be you?"

"Oh. No, he isn't. He's just a character I thought of," you shook your head. Cairo raised an eyebrow at you.

"But he is a lot like you, isn't he? Alone, I mean. That's why you lied to Winnie about lunch." She got you with that line. You stared at her, frowning. Your mind screamed LIE over and over, but you knew there was no point. Not when she was reading you like a book. She took another step towards you, until she was standing in between your legs where you sat. You hadn't realised there was any connection with the astronaut when you thought of him, but maybe he was?

"Are you lonely, (Y/n)?"

"No? I mean, I don't think I am." It came out in a whisper; you didn't need to speak loudly when Cairo was so close. You could feel her hot breath on your cheeks like a fan.

"I've been thinking of you, since you arrived," Cairo murmured. Her fingers crawled up your knee slowly, the pads of her fingers brushing the hem of your shorts. She looked down at the small space between you.

"Yeah?" You asked.

"You're captivating," she said. "It's annoying. Shrouded in mystery and answering to no one."

"Yeah?" Pink was flushing towards your cheeks.

She smiled, looking up at your face again. "Yeah. It would be less distracting if you didn't come with such nice eyes."

You swallowed. It felt like everywhere her fingers went she left behind a trail of pure fire, churning up your insides. Your mind was screaming at you to not be an idiot. You'd probably regret this in a month or two when your mom told you you would be leaving again. Stop, right now and save yourself so much sleep, you idiot. That would've been the smart thing to do.

Her hands came up slowly, skimming gently up your neck until they landed at the nape, and you were reminded of the lollipop she had plucked from your lips to place in her own for a moment.

"Cairo, what're we doing?" you managed. Cairo shrugged.

"You ask me that but I'm not entirely sure. I just know it feels nice," she whispered to you. "So shut up and let me feel nice," she said with a smile.

Within an instant, her lips pressed hard into your own. You pulled your head back in surprise but Cairo's soft palms held you firmly where you sat, and you found yourself melting at the feeling. It was messy and it wasn't graceful, but it spoke of the passion that bubbled under Cairo's removed exterior. She started to move against you then, and you against her.

You found yourself entranced at the sensation, and pulled away just to get a look at her face. She was breathing heavily, lips red and eyes wild, and you only came back wanting more, reconnecting the both of you, your hands moving to her waist and then up her back.

"Cairo..." you mumbled, her lips moving to your jaw and then hastily to your ear.

"Mm," she hummed.

"Cairo, I can't," you managed, trying to pull away but finding her still on you. Your mind was yelling at you horrible, horrible things, not only about yourself but about what you wanted to do to her.

"Mm," she sounded again, moving down your neck in a way that left you tingly.

"Really, I just—"

"Take my hands off of you, then," she challenged, in between peppering kisses and sucking on a spot directly over your pulse. You shivered.

"I can't."

"Well, I guess we're at a crossroads," she said. Her right hand slid down your chest to the hem of your shirt, sliding gently underneath and laying itself flat against your stomach. She smirked when she reconnected your lips, knowing she was winning.

"This is a really bad idea."

"You talk too much."

"No, because this is really a conflict of interest. We're supposed to uh..." you stammered, getting distracted by he hand on your stomach slowly getting lower and lower, creeping towards the top of your shorts. "We're supposed read each other's stuff and be honest."

Cairo stopped, pulling away, raising her eyebrows at you. "Are you serious? You don't want to have sex with me —when you've been practically eye-fucking me since we met— so that you can be an honest peer grader???"

"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid."

"That's because it is stupid."

"I— I just can't do that with someone."

She scoffed. "Are you waiting until marriage or something?"

"No."

"Are you asexual?"

"No."

"Is it Winnie?"

"No."

"Do you like boys?"

"No!"

"Then why? I mean, come on. We both knew this would end one of two ways."

"We're better off as just classmates, trust me."

Cairo blinked at you for a moment, like you were the most confusing person she had ever met. Then she got up off of you. Your lap felt lighter, but also emptier, and you wanted to scream up at the stars for not being able to just indulge this one little desire.

"Fine," she said, and her tone caught you off guard. Most people would probably be upset or angry, but it just seemed like Cairo was challenged and endeared. Like she was going to work out your problem and get right back to this situation, only this time she'd get exactly as she wanted.

She wouldn't, you promised yourself. Never ever. The heartbreak wasn't worth it. Cairo checked her watch. "Could you come over tomorrow too? I'm not done with my story yet, and I want you to read it."

"Uh," you thought out loud. You didn't see why not. Maybe you wouldn't be lovers, but just innocent friends? You weren't so much a monster that you wouldn't be able to stop yourself if you hung out with her. Innocent friends were much easier to forget anyways. "Sure," you said, unknowingly giving her exactly what she wanted.

===+++===

You had gone to her house almost every night for the past week, laying on her bed while she sat in the corner in the same familiar chair, typing the same bloody story that she refused to be satisfied with. It was becoming a pattern, even an unconscious one. The next day had been entirely as awkward as expected, with you trying to act as unbothered as possible.

The friendship was going better than you had anticipated, and you were very pleased with your own self restraint. Winnie had come over too, once or twice, and you enjoyed existing within the context but still on the periphery of a friendship.

Cairo Sweet would hunt you down as her friend or as her whatever-you-were, so you figured giving into one would be the path of least resistance anyhow.

She must have been an insanely picky writer. She wrote every word with an overabundant caution, like she was trying so hard to craft perfection. It was like she wanted her keyboard to drip liquid gold onto the page, and the critics to all collectively clap when she finished a sentence.

"You're like George R. R. Martin with how slow you finish a story," you had said once, out of the blue. Cairo looked up at you, offended, and thrown a pillow in your direction that connected with your face.

"I'm trying to cultivate perfection of the written word," she said, and you rolled your eyes.

"God, writers are so pretentious," you wrinkled your nose. "The only people who like to read annoying writers' books are annoying people."

Cairo scoffed. "Yeah, what, you want to be surrounded by James Bond fans? Stephen King fanboys?"

"That's cool, though," you shrugged. "Gets the point across, isn't badly written, and makes a sometimes beautiful passage along the way."

"Oh, so your writing," she joked, smiling at you. It was an innocent smile, and one that so starkly contrasted the lustful one she had looked at you with only a few days ago. Even in memory, her eyes sent a shiver up your spine.

"Yeah, well, people seem to like it. I guess I’m doing something right," you said. Cairo frowned.

"I don't get it," she shook her head. "And you still won't let me read that first one you wrote."

"It's not exactly something I want to talk about to you."

"Why? Is it bad?" she asked, sitting up straight. You knew she meant 'tell me your dirty secrets' by that.

"I just don't want to."

"Hm," she grumbled, laying back in the chair. "And anyways, if what you say about that thing is true, I don't know why Miller liked it. His book is full of the flowery stuff you complain about."

"He wrote a book???" You were incredulous.

Cairo nodded. "A while ago. Apostrophes and Ampersands."

"Never heard of it."

Cairo shrugged. "It didn't exactly make massive waves. It was ingenious though. Grand and tragic."

"You read it then?" You asked, sitting up and turning towards her.

"Yes, I did," she replied nonchalantly. "I enjoyed it."

You looked out the window for a moment, then back to her. Friends should be friends. "Can I borrow your copy?"

===+++===

"God," you groaned, reading Mr. Miller's book with it held over your head, laying on your back. Cairo had given it to you two days ago and now you were slogging through it, waiting for it to get interesting. "'Human ruins of a madman's love,'" you mocked.

"It's gorgeous," Cairo said. She wasn't in her usual chair, she was sitting by the window with it cracked open, a cigarette in her hand.

"It's not— wait, are you smoking?" You asked, sitting up. Cairo rolled her eyes, grinning at you.

"No, I'm just sitting here with a cigarette lit in my fingers."

"God. Wine and a cigarette, what are you, thirty-four."

"Shut up," she said, putting the cigarette in between her lips and puffing out the window. "And anyways that quote is beautiful."

"Maybe," you challenged. "But what is it actually saying?"

"She means everything to him and he's going crazy for her," Cairo said, like it was obvious. You nodded.

"That's the thought and THAT'S what's good there. That's universal. He's losing the plot— getting lost in the sauce— of trying to sound like he's saying something, to the point where he's losing the entire meat of the message."

"Maybe," said Cairo. "But you said one of your books was If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Not exactly the height of literature."

"And I stand by that," You said. "That's actually enjoyable. You don't enjoy reading this, you enjoy being clever enough to read this, when it's saying something you've heard a million times in a million more decipherable ways. And those ways end up being more beautiful, too.”

"Perhaps," she said. "Or maybe I think the writing is beautiful."

"Well then, I think you're crazy."

"You're welcome to do that," Cairo replied, smile still wide. "You probably will."

===+++===

You managed not to cave until a warmer day, about a week after that. Cairo Sweet had previously been a sweet exterior with absolutely nothing on the inside for you to feel a deep pull towards. Only now, after slowly becoming comfortable, was the magnetic pull becoming physically painful.

Winnie had been absolutely beside herself, miffed at Cairo coming down and swiping you for herself. For a friend or for something more, it didn't matter. You were indisputably hers. And after a life of belonging to no one, you thought maybe Cairo took some sort of glee over making you belong to her.

Class was boring, Mr. Miller was fine, your mom seemed to be doing better, and school seemed to drone on. So when you came back to Cairo's house like normal, you were entirely unaware of how quickly you would fail your mission.

You were barely in door before she was running down the stairs, and the look of worry and surprise in your face only worsened when she got so up close to you, just for a second, and then just as hungry and hurriedly as before, kissed you with a brutal ferocity.

You were taken aback. Something was off. You pulled your head away and Cairo's palms pressed to your cheeks, thumbs brushing against the side of your face. She pulled you back and you had to turn your head away. "Cairo, what—"

"Shut up for once, please. Just kiss me the way a girl wants to be kissed."

You could feel every neuron telling you to get away from her. This was exactly what you had said you didn't want. And then there was the other side of you. The one that wanted to take her right then and then. You swallowed.

"I can't do these kinds of connections, Cairo. I told you."

"That's fine," Cairo rushed, her hand resting on your shoulder blade now. "I need one thing from you, and that's it. I don't ask for much, but I really need this."

Your eyebrows furrowed at her. "What are you talking about?"

"You've said you don't want anything, and okay, that’s fine. At least give me your body for the night. No strings attached.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I don’t owe you anything, you don’t owe me. We just do whatever this is. You make me feel good, and that’s it.” Her fingers had slithered back up to your hair, scratching gently at your scalp in a way that pulled your focus.

It just took a final glance at her face, for the dam to break. Her cheeks were a dusty red, eyes dilated and staring at you, and though you cursed yourself and your idiot Cro-Magnon mind, your palms went to her legs, tugging her up harshly and wrapping her legs around your waist.

“Shit,” you muttered, highly aware this was probably a bad idea. Cairo wrapped her arms around your neck, kissing you with a smile, and then once that broke, a passionate fervour. It was so much but it was so good. You carried her like that, up the stairs to her room, throwing her down on the bed.

She flipped you over, sitting on your lap like she had been back when the both of you first tried this, and it was all too intoxicating. Cairo’s hands went to your shoulders, pushing you back against the mattress before she leaned over, kissing you softly for a moment until it grew into more.

“Wait—” You said, and Cairo sat up, glaring at you.

“You did not get me all the way up here just to back out now,” said Cairo, annoyed beyond belief. You shook your head, tugging her back onto you. Her hair fell around you like a shield to your little private moment.

“I’m not backing out,” you promised, whispering because you felt like you didn’t want to be too loud. “I mean I’ve never … before.”

Cairo smiled at you, looking into your eyes for a moment. “Me neither,” she whispered back.

“Really?” you asked. Cairo raised her eyebrows.

“Fuck you.”

“No,” you shook your head, hand reaching up to move some of her hair out of her face. That wasn’t how you meant it. “…Really?”

She paused, eyes boring into yours. Then she gently nodded, and lowered herself down onto you, placing her lips on yours for another divine moment. It was all too hot in there. She let out a gasp when you tugged down her skirt.

===+++===

It was about five weeks after you had arrived, and you had gone to Cairo's house almost every week day, to continue exactly what had latched around your throat and tugged you harshly towards her.

There, in the milky white lighting of Cairo's table lamp, with her body snugly laying back against you and her book out in front of her, you fell in love for the first time. Really, fell in love.

Not the kind of "love" that swirls around your head as a child and wraps around the leg of the pretty girl in your class who has shiny hair. That kind of “love” where you can't get out a real sentence while talking to her. In comparison to the heavy feeling growing in your chest like a tumour, that was a mild liking.

No, this was the real thing. Adults had always said cryptic things about love, like "when you know, you'll know," and it hadn't ever really made sense, until it did.

As you looked down to watch her nose scrunch from the Nabokov, those three little words took on a whole new meaning. Her dark hair tickled the bare skin of your chest where she laid. Unlike her you still hadn't put your shirt back on, and you shivered a bit, even from under her blanket and her body heat. Her eyes, dark and focused, scanned across the paper, before elegantly flipping past the page with her thumb.

It was one of those renaissance paintings people cried for, in the Louvre, only it was playing out right in front of your eyes. And with that sudden rush of messy emotion, came the dastardly realisation that you were truly fucked.

"You're staring," she said, pulling you from your thoughts. She looked up at you, curious eyes focusing on your own. "What're you staring for?"

You shrugged, the movement shaking her against you. "What's the book you're reading?" You asked. "You seem mad at it."

She hummed, leaving her finger as a bookmark and flipping the cover towards you. The cover read Pale Fire. "That's because it's mostly incoherent rambling," she said. "Makes no sense."

You raised your eyebrows at her. "You don't understand Pale Fire?"

She tilted her head back, challenging you. “And you do?" You nodded. You had written a report during the two months you were in Maine. "Of course you do,” Cairo groaned, rolling her eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked.

Cairo shook her head, patting the side of your leg with her free hand. “Nothing.”

You sat up. “No, seriously. What do you mean?”

She sighed, closing the book around her index finger to hold her page. Cairo shut her eyes for a second, choosing her words carefully. “I mean... you’re annoyingly clever at something you don’t really care about.”

You laughed. "Careful, Sweet. If I didn't know any better I'd say you're jealous."

"Well, I am," said Cairo. "I care about writing so much, and here you come along with literally no passion for it, and you're out-writing me."

"Uh, sorry?" You said with a smile. But the frown you saw on her face told you she wasn't really joking. Cairo scoffed, sitting up and turning towards you.

"No, I'm serious. You barely even try and you spill some amazing few paragraphs, and Mr. Miller loves you like you're his favourite student," she lamented, throwing her hands up in frustration.

"I promise," you sighed, "that I really don't mean to. I don't get it either, so—"

"—See, but that's what's so frustrating!" She cut you off. "You don't mean to. You don't mean to get in my way, but you do because you're so unbelievably perfect at everything, and Mr. Miller loves you so much."

"Okay, wait a minute," you said. "That's not fair."

"What's 'not fair' is me working my ass off until senior year to get to do what I've ALWAYS wanted to do, WRITE, and then you come along and pull all the praise and probably the recommendation letter too!"

You sat there for a moment, taking her words in, your mouth open in surprise. There had always been an inkling that Cairo was unhappy with having you in her class, but you had drowned the thought out with her lips on yours and treasuring every moment you made her smile with something stupid you said.

You cleared your throat and Cairo was already apologising. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," she said, reaching towards you. "It's just so important to me, I get really worked up..."

"It's fine," you rushed. You knew people screamed and said nasty stuff when they were mad. It's just how people were, and it made sense to you. Your mom was like that too, with the yelling and stuff. "Do you..." you mumbled, trying to figure out how to solve her problem. "Do you want me to stop trying?" You asked.

Cairo's eyes lit up within an instant at the idea. "That would be amazing," she breathed. "Thank you so much." She reached across the space between you, kissing with a softness that hadn't previously been there. It was sweet, just like she was, and you breathed a sigh of relief, with the confrontation being over.

You nodded. "Sure." Then your gaze went out the window, realising the sun was starting to set and rain clouds were starting to form. Your hand flew to your leg, having forgotten you were only in your underwear.

"You left it downstairs, remember?" Cairo said, almost playful. When the two of you had gotten to her house, her lips had been so firmly ravaging your neck that your pants hadn't even made it up the stairs before she tugged them off and flung them to the marble bust that stood nearby. You sighed.

"Do you know what time it is?" You asked, getting up from the bed and around to the other side to pick your shirt up off the floor. Cairo also got up, throwing the sheets off herself and walking right over to her closet.

"No, I left my phone at school on accident," she replied, opening the door and flicking through the hangers. You pulled the shirt on over your head and fixed the soft collar. On the opposite side of the room, Cairo pulled out the same cream-coloured dress she had been wearing when you first came to study with her. You paused.

"You're getting all fancy?" You asked, turning to her floor mirror and attempting to fix your absolutely messy hair in a way that it wouldn't be clear Cairo had run her hands through it and gripped on tight.

"Mhm," Cairo said. "Having a guest over tonight."

"Oh. They work with your parents or something?" You said, turning to watch her with curiosity over her answer. Cairo pulled off her shirt so that she was now completely naked. She turned back to you with a smile.

"Do you like what you see?" said Cairo, and it made you blush a bit. You nodded.

"You're absolutely beautiful," you said. If you weren't worried about getting home before dinner, you would have walked right over to her and tugged her back into her bed. Cairo waved you off.

"You're too kind," she said. "Now run on home, lover boy." Cairo disappeared into the bathroom with the dress in her hand, and you heard her rustling around with the sink, probably doing her makeup.

"I... I guess I'll see you, then," you said, left alone in the room.

"Mhm," she called from the bathroom. You frowned, but did a final scan for anything you needed to take before heading out her bedroom door and down the stairs, to where your jeans were clumsily thrown over the Roman statue's head. You tugged your phone and keys from the pocket.

"Fuck," you cursed. Only around thirty minutes to get the whole way across town to your house before your mom started worrying. You walked right over to the door... only to find it was also pouring down rain, now. Dammit. You tugged on your jacket from where it had been hanging on a steel coatrack by the door, pulling the hood up.

You walked out onto the porch, shut the door behind you, and took off running, going as fast as you could down the garden and then up the street into the woods. You got about a hundred metres from her house, that was, until you stopped.

Driving right past you, barely able to see him in the storm, was Mr. Miller. Driving right to Cairo's house in his little sedan. You froze, stopping dead in the rain to watch him go. Even after his license plate retreated in the distance, you felt a sickening sense of dread begin to pool in your gut, one that was already tarnishing your prior bliss.

===+++===

part three perhaps? i also have a tara carpenter one in the works and a lorraine day that's mostly done so hopefully i'll be updating more frequently

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #cairo sweet x reader #cairo sweet #miller's girl #letorip #jenna #jenna ortega imagine

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theonsource · 6 months ago

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There was no safe anchorage at Pyke, but Theon Greyjoy wished to look on his father’s castle from the sea, to see it as he had seen it last, ten years before, when Robert Baratheon’s war galley had borne him away to be a ward of Eddard Stark. On that day he had stood beside the rail, listening to the stroke of the oars and the pounding of the master’s drum while he watched Pyke dwindle in the distance. Now he wanted to see it grow larger, to rise from the sea before him… Above the Sea Tower snapped his father’s banner. The Myraham was too far off for Theon to see more than the cloth itself, but he knew the device it bore: the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, arms writhing and reaching against a black field. The banner streamed from an iron mast, shivering and twisting as the wind gusted, like a bird struggling to take flight. And here at least the direwolf of Stark did not fly above, casting its shadow down upon the Greyjoy kraken. Theon had never seen a more stirring sight. ~ A Clash of Kings, Theon I

TWO WEEKS OF THEON ↳ Home

#twoweeksoftheon #theon greyjoy #theongreyjoyedit #asoiafedit #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #valyrianscrolls #theon fancast #maxim baldry #user selkiewife

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sovietpostcards · 3 months ago

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Iron-cast railing of the Summer Garden. Photo by Vsevolod Tarasevich (St Petersburg, 1993).

#1990s #autumn #saint petersburg #russia #rain

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squiddy-god · 3 months ago

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⚜︎⪻My Beast⊰♥︎⊱My Rose⪼⚜︎

⊰An Instant Before A Gaze⊱

⊰Yandere beauty!Argenti x beast!reader⊱

⊰Previous||masterlist||next⊱

Potential part one??? This is based off of a little prompt i saw here<3 So I decided to write this for Argenti because the brain rot is so real for him.im so in love with him augh~ I love men who are so hopelessly in love that it drives them crazy.

Request are open don't be shy Cw : knight/beauty Argenti, beast reader, mentions of discrimination, depictions of violence, yandere themes, yandere Argenti, obsession, reader is cursed, imprisonment, reverse kidnapping?? Argenti will NOT leave,he's kinda delusional, insecurity, slight body horror (will bold so you can skip), Argenti “i can fix them” 5.2k

The sweet rays of the sun cast gossamer streams of light past the clouded lattice windows and illuminated fleeting slivers of the once opulent room. Far from its glory the space lay cold and torn asunder- no longer did it hold the warm laughter of its once noble occupant, but rather the cold emptiness of a long jaded heart. White silken curtains hanging limply from their rails, shredded and ragged, a once golden chandelier flakes its gilding having long since crashed to the tiled floor. Long jagged claw marks decorate the beautifully embroidered carpets, their once splendid depictions of scrolling and florals lost to the harsh sands of time, crumbling in the hands of a beast. The chairs and lounge are covered by the same white sheets, edges torn and falling slightly. A four poster bed sits on the right wall, opposite to the sitting area and long fizzled out fireplace, the velvet curtains are all but ripped off, draped across the floor like pools of deep wine, so desperately clinging to the wooden beams of the bed to stay on. Shadows cast the inside of the heavy curtains and soft bed, the only place seemingly spared the wrath. silk pillows and fine sheets, downy blankets piled to give some false hope at comfort. Despite their apparent disarray the red velvet curtains of the bed are not torn, simply tugged at with their golden cords long forgotten.

The mirror on the vanity by the bed is shattered, its cruel glass shards reflecting in mocking defiance as the sun hits them, their edges speckled with a dark brown substance that now seemed to flake away. Somewhere above the fireplace is a portrait, its frame a gilded gold. Each brush stroke echos an angry mocking jeer, yet depicts the warm smile of a painfully human creature.

Outside the castle is a beautiful sight, its deep carved stone once a shining white now weathered to a melancholy gray, yet it still held the same fairytale quality. Many towers and rooms, a striking circular building attached to the main castle with what seemed to be a glass ceiling, and behind it what seemed to be the same style but further back with smaller rooms to the side. A large sprawling garden surrounded the back of the castle, with verdant green hedges and many blooming flowers. Stained glass and latticed windows gave way to beautiful arches and delicate gothic architecture, sprawling vines climbed up the sides of the stone and made their home in the grooves of the structure so their flowers could bloom. Perhaps most striking was the tallest tower, a spire pointed defiantly at the sky as if to reach out and touch the clouds, for this is the room of the most beloved child of the once noble house. A room that now sits in dishevelment.

Beyond the tall iron gates of the castle lay the forest, with its tall trees of emerald green that seem to thin out the further away from cursed place it goes. Deep under tree cover is a once well traveled path, its dirt road now being encroached by wandering plants and flora, wild flowers spring fourth in lush bundles of pink and golden hues. While the forest may seem a beaut sight, the closer one drifts towards the castle grounds, the more a sense of lamentation twists the land. The trees seemed to reach out with warped limbs, contorting, mangling into cruel hands. Unmaintained and forgetting the love they once knew, as a broken ballerina continues to spin forever on her music box, so will the trees and vines continue to grow.

In the village there is a tale told as a bedtime story to sleepy children.

Long ago there was once a noble family who lived in grandiosity, squandered wealth and cruel hearts. To them it seemed every being was a mere bug under their shoes, their servants were treated cruelly as if they were animals. But one day that changed, a blessed child had been born from amongst the bramble, with a tender and mellow heart they seemed to possess a noble spirit. For a time the cruelty continued from the family, but the young Liege spoke out and begged for their family to end the cruelty, and it began to ebb away like a receding tide. However this was only in the eyes of the young liege, for behind the intricately carved closed doors it only escalated. Soon the most beloved child of the noble house became the bearer of the burden, cruelty that lashed their mind and heart was given as freely as air. Yet their noble heart remained steadfast and endeared them to the servants of the house, the kindness that licked their wounds was given without any expectation.

However one day in spring, the last cold wisps of wind giving way to bountiful flowers and warm sun, a party was held at the castle deep in the forest. An enchantress had heard of the family's cruelty and after hearing the tales became enraged and went to the castle to see for herself. She disguised herself as a poor beggar woman and rapped upon the doors seeking only solace from the cold April rains. They did not turn her away, no… instead they brought her inside all while laughing a malicious hollow laugh. They paraded her around as the sorry beggar women, mocking and jeering at her as if pushing her to the cold was simply too kind a jester. The young liege urged them to stop, protesting about how the display was sickening. All that they were met with was the glares of the family and a harsh slap for their audacity and disobedience.

The display was enough for the enchantress to reveal herself, the eyes of the nobles went wide in shock and fear, left to cower like the animals they had treated people as. Before the enchantress could curse them however, the young liege stepped forward and pleaded for them to be spared, they were prepared to bare the burden of their cruelty if it meant they did not suffer while they paid for what they had done, for the young liege could not stomach the thought of others suffering. The sincerity of the young liege moved the enchantress and so she granted their wish.

“My child, for your noble heart…i shall grant you your wish, tho it brings me no joy to do so” and so the curse was placed. Upon the noble family their curse was to meet a tragic end, yet their fate would not be cruel, it would be quick and merciful, they would continue to live for one year before meeting their end. whatever they did in that year would determine how they died. The cruelty of the curse was placed on the young liege, only 16 years of age.

Their scream pierced the room, body morphing as their bones twisted and cracked, distorting with a defining crunch. Teeth fell out as if rotting from their head giving way to bloodied fangs and a gnarled muzzle. Tall and imposing they were a beast, a cruel and evil monster with no trace of what they had once been. Nails splitting the skin of their fingers and morphing into sharp claws and their cries become howls. Their spine snaps and mangles into something grotesque and resembling an amalgamation of animals. Their skin grew fur as they lay in a heap on the floor.

The guest began to flee in a rushed panic at the sight. Even their own family whomst they had taken this fate for fled. The fleeting stares of disgust seared like hot irons for even their family had forsaken them. For they were a monstrous and ugly sight, a cruel beast and evil monster that held none of the warmth of the young liege. But one day the beast will be slayed and the nightmare will end, and the knight who vanquishes that evil will be hailed a hero.

All stories have hidden verses, tucked away within the yellowed pages of a book to never see the light of day or feel the warm touch of gentle fingers. In this story there exists such a verse written in ink at the end of the tale. It is scrawled hastily and has long been forgotten.

“My poor weary child, it brings me no joy to see you suffer for the sake of those undeserving of your kindness…so I will grant you a reprieve from fate's cruel touch.” The beast looked up to the enchantress, their eyes still painfully human. “When you find someone who loves you as you are, and when you can love them intern, you shall be spared this cruel fate” a laughable mercy. True love tender kiss, the only amnesty for a being that has forgotten how to love…how to be loved.

Warm light steeps the small cottage in a brilliant amber hue, the sheer curtains flutter in the gentle breeze let in from the open window. Their ruffled edges flutter as the sun as the tall man moves around the kitchen. Roses seem to saturate every corner of the cottage, blooming forth bursts of color that sit in stark contrast to the light stone walls. Strong oak beams and supports carry hanging planters with beautiful delicate flowers that seem to cascade over the baskets languidly, petals resembling the softness of newborn downy feathers bathe in pastel colors and mingle with the decor of the kitchen. Ceramic plates scrawled with delicate rose patterns as well as various mismatching cups, a large spear rests mounted to the wall its slender blade a deep crimson red, its intricate adornments resembling that of embracing vines and brambles, prickling and dangerous yet wrapped around the handle with the reverence of a tender lover. Pristine and unblemished, treated with the gentle caress of calloused hands, wiped clean after every battle, every beast slain and monster laid to rest.

The visage of the man conveyed the warm breath of spring, his flowing locks the color of succulent strawberries with each strand a thread of fine silk that beheld its luster with dazzling passion, sprawling viridescent fields as vast the heavens yet intimate as secluded meadows where the sun's light dances through tree leaves onto swaying grass reflected in his soft eyes. The beautiful hues of jade and emerald swirled without trace of malice, wielding only the bladed edge of fervent veneration for every sight that graces him. The ruffled white blouse that draped over him hung loose to his broad shoulders with the front laced in a way that still exposed much of his chest, silvery scars and dark cicatrix of wounds long healed adorned his body as jewels adorn the finest accessories of noble lords and ladies. The tapestry of battle that was woven, etched onto his pale skin served as a testament to his passion and honor, the gentle but fleeting touch of a gentleman that wreathes effigy of a knight, yet this tapestry was never hidden, it remained in every syllable spoken from his soft lips and dripped into his every noble action.

Conceivably, within the vast and intimate depths of his eyes layed a burning pyre where his tender heart was set ablaze. The flames of longing that licked at the very core of his soul seemed to beckon him, honeyed words of desire that whispered in his ear calling him to the abyss where he would gladly drown if it meant an end to the ache he felt. Yes gladly he would walk past the brink of lucidity if it meant an oasis in this dessert where he could quest this unbearable thirst. What read as simple unrelenting passion was simply the smoldering coals begging for air.

Awe…

Admiration…

Reverence…

Adoration…

Devotion…

Worship…

Love.

A deep chasm that only one could feel, the very substance he breathed until his lungs burned for oxygen- yet every breath was intoxicating. Deep inside it fed the hot coals and set them writhing to a blazing inferno of sickly sweet obsession. He did not suppress his obsession, his longing, his ache, for how could he betray his love? How could he disservice his love by quelling the desire that burned for them alone? His entirety yearned for his love with the vehemence of a starving dog, licking at the bones it's been fed yet wanting for more. Wanting for his nameless love.

Sir Argenti, a man of beauty, a man of passion, a man of love.

A soft smile played on his lip, the wisps of steam fanning against his sculpted face, the heavy set of his brow, his sultry lidded eyes and long burgundy lashes that brush against his cheeks when he closes his eyes and sighs in content letting the warm liquid invade his mouth, the sweet taste causing a delightful crinkle to form at the corner of his eyes. Today was a special day and the knight couldn't help but sigh in a dreamy fashion, his chest heaving with motion as he moved to rest his chin on his calloused palm. The cup soon sits empty and discarded by the sink as he changes into his armor, the stark white metal a beautiful backdrop for the accents of gold that lay polished amongst the crimson fabric that bears the noble embroidery of thorns. The clank of his boots echo happily as his gloved hand grips the shaft of the mighty spear, eyes gleaming with an air of determination. Sunlight cast a pleasant warmth on his features as he basked in the glow of such a beautiful morning, the sweet smell of his flowers fluttered in the air and he couldn't help the airy chuckle that left his lungs as he plucked a rose from its bush. Sweet Carmine petals that embraced each other in tight spirals before fanning out beautifully at the edges to give a full look.

Clanking of silver boots against well trodden cobblestone paths echoed in the meryment of the small town, bakers set fresh loaves of bread and sweet cakes out with their steem wafting into the breeze, children ran and giggled merrily in the street kicking a ball, people wave and greet him, his trademark locks of ruby pour over his back and stop at his waist as he walks.

“Ah good morning sir argenti” a woman greets, she sits telling a story to a small gaggle of children. “Good morning m’lady, you are as beautiful as this fine mourning” he says with sincerity. Complement, praise, and poetry always seemed to fall so naturally from him, perhaps it was his constitution as a knight or it was just in his nature, whatever the case he felt it his duty to make everything know how beautiful it truly was. The woman smiled and turned her attention back to the wide eyes of the children.

“What happened next!” one of them asked, no doubt having already heard whatever tale it was countless times. “They were turned into a horrible monster! With snarling fangs and large horns! Pitch black eyes and mangy fur” the woman told, moving her hands to mimic the horns as she pretended to growl to scare the children. “Ah, this story again” argenti thought to himself quietly, his smile fading ever so slightly. Ever since he was a wide eyed boy he never liked the tale, it was not a tale steeped in myth and magic, the pages of its book not yet yellowed by time as only one decade had passed since its horrid conception.

A young boy of 17 sits around the fire with the other much older knight, their armor intricate while his simple, hair chopped short while his lays against his back pulled back into a low ponytail. The scarlet wisps of a crackling fire brush gently against the blackened cracking wood logs, smoldering sticks hiss and wheeze while a stew cooks over the fire. The older men and women laugh as they share stories, Argenti sits and quietly admires the color of the flame until something catches his ears. “Well- did ya hear? Say they were cursed something nasty” one man speaks animatedly waving his hands, the young knight's head turned towards the rambling man “poor kid- well..guess kid aint the right word now. More like a rabid animal” he sighs. “I dont think ive ever seen an animal as horrid as what was described” another knight chimes in. “Pure evil is what they say…a beast” it has not been the first time the ruby haired knight hurd tales of monsters, however this sat in his head until a year later the truth had all but faded into obscurity. Those too young to remember the tale simply left it to fade into legend, a bedtime story to tide children over, those who were old enough to remember refused to believe such fairy tales. But the beautiful knight believed, and in his noble heart he found no hate for the unfortunate soul. How could one so kind be truly evil? Even if their visage has been warped, surely the kind heart must remain? It was unjust to wish someone such harm. The words wrapped around his heart, constricting it until it burst with every new time he heard the abhorrent retelling, it was an ugly feeling that arose within his chest, as if it were a crushing weight or the moon plucking the tides of his mind to some dismal disgust. He had never once stopped the honeyed words that followed freely in his veins.

“Perhaps their appearance has changed, yet a kind heart persits through such suffering” he ignored the oblong glance's people always shot his way, his gloved hand and gauntlet red upon his chest above his heart, the cold metal was no comfort to him. “Ah sir argenti, ever the optimist” the women chuckled. The skys stretched on endlessly, a sea of cerulean blue and gentle whispers of cotton white. Boundless and forgiving even with harsh rain or gentle downpour, he wondered if even if only for a second if the legend was truly just that. A tale eating the stomach of tragedy, spun with gold thread into something ugly in spite of its jewels. The thought played in his mind like a music box turning endlessly, he allowed his feet to carry him to the edge of the town where he found himself in a field of green.

A sprawling field of soft grass that gave way to lush trees and overgrown flora. Breath flooded his lungs before he exhaled deeply, this was of course what he had come for, to see if truly the legend was only that, nothing but words scrawled on a page and bound in treated leather. Part of him hoped, desperately so, that it was true. Even if it was fleeting he hoped, if he was wrong then he'd find an abandoned castle deep in the forest, and if he was right then he would find a person turned beast with a heart that he, in his delusion, believed would be kind. So once again a knight set off down the fading path, but perhaps for the first time the knight had no intention of slaying a beast, but rather telling them of their beauty.

The fading path and rough hike through the forest did not dissuade him, even as the blues of the sky faded to warm hues of orange and pink he remained steadfast in his determination until finally the path came into view once again and the tall iron gates fell into his sight. They stood tall and imposing, rusting slightly and flaking their once gorgeous luster. As his hand gripped the cold metal it seemed to push open with a piercing creak, never locked he pushed it open as the rusted hinges scream and wail. Ever courteous he pushes it shut once more, observing how the land basks in the warm color of dusk, he noted the sprawling vines and well maintained hedges, not overgrown or unruly, the sight astonishes him and fills him with the hope that he is right. What monster maintains beauty that has long forsaken it? He gazes at the large doors with their intricate carvings and heavy knockers. Much like the iron gate they seem to simply push open, the castle is dark, the beautiful double staircase wrapped gently in crown molding and intricate scrolling leafs and crests, yellowed glow illuminating the marble steps. It was grand, the picture of an illuminating fairy tail, the carpets were pristine as he looked around, two large pillars holding the stone carvings of angel-esque figures. The most surprising thing is the many flowers that sit in elaborate porcelain vases, fired with gold and pure white, roses of every kind, orchids of all hues dance with color in the subtle candle light, lilies and peonies mixed in with sprigs of baby's breath and queen anne’s lace.

A squeaked gasp hits his ears, auburn red locks shifting as his paris green eyes landed on a maid. He perked up at the sight- a maid? There was a maid? Oh joy if there was truly a maid and staff then surely- “leave- please just leave” her voice trembled as she shook, the feather duster in her hand trembling. He was shocked before he realized the gleaming tip of his red spear didn't send the message he wanted. “Ah my lady, you need not fear, I-” she cut him off suddenly, having a rather indignant tone. “The liege is not a monster! So take your spear and-” she angrily waves the feather duster when the door sitting at the top of the grand staircase slams open, the old hinges creaking as the deafening sound echoes in the quiet night air.

Spring. That is all Argenti can think of, the cool breath of spring, the rushing of crystalline waters against smooth stones replaces the rushing of blood hammering in his ears. Ensnared his heart beat to the rhythm of their footsteps, a quick descent down the stairs accompanied only by the sound of wolfish feet padding against the marble. In his stupor Argenti did not miss the clawed hand extended protectively in front of the maid, the fur was thick and covered the large palm entirely as it did the rest of your body, sharp claws protruded at every fingertip as obsidian daggers, but there was an air of gentle protectiveness. In Spite of the pointed teeth and morphed animal-like features that warp your face, it remains unfathomably human. Anger, worry, and inexplicably fear, where displayed as the most beautiful stained glass mural, even the twist of your horns and the gentle downward sweep of your ears could only add to the haunting visage of something- someone once human. Pools of (e/c) flickered in the candle light, an enchanted lake whose siren song left the beautiful man breathless. A hopeless sort of breathless no air could satisfy, a breathless feeling only felt on the brink of death with a monster's gnarled fangs deep in your throat, when you are so stricken with fear that your very blood urges you to the brink of madness if it means an escape. It was not fear he felt. A sort of breathless that strikes the hot iron of longing, felt when one is so impossibly overcome with boiling love that it steels the air in their lungs, that if denied even a moment of its cause- death would be swift, it was not fangs he felt against his neck, not blood that made his body warm, it was the graze of a lovers soft lips, it was the warmth of blush that spread up his neck, a pit in his stomach felt only in the face of inevitable death or love. To be in love, to fall from heaven willingly wandering by another's side, to know pain in their absence, to kiss the scars on their mind and body as if you could will flowers to bloom sweet blossoms in their wake.

A hopeless sort of breathless no air could satisfy, for you alone could ease this burning in his lungs, simply turn your eyes, beautifully human eyes, turn them towards him and gaze at him longingly as he gazes at you.

Before a single growled word could leave you, Argenti stepped forward, spear standing tall and firm in his grip as he fell into a kneel at your feet. Clad in the bright untarnished silver of his gauntlet, his hand outstretched as if reaching out to touch the sky itself and betwixt the plates of sterling metal rests a brilliant rose red in hue and pristine in its petals. His eyes roamed over your large figure as if to commit every detail to his memory. His actions, these feelings that flooded him were unlike anything he had felt, the only fair comparison in his mind being when he felt something was truly beautiful. A feeling without real reason, the feeling of beauty and this inexplicable feeling of longing, of love, could only be considered instinct. To love you was instinct, to fall to his knee rose in hand was instinct, the words he spoke next sent a pliable shock through the florid castle halls, forged by instinct yet tempered by the pure desire and longing in his heart.

“Marry me”

Anger dies on your tongue as you stare down at the flamboyant knight, who you had assumed came to attempt your life, kneeling before you anticipating your response to his proposal…his proposal…the most gorgeous man you had ever laid eyes on just proposed…to you, a hideous monster. Surely this must be some kind of cruel joke. Ten years of this mangled body, ten years of knights with their spears and swords, their slings of arrows and suits of armor beating down the open door and speaking words of hate and torment, how they would save the staff from their prison, how they would no longer be forced to serve in fear of a monster. 10 years of what felt like lifetimes. “Leave this place” you growl raising a clawed hand in an attempt to frighten the knight, your voice booming and filling his ears forcing out all other sounds. A deep sigh left him as he returned to his feet, only reaching just below your broad shoulders despite the fact the man was quite tall himself. The sigh sounded sad, wholly dejected as he stood, you braced for the pain of his scream, the sound of armored boots hitting the tiled floor as he ran, perhaps even the cut of his spear that you knew wouldn't even get the chance to hit you before you had shattered it, but nothing came, instead without fear he reached for your large paw like hand and kissed the fur that lined the inside of your wrist. His eyes gleam as if polished by the newfound determination while he slowly brings his adoring gaze to meet yours. “My darling, would you truly turn me away from you?” his slender fingers clad in silver intertwine, delicate touch careful of your claws yet… it is not out of fear, but out of a tenderness as if he were scared you would be hurt. “I am afraid that i cannot bear to part with you” his touch was fire on your skin, every brush of his hands igniting that fear and anxiety deep in the recesses of your mind. From somewhere- who really knows where, the knight presents a rose in all its glory, red velvet petals a brilliant hue in the candlelight.

“I am Argenti, may this rose convey my heartfelt affections- I find myself quite taken by you. I will not stop until I have taken your hand in marriage, not even the stars could keep me from the beauty you hold” no matter the delicate words he employed, the promise that tinged the corners of his speech was punctuated by a fire blazing deep in the bowls of madness. He must be mad, to gaze upon the abomination that stands before him and proclaim its beauty; he must be either mad or blind, perhaps both. Anger filled you again, the flowery words he used only serving to rub salt in wounds that never close, that voice in your head, the voices of all who had to bear witness to the misfortune of the once great noble house echoed with cruel laughter in your ears.

“Fine! If you will not leave then you may stay till you rot!” the sentence came out as a vicious growl, clawed paw seeding his arm as you dragged him into the castle, down pristine winding halls adorned with the same intricate that flooded the foyer and entrance, the mocking forced smiles of ancestors, once pompous lords and ladies staring as the scenery rushes by until his boots clank against cold stone as opposed to gleaming tile. The cold air whipped through barred windows as he was taken deeper, deeper, deeper. At last he was all but thrown into the cell at the very end of the hall, the rusting iron smell hung thick in the air as you glared down at his chest heaving. “In your persistence you will find no solace” was the last thing he heard, as the bars of the cell were slammed shut and the heavy fall of your clawed feet echoed away from him. Emerald eyes burned holes into your back, lids heavy and irises laden with adoration and affection, when your beastly form was ripped from his sight he turned his gaze out he bared window and upon the garden and shining moon that now pranced among the stars.

You poor thing, so jaded by the ugliness of others who refuse to see the beauty in your soul. He knew you were kind, behind the towering walls you have built stone by stone there was kindness long forgotten. The knight saw it, he saw it in the way you rushed in defense of the maid, in the way you gave him a chance to run away, in the way your grip on his arm was neither harsh nor bruising, in the way your claws- like the paws of a wolf stretched and mangled to be longer like a humans held his offering of a rose gently even as you walked away. He saw that kindness even now as he stood imprisoned in your castle, unchained, and with the bars of the cell unlocked, easily pushed ajar by the gentle touch of his hands…every opportunity to flee, run back to his cottage and find another to love, but who was this humble knight to deny the blessing bestowed upon him? For you were his blessing, an end to this curse of loneliness, and he was your knight, the one who would end your curse of melancholy. He would show you the beauty you possess, to him you were a vision, an eternal blessing he could not live without.

He was yours, whether you knew his devotion yet was simply writing on the page, he would ensure that you knew his love, that you knew you were loved.

You are loved.

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