#Elegant countryside | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rxmye · 7 months ago

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" 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — pristine and perfect, filled with grace and elegance, yet tainted with greed . . greed for you . .

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / slight religious themes?, I suppose it's a fictional religion, I'm still world-building / pathetic and submissive yandere / suggestive content? / he paints the reader as a source of comfort / stalking, which is conveniently described as 'adorable' and 'innocent' behavior /

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: ok so the person mentioned is supposed to be the God of this world, their introduction will also be out soon enough . . currently dropping hints here because world-building fun!!

Takamoto was an Arch-angel, one of the highest ranked angels in heaven—he was pure and truly the definition of elegance, he was never greedy, and he was almost always seen smiling or happy. For he, was truly contempt with his life, and position.

Takamoto was always someone who had truly been satisfied with all that he was given, he never craved more—he always thought and frankly believed, that he had received all that he deserved and that he should be contempt with what he has. He never really had any passion or desire for anything more—he was grateful with everything—he believed all his hardships had reasoning behind it, and that it will all eventually be solved. In fact a part of him believed he deserved any hardship he came by.

Many would believe he was naive for that sort of mindset, and many angels did truly believe him to be just that, yet against all odds he rose up the ranks fairly quickly for this sort of mindset, and of course his loyalty to his beliefs. Takamoto was sweet, he'd help everyone out, and would introduce new souls, and angels throughout the lands of heaven on his free time, he'd help guide souls and his fellow angels everywhere he could . . yet things slowly changed when he first met you . .

Takamoto was visiting, what could only be described as the countryside of heaven, with vast green fields, cozy homes, acres of farmland, etc . . He was checking in for this years harvest, as per high courts orders . . when he saw you, you were so graceful, your wings sparkled in the light, you were radiant, you're eyes glimmered as both of your eyes met for a brief moment . . he felt his heart skip a beat. . his face was heating up slightly, his face dusted with shades of bright pink.

His mouth hung slightly open, as his gaze lingered on you figure, taking in the sight—your wings were lovely, much smaller than his . . were you a new soul? Perhaps you were a lower ranked angel and hence why you both never quite met . . He wanted to know more about you—he need to know more about you—where were you going? . . . and before he knew it, he found himself following you, trailing behind you silently.

He found himself frequenting areas he last saw you, it was all so innocent at first, many of his fellow coworkers described him as a young schoolboy in love, teasing him for his oh so adorable behavior . .

Takamoto didn't notice how much you were invading his life, he hadn't even been able to hold a proper sentence with you yet . . . but even then his thoughts consumed of you, whenever he did paperwork, he'd doodle your face, his room was filled with various portraits of you . .

He found himself overtime growing desperate, impure thoughts flooding his mind, greed sinking its claws into his sensitive and naive hurt—he was the utter picture of perfection, just look at him, he was everything an angel . . a human, anyone should be!?!? Why aren't you looking his way!— . . he took deep breaths, his own fingers digging into his skin, as he tried calming himself.

Gold drips from his arm, the bruise left from his fingers still fresh—golden blood stained his pretty pale fingers—pupils dilating as he took deep breaths, a ruined portrait of your face on the aisle, paint splatters surrounded him, tainting his legs, as a mirror lay broken on the floor.

"Fuck", he cussed softly, tears threatening to spill, his usually well-kept hair was a mess . . "why can't I draw them . . ?", he asked, his voice hoarse, as he tried his best to contain the anger he felt at that moment, "why can't I fucking draw them??", his nails dig into the floor, as the door creaked open.

You need to love him, you need to see him. He had never craved someone's validation, he deserved this, he deserved you! He could offer you everything, he was perfect! Everyone he knows, envied that about him . . surely you'd notice, you have too . .

He turned to face the person at the door, tears now dripping down his cheek, he mumbled something under his breath, before he started begging, "Please, please, help me . . my lord"

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

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nemo-writes · 1 month ago

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⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; going back to the coven is anything but comforting. meanwhile, the pack finally face the truth, consumed by shame and grief as they finally grasp the depth of their betrayal—and what it’s cost them.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The trip home stretched endlessly, the hum of magic-infused machinery barely masking the heavy silence that filled the car. You sat in the back seat next to your Mother, her gaze remained fixed out the window, unyielding and distant, while Cath Palug purred softly in her lap, seemingly impervious to the tension.

Up front, König drove in complete silence, his focus locked on the road. His stillness was matched by Sybil, who had climbed into the back with you, pressing herself against your side. Her warmth and steady breaths anchored you.

The landscape shifted as the car veered off the main road, winding deeper into the countryside. The town near the coven came into view, a picture of quiet prosperity nestled among the trees. Its flourishing streets and bustling community reflected your Mother’s fierce protection and the coven’s watchful eye. People paused as the sleek black car passed, bowing deeply or offering respectful nods. Despite your Mother’s cold and exacting nature, her loyalty and strength ensured the people's safety and growth.

The car rolled through the wrought iron gates of the estate, the sprawling grounds of the coven’s domain stretching out before you. The old English-style mansion rose ahead, a commanding presence surrounded by lush gardens and shadowed paths. Across the grounds, women in training moved purposefully, their whispered conversations halting when they caught sight of the car. They too bowed deeply, their expressions a mix of admiration and caution. Others, bolder, whispered amongst themselves, their gazes darting away when you glanced toward them through the window.

As the car slowed to a stop, your other mother emerged from the grand entrance, her wheelchair gliding forward with its graceful, hand-like appendages navigating the uneven stones effortlessly. Horangi walked steadily behind her, his presence as sharp and watchful as ever. At her side, her sleek, pitch-black Borzoi, Barghest, padded with a measured elegance.

Your Mom’s face lit up at the sight of you, though her eyes quickly darted to Sybil’s slight limp and the exhaustion etched into your features. Concern softened her expression, and her lips parted to speak, but her gaze shifted to your Mother first. She extended a hand, and your Mother leaned down, placing a tender kiss on her lips.

“I missed you,” your Mom murmured softly, her hand lingering on your Mother’s cheek.

Your Mother, though ever composed and aloof, allowed the faintest softening of her features. “As did I,” she replied, her voice low and steady.

Their connection, brief but undeniable, reminded you of the rare moments when their love shone through the icy expectations that so often consumed your Mother.

Turning her attention back to you, your Mom’s warm expression returned, though concern shadowed her gaze. “You look dreadful,” she said gently, her tone laced with worry. Her eyes flicking down to Sybil. “Not just tired. Injured. Both of you.”

Barghest tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing as she approached Sybil. There was a moment of stillness, a silent assessment passing between the two dogs. Then, the larger Borzoi lowered her head, greeting Sybil like a mother would her pup. Sybil, though hesitant at first, leaned into the touch, her tail giving a faint, tentative wag.

Your Mother remained silent, her cool poise unshaken, though you caught the faintest flicker of tension in her jaw—a rare tell. Without a word, she turned sharply on her heel, her movements precise and deliberate as if to shield any hint of unease. Cath Palug, ever her shadow, padded gracefully beside her, the flick of her tail echoed the unspoken dismissal left behind.

Your Mom sighed, shaking her head gently. “Inside. Now,” she said, her tone firm but kind.

König stepped out of the car without a word, his quiet efficiency undisturbed as he moved to the trunk. “I’ll handle everything,” he said, his voice low and steady. It was both a reassurance and a dismissal, leaving no room for argument as he began gathering your things.

Too drained to muster much else, you nodded faintly and followed your Mom’s gesture toward the house. Her wheelchair, its enchanted appendages moving with fluid precision, moved alongside you, the faint whir of magic lacing the air. Sybil kept close, her steps tentative as she walked beside you.

The familiar halls of the mansion unfolded around you, the heavy drapes and intricate carvings exuding an air of both history and expectation. The scent of aged wood and faint herbs lingered, familiar and oppressive.

In the sunlit sitting room, your Mom gestured for you to sit. “Horangi,” she said, her voice firm, “fetch tea and something to eat. They’ve been through enough already.”

Horangi hesitated for the briefest moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, but he turned on his heel and disappeared toward the kitchen without a word.

As you sank into the plush chair she indicated, Sybil curled at your feet, her head resting on your ankle. Barghest lingered near the doorway, before settling herself a short distance away, her gaze never straying far.

Your Mom clicked her tongue softly, a mix of concern and affection coloring her voice. “Put your feet up, darling,” she instructed gently, and with a graceful flick of her wrist, an ottoman slid effortlessly into place in front of you, gliding as if carried on an invisible current. “You’ve had a long enough journey, and I’m not having you sit there like some tensed-up statue.”

You hesitated for a moment, but her expectant gaze left no room for argument. Sighing, you shifted slightly and rested your feet on the plush surface, instantly feeling a sense of relief from the aching tension in your legs, especially your ankle. Sybil lifted her head slightly, her gaze flicking to your Mom with quiet, watchful curiosity.

“Good,” your Mom said, her tone softening further as she leaned forward, her sharp eyes sweeping over you with maternal precision. Her hands moved deftly as she checked your ankle, her touch light yet methodical. When she saw the faint marks left behind by your injuries, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her expression quickly morphed into one of quiet pride.

“These have already begun to heal,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Quick thinking, and your technique was flawless. If nothing else, I can see you took my lessons to heart.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her obvious gloating. “I didn’t have much choice,” you replied lightly. “It was that or worse.”

“That,” she said with a knowing smile, “is exactly what I taught you. You’ve made me proud, my darling. Even your binding work on these wounds is excellent, though it’s high time they were changed.”

With practiced ease, she removed the bandages, inspecting each mark carefully before conjuring a soft glow around her hands. The warmth of her magic soothed the lingering aches as she worked. Fresh bandages appeared at her side, summoned with a flick of her fingers, and she replaced the old ones with an efficiency that spoke to years of experience.

Satisfied with her work, she turned her attention to Sybil, who watched the proceedings with quiet patience. “Now, let’s see about you,” she murmured, crouching slightly as she reached out toward her.

Sybil tilted her head, her large, intelligent eyes locking onto your Mom’s. After a moment’s hesitation, she allowed the inspection. “Remarkable resilience,” she remarked, her voice tinged with admiration. “She’s a true reflection of her master’s skill. But even she needs rest.”

Barghest lifted her head slightly at the remark, her ears flicking forward as if to assess Sybil once more before settling back down again.

With Sybil’s examination complete, your Mom nodded in satisfaction. “There we are. Now, no arguments—you’ll have tea and something to eat before I let you do anything else.”

As if on cue, Horangi returned, carrying a tray laden with steaming tea, biscuits, and small plates of fruit. His expression was as cool as he set it down on the low table before you. “Tea,” he announced curtly.

“Thank you, Horangi,” your Mom said warmly, her tone cutting through his frostiness like sunlight through mist. “We’ll manage from here.”

You poured yourself a cup, the warm aroma calming your frayed nerves as you leaned back into the chair. Sybil sniffed at the tray, her nose twitching curiously as you passed her a small piece of biscuit. When Horangi offered her another, she snorted, turning her head with a pointedly disdainful flick of her tail.

Your Mom chuckled softly, shaking her head. “She’s as particular as her mistress.”

With the tea and bandages sorted, your Mom clapped her hands, signaling the end of your brief respite. Her gaze softened as it rested on you, though the warmth didn’t mask the firmness in her tone. “That’s enough for now, darling. Go to your room. It’s been prepared and left untouched since the day you left.”

The words landed with an unmistakable weight, unspoken tension crackling faintly in the air between you. For a moment, you considered saying something, but the words died on your tongue. Instead, you gave a curt nod, rising to your feet as Sybil stretched and followed close at your side. Barghest didn't move from her place, but you could feel her watching the two of you go.

The door opened before you could reach it, and there stood König, his towering presence filling the doorway. His gaze immediately dropped to you, scanning your face for any sign of distress . Still, he said nothing, but his intent was clear as he stepped aside, waiting to escort you.

“König,” you started, exhaling sharply, “I don’t need—”

“Upstairs,” he interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “Your room.”

You frowned but knew better than to argue further. He didn’t push; he simply waited, his quiet resolve enough to make you give in with a sigh. His hand hovered near your lower back, not touching but close enough to guide you as you left the sitting room.

The climb up the grand staircase was heavier than it should have been. As you ascended, the apprentices of the coven—a mix of young women in training and those tending to the estate—moved about their tasks. Some bowed their heads respectfully, their gazes averted as they murmured greetings. Others, less acquainted with you, whispered amongst themselves, their curiosity poorly hidden.

“Is that her?” one murmured, her voice barely audible but sharp enough to reach your ears. “The young lady who ran away?”

“She is,” another replied, her tone hushed with a mix of awe and skepticism. “The heir.”

The words pricked at your composure, but you forced your expression to remain neutral, your stride steady. König, however, shot them a sharp glance over his shoulder, his narrowed eyes silencing the whispers instantly. His imposing presence alone was enough to scatter their murmurs, leaving only the faint shuffle of their footsteps.

“You didn't have to—” you started again, but König interrupted with a quiet, unyielding tone. “I do.”

When you reached your room, he stepped ahead of you, opening the door with a slow push. The air inside was still and heavy, thick with the weight of time passed. Everything was exactly as you’d left it—the furniture untouched, the books neatly stacked, and the faint scent of your perfume lingering as though it had waited for you to return.

Sybil padded inside first, hopping onto the bed and curling up in its center with an air of practiced ease, as if reclaiming her territory. You lingered in the doorway, your gaze sweeping the room. What should have been comforting instead felt stifling, the untouched state of the room more of a reminder than a reprieve.

König stepped aside to let you enter fully, his eyes following your every movement. “It’s the same,” he said softly, almost as though the words were for himself.

“It’s suffocating,” you admitted quietly, your fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. The room, with all its familiarity, felt like a cage—one you’d thought you’d escaped.

König frowned slightly but said nothing, his expression under his mask unreadable as always. After a moment, he reached down and gently picked up your bag from where he’d set it near the doorway, placing it on the bed beside Sybil.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” he said finally, his tone softer than before. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on you as if searching for something, but then he gave a small nod. “I’ll be close if you need anything.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left, his heavy steps retreating down the hall. You sighed, closing the door behind him, and leaned back against it. The stillness of the room pressed down on you, and though Sybil’s steady presence was a comfort, the weight of the past seemed to close in.

Crossing to the window, you pushed it open, letting the cool evening air sweep into the room. It helped—if only a little.

As you moved around the room, a soft knock came at the door. Sybil, ever vigilant, lifted her head from her paws, her ears perking. Before you could say anything, the door creaked open, revealing a young girl you didn’t recognize. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, her wide eyes hesitant as she stepped inside, balancing a neatly folded pile of clothes in her arms.

“These are for you,” she said softly, her voice carrying a nervous edge. “Lady Le Fay picked them out herself.”

Your gaze flicked to the clothes—exquisitely made, as always. Their elegance spoke of your Mother’s impeccable standards, her expectations woven into every stitch. You nodded, a simple acknowledgment, and reached for the garments, but the girl hesitated, her hands tightening on the fabric for just a moment before releasing it.

“I’ll help you,” she offered quickly, setting the pile down on the bed. She busied herself with smoothing the wrinkles, her nervous energy filling the room. As she worked, she glanced up at you, her expression uncertain. “I—I know it’s not my place, but… I wanted to say something.”

You arched a brow, motioning for her to continue as you picked up the blouse, the material cool against your fingertips.

“I think… what you did—leaving, I mean—was brave,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her words hung in the air, heavy with risk. “I know most of the others don’t see it that way, but I do.”

Her admission caught you off guard. You paused, meeting her gaze, and she flushed under your scrutiny, her hands wringing nervously. “I just think that… if more of us thought like you, maybe this place wouldn’t feel so—” She hesitated, her words catching on the edge of something unspoken. “So oppressive.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips, though you tried to suppress it. “Oppressive,” you repeated softly, the word tasting both foreign and familiar on your tongue.

The girl straightened, her expression shifting as if she regretted her honesty. “Not that I’m ungrateful,” she added quickly. “Our lives are good. Better than most. It’s just…” She trailed off, shaking her head as if the rest of the sentence was too dangerous to utter.

You turned toward her fully, folding the blouse carefully in your hands. “You’re not wrong,” you said after a beat. “But you’re also not ready to say it out loud. Not here.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, you thought she might argue. Instead, she nodded, a faint look of understanding passing over her features. “Thank you,” she whispered, dipping her head respectfully. “I’ll leave you to finish.”

With that, she slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her. You stared at the closed door for a moment, the tension in your chest knotting tighter. Sybil padded closer, her head nudging your leg.

��Brave,” you murmured to yourself as you began dressing, the word echoing in your mind. It wasn’t how you’d ever seen it. Foolish, reckless, selfish—all those had been easier to accept. But brave? It felt foreign, like a coat you weren’t sure how to wear.

As you fastened the final button, Sybil huffed softly. You knelt to scratch behind her ears, her steady gaze meeting yours as if she, too, approved of the sentiment. “Maybe,” you said quietly, “just maybe.”

. . .

The silence after Alejandro and Rudy’s revelations was suffocating, a tangible weight pressing down on the room. Laswell had gone upstairs to deal with Leah, leaving the pack to sit with the unbearable truth laid out before them.

At the centre of the table sat the nail, sealed in a small glass flask. It was a stark reminder of everything they had ignored, every warning they had missed. Alejandro and Rudy had placed it there when they began their explanation, a silent indictment of the pack’s failure to see what had been festering under their noses.

Price sat at the head of the table, his expression was unreadable, but the lines around his mouth and the set of his jaw betrayed his inner turmoil. He’d barely spoken during their explanation, his hand resting heavily on the table, fingers occasionally twitching as if itching to grip something—anything.

Gaz sat at the table, his face buried in his hands, silent tears slipping through his fingers. His knee, usually bouncing with nervous energy, was still for once, the tension in his body radiating a quiet devastation. The guilt tore through him like claws—how had they let it get this far? How had they hurt you so deeply, so irreparably?

Johnny, unable to bear it, had bolted from the room. His overgrown hair whipped behind him as he fled, his footsteps heavy and uneven. The door slammed somewhere in the distance, and they all knew he was headed back to the woods, a place he’d always gone to hide when the world became too much.

Price’s gaze moved to Ghost, who hadn’t uttered a word since the conversation began. “Simon,” he said, his voice firm but quieter.

Ghost didn’t move. His hands were still planted on the table, his head bowed, his broad shoulders tense. Price’s tone softened, though the weight of his words remained. “You’ve got to say something. Anything.”

Still, he said nothing, his mind an unrelenting whirlwind of fragmented memories, half-formed regrets, and the crushing realisation of what he’d done. He’d been the one who brought Leah into their lives. But worst of all, he’d hurt you. Attacked you and Sybil.

The reality had settled over him like a lead cloak, immobilising him.

Alejandro, standing by the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “What’s the point of talking? He knows what he did.” His sharp gaze cut to Price. “But don’t think for a second that any of you are off the hook. You all failed her.”

“Enough,” Price said sharply, his tone commanding. “We know. Don’t you think we bloody know?”

Alejandro smirked coldly, his gaze unwavering. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it.”

Rudy, standing nearby, placed a calming hand on Alejandro’s arm. “Ale, we’ve said what we came to say. Let them deal with it.”

“Fine,” he muttered, but his eyes burned with disdain as he looked at them.

Gaz swallowed hard, “But who… who did this? Who’s responsible?”

Alejandro shrugged, brow furrowed. “We don’t know exactly, yet at least. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing.”

Price exhaled heavily, his hand running over his face as if trying to push back the weight of the truth. “You’re saying this was all to isolate her?”

Rudy nodded solemnly. “That’s how these curses work. They isolate, divide, and weaken. She was the target from the start. You? You were just tools. Puppets.”

Alejandro crossed his arms, his gaze hard. “So don’t sit here wallowing in your own self-pity. Whatever guilt you’re feeling, it’s deserved. But the real question is, what are you going to do about it?”

Gaz let out a choked sound. “How… how do we fix this? How do we even begin to fix this?”

Price stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he walked to the window. His broad shoulders were rigid, as he stared out at the darkening horizon. “For now,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute, “we leave her alone. Like I said, we need to fix ourselves first, we have no right to even think about going after her.”

Alejandro and Rudy exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, Rudy sighed, his voice quieter but no less resolute. “We’ll keep looking,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the broken pack. “Whoever’s responsible for this won’t get away with it. When we know, we’ll keep you posted.”

Alejandro gave a firm nod, his expression unyielding. “But don’t expect miracles from us,” he added sharply.

They turned toward the door, the weight of their words settling like ash in the room. Rudy paused briefly, glancing back at the pack with a flicker of hesitation. But before they could leave, Ghost finally spoke.

His voice was low, gravelly, like the sound of rocks grinding together. “Is she… okay?”

Alejandro stopped, his hand resting on the doorframe. Rudy looked at him, eyebrows furrowing, but Alejandro didn’t move.

“You should know the answer to that, shouldn’t you?” he said flatly. “You know her best.”

Ghost stayed silent, his head bowing ever so slightly. Deep down, he already knew. The part of him that loved you with every fiber of his being—despite feeling unworthy of it—knew that you were okay, wherever you were. But that knowledge didn’t ease the hollow ache inside him.

With that, the front door closed with a heavy thud, leaving the pack alone once again.

Price stood at the window, unmoving, the faint glow of his nth cigar's ember casting a dim light in the darkening room. His shoulders were tense, the weight of his failures settling heavily on him, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke.

“Get it together,” he said, his words cutting through the silence like a knife. “We’ve all failed her. But if she’s still out there, we owe it to her to fix this.”

Ghost remained at the table, his eyes fixed on the cursed nail. The silence that followed was more damning than anything that had been said.

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