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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 10 days ago

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A DC X DP IDEA #45

Mine, Mine, MINE!

Imagine this….

I know Damian is raised in an environment where he is treated as a prince, the only grandson, the heir. Sure those privileges may come in the price of ripping his innocence and childhood away from a very young age. In the end he got everything he ever wanted nor needed. A single word from him and all gather around to get what he needed.

But there will be a day where there is something you cannot get no matter your demands or commands.

….

By the time Damian could form full sentences, he had learned the art of taking. To demand was his birthright; to receive was merely the universe setting itself right. If another child had a toy, Damian wanted it. If a servant carried a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, it belonged in his collection. Even as a young boy, his chambers were overflowing with silken robes, masterfully forged weapons, and rare treasures pilfered from across the world.

His first words had been "Mine." He was greedy from the cradle, claiming everything within reach with an iron will and a clenched fist. As an infant, a single furrow of his brow or a half-formed cry summoned an entire team of wet nurses, attendants, and servants who scrambled to appease him, terrified of drawing the ire of the Demon’s heir. His crib was adorned with silk imported from lands that no longer existed, and gold-threaded blankets were replaced the moment they became even slightly soiled.

When he took his first steps, the world shifted to accommodate him. Marble floors were polished before his feet touched them, and his path was lined with offerings—daggers forged by masters, scrolls of ancient knowledge, carved figurines from forgotten civilizations. Every item he glanced at was quietly removed from its place and added to his collection, regardless of its original owner. He collected without remorse, hoarded without gratitude. His chambers grew into miniature treasure vaults, filled with relics and riches that served no purpose beyond feeding his insatiable desire to own.

Neither Talia nor Ra’s al Ghul discouraged his possessiveness. To them, it was simply a symptom of his lineage. The blood of conquerors and kings ran in his veins, and if he took, it was only because he was destined to. The League of Assassins reinforced this belief with every passing day. He was not taught humility or restraint—only power, precision, and domination. He was forged to rule, molded to believe that the world was his birthright.

But then there was Danyal.

His twin, born under the same stars, shaped from the same blood, yet utterly alien in his quiet nature. Danyal never demanded, never claimed, never expected. While Damian amassed trinkets and trophies with the entitlement of a young emperor, Danyal existed in the spaces left behind—content with simplicity, with little, with the unremarkable. When Damian snatched one of his brother’s few meager toys and added it to his already overflowing pile, Danyal gave no protest. He simply let it go, his eyes soft, his hands uncurled, his expression free of malice or resentment.

To Damian, this was a maddening contradiction. They were both of noble blood. They were descendants of kings, warriors, legends. Danyal should have yearned for greatness, fought for it. But instead, he bowed his head, stepped aside, and surrendered without a sound. Damian saw weakness. He saw foolishness.

When Danyal died on a mission gone wrong, Damian did not weep. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not stray from the trail of blood that marked the last place his twin had stood. The League moved on without pause, the death barely a footnote in their endless ledger of sacrifice. There was no funeral pyre, no rites or remembrance. The corpse was retrieved, cataloged, and discarded like a failed weapon. Damian told himself it was fate, a destiny trimming the weak from their bloodline.

Danyal had never fought for more. He had never claimed what was owed to him. In Damian’s mind, that made him unworthy. A noble soul without the teeth to defend its title. A flickering candle smothered by the wind. And so Damian forced himself to move on. He trained harder, sharper, faster. He swallowed whatever little grief he has and reforged it into ambition.

At ten years old, when he was finally sent to Gotham, he carried himself like a young prince returning to his rightful throne. He arrived at his father’s doorstep cloaked in expectation, armored in superiority. His every step was deliberate, as if the very ground of Wayne Manor should bend to his will. He was the blood heir, the legacy reborn. Everything in the manor should have been his.

But instead of reverence, he was met with resistance.

When he challenged Drake—Timothy Drake, the imposter who had dared to stand at his father’s side—Damian expected combat, a duel to settle succession. He anticipated a fight that would end with his place solidified and his father's acknowledgment finally secured. But Drake refused. He did not raise a hand. He yielded with words instead of steel, and Damian, raised in a world where weakness was unforgivable, saw it as cowardice.

Worse still, Bruce his father had intervened. Not as a warrior stepping into the arena, but as a father—shielding the usurper. Protecting someone who had no claim, no birthright, no Ra’s al Ghul in his lineage, no biological connection that is burning in his veins. Damian had lashed out. Fury surged through him like fire through dry kindling. How could his father not see it? He was the true son. The legacy of both Bat and Demon ran through his blood.

But here, in this foreign house built on sentiment and ideals, that blood meant nothing.

His hours of grueling training, his flawless blade work, his mastery of languages, poisons, shadows, everything none of it mattered. In the League, every achievement was tallied like gold, every drop of noble blood a weapon to be honored and sharpened. In Gotham, he was just a child with a name. No better than the orphans his father had chosen. He was expected to earn his place not through heritage, but through heart.

And that was a battlefield Damian had never been taught to fight on.

…..

By fourteen, Damian had changed. The transformation had not come swiftly, nor easily. It had been carved into him over years of clashing ideologies, quiet lessons, and countless moments of silent observation. The boy who once barked orders, who demanded the world bend to his will, had been slowly, methodically unraveled.

Gone was the child who screamed, "Mine!" at every turn. In his place stood a young warrior with weary eyes and calloused hands, one who had tasted loss, rejection, and the sting of unearned entitlement.

He had learned, through long nights spent watching others from the shadows of Wayne Manor’s hallways, that love was not given by birthright but earned through sacrifice. He had watched Dick steady the weight of leadership with a smile, watched Tim endure with patience and quiet brilliance, watched Jason bleed and rage and come back again and again for the family that had once failed him. And he had watched Bruce—not the detective that his grandfather would say nor the beloved that his mother would whisper of bedtime legends, but a flawed, weary man who carried his family not with a sword but with open hands.

The League had taught him to take. His siblings had taught him to stay.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He had not heard the phrase spoken aloud, but he lived it in the moments that unfolded around him. He saw it in the way Alfred laid out tea for children who weren’t his. In the way Cass would wordlessly spar with him until exhaustion broke his fury. In the way Stephanie left notes on the fridge with dumb jokes just to make them laugh. These people—none of whom shared his blood—had chosen each other again and again.

And yet… in the quiet corners of his mind, sometimes, he still wished Danyal were here.

Danyal, who would have thrived in this strange and stubborn family. Danyal, whose softness would have been a strength here, not a flaw. Danyal, who had always looked at Damian not with envy or resentment, but with quiet love.

Damian had spent so long dismissing that gentleness as weakness, never realizing it had been a gift. Looking back now, he could see the missed moments—the times he could have shared instead of stolen, the times he could have listened instead of taken. His brother had not been lesser. He had simply been different. And Damian, in his arrogance, had mistaken compassion for cowardice.

Now, with Danyal long buried and the world colder for it, Damian carried the weight of that realization like a blade across the ribs—never fatal, but never forgotten.

…...

Then came the mission with the Flash. A time anomaly had rippled through the fabric of reality. Barry had worked tirelessly to fix the damage, racing through different timelines until order was restored. But this time, though fixed, have a new aftermath. A vision stitched together from remnants of a path not taken.

The Justice League, ever analytical, treated it like a curious glitch in the multiversal code—a harmless projection of a possibility that never came to pass. They gathered to observe it as they would a peculiar ripple in a still pond, detached but intrigued. Damian had been pulled along by Jon, who bounced with his usual boundless energy, unaware of what the vision would show. Damian followed, armored in detachment, a practiced indifference in place.

But then he saw it.

The flickering image glowed before him like a memory he had never lived. There, seated around the long dining table in Wayne Manor, was a scene so mundane, so heartbreakingly normal, it rooted him in place. His father sat at the head of the table, a rare softness in his posture as he poured tea. Nightwing laughed mid-conversation, shoulders relaxed, while Tim rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Jason leaned back with his feet on the table, earning a nudge from Cassandra. And at the center of it all, smiling as if he'd always belonged—was Danyal.

His twin. Whole. Alive.

Danyal passed the bread basket to Tim with a crooked grin, said something that made Alfred chuckle. He nudged Damian's double with his elbow, teasing him, effortlessly folded into the rhythm of a family Damian had once believed unreachable. It was a life that had never happened, a universe where Danyal had lived—not just lived, but thrived.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the motion sharp and sudden. His fingers, usually so still, twitched at his sides, as if the rest of him hadn’t caught up with the emotion rising within. Before he could wrest control back from his heart, his hand extended—reaching, aching, needing.

And the word tore from him before thought could stop it.

"Mine."

It escaped in a whisper but echoed like a roar in his ears. Not the scream of a spoiled prince demanding treasure, but the broken, silent cry of a boy mourning what he had never known he needed. It was not greed that moved him, not anymore. It was grief. Regret. A raw, unfiltered longing for the life that had slipped through his fingers before he had ever realized he wanted it.

Around him, the room shifted. Justice League members who moments ago stood in detached curiosity now exchanged curious glances, as they saw the projection and Robin’s reaction to a projection that is just showing a what-if scenario.

The projection flickered. Danyal’s laughter shimmered and dissolved into static. The dining table faded. The light dimmed.

And Damian remained frozen, hand still half-raised, reaching for a future that was never his to claim.

…..

In the heart of the Infinite Realms, where time unraveled and rewound in endless loops and rivers of light, a lone figure hovered silently above the drifting threads of fate. Clockwork, the Master of Time, ancient and eternal, gazed down upon the scene unfolding within the mortal world. His staff gleamed as it gears ever turning, ticking in rhythm with realities both seen and unseen.

His eyes that is both ageless and all-knowing, rested on the image of a boy no longer a child. Damian Al Ghul Wayne stood still before the dying glow of a vanished vision, his heart laid bare. Once a prince of shadows, molded by assassins and pride, Damian now stood not as a conqueror, but as a brothe still grieving. He no longer sought to possess or dominate, but to reclaim something that had always been just out of reach: family.

The Observers had spoken long ago, their verdicts cold and absolute. Danyal’s future, they had said, was a path carved in steel and soaked in blood. The catalyst of the Infinite Realms, the one who will bring the end. But Clockwork had always known better. Time, after all, was not a straight line, it branched, curved, rebelled. And in one of those near-forgotten offshoots, he had seen a flicker. A possibility so faint it could have been dismissed as error. But Clockwork did not dismiss.

He had seen a future in which the Infinite Realms chaotic would finally know peace. He had seen a king . And that king—against all odds—had come in the form of Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.

A soft, amused breath escaped the Master of Time as his gaze shifted across the layers of existence to a shadow nestled within the Realms themselves. There, hidden among the currents of ectoplasm and fractured echoes of forgotten souls, stood a young ghost. His white hair drifted like mist in the realm’s gentle current, his glowing green eyes solemn yet radiant. Gone were the dark locks, icey blue eyes and quiet smiles of Danyal Al Ghul. In his place stood Daniel Fenton—Danny Phantom—the Halfa. Half-human, half-ghost. A being unlike any other. A bridge between life and death.

Clockwork observed him with fondness, a rare warmth in his otherwise distant demeanor. He remembered the moment clearly, the crack between timelines where fate had faltered just long enough for intervention. The Observers had turned away, believing that Clockwork will carry out their verdict to execute the young boy, but Clockwork had seen the glimmer of what could be. He had rescued the boy from his grave and scattered his memories.

He had delivered the amnesiac child to a quiet home in Amity Park, into the waiting arms of the unsuspecting Fenton couple—eccentric, brilliant, and just compassionate enough to raise him without ever questioning the mystery of his arrival. The boy was given a name, a room, a place to grow. And on that fateful day, when Danny stepped into the portal and his molecules split between two worlds, Clockwork had watched it happen with a quiet, satisfied nod. That had been the moment. The transformation. The birth of a future king.

The Infinite Realms would have their High King.

And now, as the Realms shimmered in resonance with Damian’s grief, and Danny’s own presence and ignorance hummed at the edge of understanding, Clockwork let the corners of his lips curl just slightly.

He had never told the Observers about this faint possible of a timeline. The one he saw only once, a future so far removed it flickered like starlight on the edge of perception. This timeline where, both the Realms have their king but he will have a granchild.

Clockwork kept that knowledge close. Even for a being beyond time, some secrets were too precious to share.

As he look at the grieving Damian telling his family a future could have been and Danny enjoying his somewhat normal routine for a young Halfa like him not knowing the immediate danger that is quickly closing in on him.

Clockwork smiled, All in due time.

…...

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: Again it got too long for my liking....

PPS: I got a bit carried away, hehehehehe.....

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #danny fenton #ghost king danny

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daemonbrain · 2 months ago

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3.4k, cw: smut, size kink, p in v, overstimulation if you squint, fairy!reader, hes a monster hunter

Simon Riley, the monster hunter guild's most valuable asset. Whenever a high bounty was set out for one creature or another Simon was there. Werewolves taking all your sheep? He’s all stocked up on silver. Vampire terrorizing the town? Get him some matches and a stake, it’ll be gone come morning.

Those with real connections to the guild know that if you want a job done, you ask for ‘Ghost’. Contrary to the scars which littered his body, it wasn't all fighting the big bad wolf and risking his life. Occasionally he would get lucky with a low-risk high-reward job. Paired with his brute strength, he also had extensive knowledge on the supernatural and their habits.

He had taken up a job for an anonymous businessman to nab a fairy. Fucks sakes he almost burst out laughing when he got the request, only to be met with a very serious expression.

Fairies, notoriously hard to trap and contain. It’s said that any who can lock one down will be granted prosperity for the rest of their days. Their laughs attract wealth, their dust makes little specks of gold, their tears harden into diamonds.

Now of course, greed of humans and all, fairies had gone into some pretty deep fuckin’ hiding. Forests with heaps of danger weeding out any fools who tried to find one on a whim. If you got far enough the things were smaller than your finger and moved faster than you could blink, the only thing assuring you that they were there was the mocking little giggles that would sound out before they flew back into hiding.

It’s even rumored that they can turn themselves into the size of a fully grown woman at will. They're supposed to be prettier than any tavern wench you’d see on a regular night, or the fairest of maids if the songs were to be believed. Simon had never seen one though, so that was to be taken with a grain of salt.

You were a difficult catch. Pissed Simon off plenty of times with your dodging, your mocking titters. You just thought he was a passing traveller trying his luck. Sorely mistaken you were. It was when he began burning a mystery plant and your eyes grew hazy that you realized your misconception. Dropping from the sky as you struggled to hold up your own weight.

How humiliating! To fall for a mere man's tricks! He tricked you into believing he was foolish and you took the bait just like he intended. Even through the thick glass of the jar you could see your squirrel friends who looked on in worry from the trees. To be outfoxed by one of them, it infuriated you.

Which made it all the more terrible as he sat with his back pressed to the trunk of a tree, face illuminated by the fire looking at you angrily raising your tiny fist to the glass yammering who knows what in gibberish. He shook the jar in his hands gently, watching as your wings flapped rapidly to steady yourself. One had been injured on the drop and he could tell it was a struggle for you to stay upright. You’d occasionally dip a bit too low and by the look of shock on your face, he knew it wasn’t intentional.

One could almost mistake you for a pint sized human. An annoying one (though most people bothered the hunter, miniature or not). You certainly had the anatomy of one, none of the modesty though, with only leaves to cover your more intimate parts. He watched as you crossed your arms and began to point at the lid he fashioned to have minuscule air holes. Yelling in your grating foreign tongue once more, which really only sounded like little squeaks to Simon, the fight clearly returned back full force after you regained consciousness from the jimsonweed.

He really took a gamble with that one. He was quite proud of himself to be honest. He’d never actually caught a fairy for himself, only hearing chatter from other members of the guild that your kind were sensitive to hallucinogens.

You’d fetch a good price and to top it off Simon wasn’t walking around with a new batch of bruises. A win-win. Except for you that is. Bringing his attention back to you, he notices you’ve taken to pounding the cork lid with your hands as if that would make any difference.

However, upon seeing Simon’s dark eyes on you, you scowl yet reluctantly stop and float to the bottom of the jar. “Thas wha’ I thought” He said while rolling his eyes. He placed the jar in his travelling satchel and closed his eyes more than ready for a rest before having to hit the road again.

...

Simon had woken up with the burning and familiar feeling in his loins. Groaning, his eyes open wearily only to be met with nothing but the trees and grass around him. What the hell?

He groggily wiped at his eyes. Trying to take focus on whatever it was that was rousing him from sleep. The only thing noticeable being the significant drop in temperature as the night went on.

What was wrong with him? Has not visiting someone's bed in so long made him that desperate? He had places to be tomorrow, there was no time to be wasting jerking it in the middle of nowhere. Huffing, he closes his eyes and abstinently ignores the need which he feels building inside his belly unprompted.

He had sensed something was wrong when his cock once again slapped against the confines of his breeches. He knew something was wrong when a small but pitchy squeal followed.

“Fuckin’ hell”

His eyes widen in disbelief as he watches his trousers ripple with movement not his own. He lifts the waistband only to be met with two eyes narrowed right back at him, as if you were the one being inconvenienced. He was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that both your arms and legs enveloped half the circumference of his cock, bobbing with every movement.

What. The. Fuck.

“What’re you bloody doing? How did you get free?!” He huffed while reaching for you, staunchly ignoring the way his blood began to run hot at your unintentional ministrations. As that monstrous looking hand approached, you stiffly moved, your body still too frigid from the cold, to nestle into the juncture where all of… him… connected to his balls.

When the hunter had fallen asleep, you had screamed and pleaded for any of your forest friends to hear. After a lot of begging, and a promise to help collect acorns for the winter which seemed to approach faster and faster this year, you had managed to convince one of the squirrels to gnaw through the lid of your prison. Too far from the safety of your home, you needed a place to seek shelter from the near freezing temperatures.

Unfortunately, still weakened from your initial fall and the wind harshly prickling at your skin, you realized you were ground-bound. Trying as you might, you failed to scale the tall tree and make it into the squirrel's nest for refuge. With no other option, you were faced with the reality that the safest place for the night would be close to the human. After a few minutes pacing along the expanse of his body, you navigate your way to the warmest spot.

It smelt heavily of his musk, not the sweetest thing you had ever smelt, but not unpleasant by any means. You had tried to fall asleep, twisting and turning. You had rubbed the skin until it felt warm to the touch and pressed your cheek against it, all in an effort to make yourself more comfortable. Every minute you stayed on it the twitching got worse! So much so that you felt your body rising up, up, and up until you were harshly hit against the scratchy fabric of his breeches.

Bringing you to your current predicament as he whisper-yelled in his gruff accent. Truth be told, you could understand every word he said, you just didn’t like speaking old english. Your mother tongue was much prettier.

“C’mere.” he huffed as he nearly caught you by the leg. You may not be able to fly, but you sure could climb away as you made your way further to the tip of him. You had almost made it before a slow approaching bead of viscous liquid rolled in your path. You were quick to move out of its way, unfortunately not quick enough to avoid Simon’s fingers as he dragged you from the safety of your shelter out into the abrasive open.

Your abdomen was pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he looked at you expressionless. Somewhere in the struggle, your leafy garb had shifted, rendering one of your breasts exposed. You quaked violently, but your mind insisted it was the cold. A deeper part of you knew the giant staring down at you may have had a small part in it.

“Now you listen ‘ere, I don’t know what you know abou’ people but ‘m not the type of man to enjoy someone poking round my bits while ‘m sleeping. How did you even get out of the jar?”

Willing yourself to calm down, you muster the defiance and bravery to resist. Crossing your arms, you glowered back at the giant.

“It’s cold.” You finally spoke up.

With a laugh that sounded like a breathy cough, the man roved his eyes over your near-naked form.

“So you do speak english. Could’a started off with that. And I'd bet you were cold, people don’t normally have their teats out in this kinda weather.” Simon mocked. You scowled at his words. If this had been a normal day, you’d already be wrapped up warmly in your little nook. It was entirely his fault you were out here like this and yet you were the one being lectured.

“I’m not a person! And I wouldn’t be cold or outside if you hadn’t taken me. How do you live with yourself? You greedy things. You’re all the same you take and take and- mmph” You’re suddenly interrupted by a light squeeze to your midsection.

“You wanna warm up so bad? Fine. ‘Ve got a way.” lust creeping into his tone.

Suddenly, your legs were being knocked apart. With a gentleness you wouldn’t think possible for a person his size, you feel the soft trace of his pinkie inching towards what rests between your thighs. Instinctually, your body tried to jolt away but with the tight hold he had on you there was nowhere to go. The little fight you had in you quickly faded as the pad of his finger covered the entirety of your cunt.

Fairies weren’t conceived in the way humans were, your own conception a mystery. You did not have parents, nor a family. You simply were. You had been for what could be measured in over a hundred years according to civilizations calendars. You had pleasured yourself many times before, your only company being your own fingers when the mysterious urge would come over you. It was never a feeling you dwelled on, always finding other ways to occupy your time.

But the feeling of his cool finger prodding at the juncture between your legs set a fire in the pit of your belly you couldn't understand. Your sensitivity was palpable as he began to shift the finger around, presumably trying to emulate what he would do to a regular woman.

You shuddered and your eyes began to flutter close at the feeling. Suddenly, his hand pulled away much to your initial disappointment only to be replaced by the heat of his tongue.

Now this was new.

“H-hey, wait-”

A squeal left you at the feeling of the warm, wet muscle butting its way in. Even just the tip of his tongue was too large to catch on to your entrance. It was overwhelming as you felt the lower half of your body drenched, the size causing a lack of precision that made you want to weep. So close, yet so far from what you needed.

You had to do something. You just had to.

As Simon began to maneuver you to lay back on to his palm you shook your and held your hands up to arrest his movement.

“Had enough already?” He questioned, tilting his head while his brown eyes sparked with a hint of debauchery.

Shaking your head, you closed your eyes and channeled your energy to the very core of yourself. You may regret this later.

Slowly but surely, your body began to stretch and warp itself as your size increased. Soon enough Simon’s hands adjusted to hold your growing figure as you assumed a more useful human form.

His eyes widened as he let out a breathy chuckle, exploring your much more touchable form. Whatever had scantily covered you before had been shed as you sat bare before him. Although you were the size of an average woman, the man in front of you still towered above, even when seated.

Maybe he really was a giant.

Taking a breath you steadied yourself by gripping his firm bicep, yet another large part of him. Grabbing your jaw with a single hand he softly moves your head upwards to face him. Without another word his lips were on you again, kissing at the delicate and untouched skin of your neck.

The sensation was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.You had been much alone for decades, though the critters of your forest kept good company through these times, there were many things they could not provide.

Large hands groped every bit of skin they could touch, as Simon reached your clavicle, you sharply inhaled as he began to bite at the skin. You felt lost, the only familiar feeling being wetness pooling between your legs as the unfamiliar bulge beneath you continued to press into your cunt.

You felt helplessly susceptible to his relentless attack, eyes going glassy from the strange pressure building in you. Your head began to lull, forehead pressing to Simon’s shoulder.

Grabbing the back of your head he raises you once again, snaking his free hand between your legs. “None of that, it’s alright, yeah? ‘M gonna take good care of ‘ya.” He reassured you as his thick fingers began to rub at your pearl.

It was when his mouth met yours that you truly gave up. No shame as a wanton moan came from you. He swallowed the sound and began to push his tongue through your lips much to your confusion, though as he pushed a little harder at your clit, you trusted that he knew what he was doing. Allowing him in, all you could feel was him.

Nothing else mattered.

He parted from you and urgently began guiding you to the ground. No longer did the chill in the air bother you as he began to take off his breeches. Pushing your thighs as far as they could part, he positions himself between them, tugging at his cock while looking at your pretty face.

So the songs were right.

His body shielded you from everything which surrounded the two of you. The cold, the outside world, the only thing keeping you grounded was the twigs that peskily poked at your back.

“I want you. I need you.” You begged. You didn’t know what this was, all you knew was that your insides roared for closeness.

“Do you even know what you’re askin’ for?”

He meanly slapped himself to your cunt. For the first time, you looked down to see where he had made the connection. You didn’t know how big a cock was supposed to be, but looking at the sheer difference between it’s hulking size and yourself you feared that he wasn’t the average man.

“I’ll fuck you if you let me. With this-” He waved the thing like a damn blade “You know what fucking means right? It’s gonna go inside of you.”

Absolutely not! It would ruin you. It would scramble your insides until they were so misplaced your poor body wouldn’t know what to do.

Your mouth fell slack as he gave your head a soft pat. Putting your hands to his shoulders, you shake your head in shock.

“Wait! wait that- no it won’t, that won’t fit!” You stammered as Simon compared his length to your belly.

“It’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.”

Repositioning himself, he drags the bulbous tip up and down while knocking into your clit a few times. You squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation, digging your fingers into his arms. The head of his cock slowly pushed in.

Simon gritted his teeth while restraining himself from slamming all the way to the base and gosh it was difficult. It had been so long since he felt the touch of a woman- fuck, a fairy, whatever the hell you were right now. Your little cunny squeezed him unbelievably tight and it was so warm.

He felt you try to push his chest closer to yours in a silent plea for closeness and he almost went dizzy. Obliging you, he puts a forearm to the right of you and then slips his left hand under your head to push you closer.

You whined as he cradled you, the action so soft as his hips continued to push through whatever resistance your muscles still held. Remembering the way he nipped at your flesh earlier, you found yourself with the urge to bite at the meat of his bicep. Indulging that urge, you heard a groan leave his lips and it's as if something snapped in the hunter.

Forgoing the snail-like pace, his cock slid in inch by inch until you were filled to the brim. The two of you take a moment to catch your breath. You felt so full. Is this what your body had been craving all along? This fucking. Had it been waiting for Simon to make his way to you?

You couldn’t be sure the logic behind all of this, but you did know that you needed him now. Peering up, you gaze upon his features and realize that perhaps humans do have a certain beauty to them.

“Please.” You asked.

And he answered. Slowly at first he began to thrust in, as your noises continued to grow louder the faster he got. Soon enough he began to hammer his hips to yours as you all screamed in ecstasy.

He fucked you and he continued to fuck you and it all felt so very good. You felt so drunk of the pleasure, as if one more thrust would kill you, yet if he stopped you would surely die.

“Please hunter, please!” Placing his forehead on yours, his breaths came heavy

“My name is Simon. Call me Simon.” Another thrust. “Do it. Say my name.”

HIs voice only spurred you closer and closer to some edge as your nails dragged against his skin.

“Say it love, say it.” He finally met your eyes as your body rocked with his every movement.

“Simon!” You called out as an overwhelming peak washed over you. Your cunt spasmed around him, trapping him there in your warm leaky mess as he chased his own high. You felt yourself go limp as he bit into the juncture between your shoulder and neck with a velvet moan.

And at the final slam of his hips, he pushed his entire body into yours. Your head pushed uncomfortably against the tree behind you with the weight. His cock fully sheathed into you as he unloaded every drop of cum he had to offer you, coating your insides with the gooey fluid.

There was silence until you let out an exhausted giggle. Simon looked down at you through long lashes and shook his head in amazement. In awe of you who so casually laughed while still speared on his cock and full of his cum.

Reaching for your hair he untangles a twig which had gotten caught in it. Stroking your loose strands, he broke the silence.

“Fuck the buyer, ’m keeping you little fairy.”

As he said that, a shooting star passed overhead. Fairies really were lucky.

#cod fanfic #simon riley smut #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #call of duty #ghost x reader #ghost cod #we're getting mystical #🧚‍♀️✨

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angelicgirlmj · 5 months ago

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100+ angelic christmas gift ideas

𓂋

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

i adore christmas - its one of my favourite holidays! so beautiful and wintery, the lights and decorations, mugs of hot chocolate, childhood memories and so many traditions make it such a special time of year for me. i however, often struggle with knowing what to ask for or what i want for christmas, so i created a little inspo list to help me and anyone else! whether this is for a family member, friend, partner or even yourself im sure this will help you know exactly what you want (or at least give you some pointers in the right direction). these are all obviously just suggestions and vary in price so please put down in the comments what you are asking for this year! enjoy angel!!

uggs

victoria secret pjs

cozy fluffy socks

laneige lip balm

lush body lotions

rose quartz gua sha

glossier makeup

dior lip oil

sonny angels

yoga mat

silk pillowcases

litre water bottle

candles

jelly cats

cute claw clips

ear warmers

books

cute planner

posters or tapestries

camera

philosophy body washes

makeup bag

sylvanian baby blind bags

slippers

matcha

records or cds

five minute journal

desk or wall calendar

eye mask and bonnet

fluffy blankets

large candles

benetint lip tint

rare beauty products

cuticle oil and glass nail file

gold jewellery

silver jewellery

knee high boots

colourful/printed tights

pocket mirror

mugs

house plants

hair band or cute hair clips

gisou hair products

highlighters

charlotte tilbury makeup

pretty nail polishes

salt lamp or other lamp

tea bags (chai, green etc)

wallet or purse

bag charms

dyson hair wrap

your fave chocolates

makeup bag

quilt

vintage room decor

fluffy/patterned rug

new phonecase

slippers

headphones

rings

belt

portable speaker

crystals

fuzzy scarf and gloves

patterned tote bag

dried flowers

fairy lights

jewellery box or trinket dish

photo album

bath oils

incense

locket

bows or pretty scrunchies

sunglasses

mini crates or storage boxes

lululemon clothes

new bedsheets

laptop case

cute pillows

hair curlers

alarm clock

vintage/thrifted clothes

picture frames

snowglobes

miniature trinkets

personalised charm bracelet

makeup brushes

diffuser

face masks

lego

coffee table books

skims

tea infuser

reusable straw

warm jacket

sports bag

keyrings

jumpers

heels

charity donation

thank you so much for reading angels! this season is such a wonderful time of year because of the ideas and ethos surrounding it; one of giving. this winter should be about our loved ones and those in need. whether you do something as simple as donating old clothes to charity or making christmas cards for the homeless, i would encourage everyone (myself included) to make it their mission to give back in at least one way. remember - angels are kind and generous inside and out! as we plan our gifts or think about shopping and the fun things to come let’s all take a moment to reflect on how we can give back.

love, m.

p.s it’s never too early for christmas!

𓂋

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

#becoming that girl #girlblogging #girlhood #it girl #just girly things #it girl energy #that girl #pink pilates princess #christmas #pink aesthetic #pink christmas #gift ideas #wish list

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jadeshifting · 4 months ago

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— PLACES TO SCRIPT (HOGSMEADE)

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

🪼 — THE HOGSMEADE TROLLEY glides through the village on invisible tracks, its smooth wooden exterior adorned with shimmering silver and gold filigree and glowing lanterns that cast a warm, inviting light. Enchanted to give off the sounds of lightly ringing bells, you can hear it coming from a block away, and it carries passengers from one end of town to the other without needing a driver Inside. Riders can sit in cushioned seats to enjoy their journey, or more haphazardly stand or hang off the side while holding onto the bar

🪼 — THE SORCERER’S SCONE is a charming bakery tucked away in a cobblestone corner of Hogsmeade, where the sweet scent of fresh pastries and the soft glow of fairy lights lure passersby inside. The shelves are always stocked with warm, buttery croissants, cakes that shimmer with enchantments, and delicate sugar cookies shaped like miniature broomsticks

🪼 — VELVET & LACE is Hogsmeade’s premier formal wear boutique, offering a dazzling collection of enchanted gowns, tailored robes, and wizarding suits. Each garment is crafted to ensure a perfect fit, making it the most-wanted destination before any dance or event. The shop’s opulent interior, adorned with floating mirrors and soft candlelight, makes every visit feel like a step into a royal castle

🪼 — FLOREAN’S FROSTED FLAVORS is a cozy ice cream parlor known for its enchanted scoops that sparkle, swirl, and sometimes change colors. With a constantly changing menu of magical flavors like Butterbeer Swirl and Fizzing Chocolate Chip, it’s a favorite spot for students and locals alike. The atmosphere is warm and filled with the soft hum of chatter and the occasional laughter from the enchanted toppings misbehaving

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

🪼 — THE ENCHANTED EASEL is a whimsical arts and crafts shop where paints shimmer with magical hues and quills sketch on their own. Shelves overflow with supplies from self-weaving yarn to enchanted parchment that animates drawings. It’s a hot spot for creative witches and wizards seeking the right materials for all their different hobbies

🪼 — MAGIC MIRROR is a luxurious shop nestled in Hogsmeade, offering a wide range of magical makeup, hair products, and skincare potions. With shimmering shelves stocked with enchanted creams and shimmering powders, customers can indulge in the finest products, crafted to bring out their inner radiance with a little magical help

🪼 — THE QUAFFLE CLOSET is a cozy, no-frills shop tucked away on a side street in Hogsmeade, offering an eclectic collection of secondhand robes, dresses, and accessories at remarkably low prices. The shelves are stacked with vibrant, well-loved garments from past seasons, with charms used to make them look refreshed. Though humble, it’s a favorite spot for students looking to snag a deal or find something truly unique

🪼 — PRIMWICK’S PIES is a cozy, magical pizzeria in Hogsmeade, where wood-fired pizzas are crafted with enchanted ingredients and topped with a multitude of flavors. The rustic interior is warm and inviting, with bubbling cauldrons of sauce and enchanted ovens that hum with a gentle, glowing heat

🪼 — THE BLOOMING BOUGH is a charming florist shop where blooms thrive in year round, regardless of the season. Enchanted roses change color with your mood, and whispering vines curl gently around curious hands. The air is filled with the scent of fresh flowers, and the skill of the florists make it a favorite stop for romantic gestures and seasonal celebrations

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

🪼 — SHEAR DELIGHT is a cozy, inviting hair salon and barbershop in Hogsmeade where both wizards and witches come for trims and new styles. The atmosphere is lively and friendly, endless amounts of gossip is spilled between stylist and client, and customers leave looking their best

🪼 — OPAL & ONYX is a charming jeweler’s shop in Hogsmeade, its windows sparkling with an array of enchanted rings, necklaces, and bracelets that catch the light in mesmerizing ways. Each piece is crafted by hand, many are imbued with protective charms. Whether seeking a gift or a personal keepsake, the shop offers something for every occasion

🪼 — MOONLIT MYSTIC is nestled between two towering oak trees at the outskirts of town, draped in rich velvet curtains and flickering candlelight. Inside, an ornate crystal ball rests on a velvet cushion, surrounded by ancient tarot decks and incense smoke that dances in the air. You can pay to have your fortune told here, though it’s still unconfirmed whether the elderly witch is a talented divinator, or a scammer

🪼 — THE SALTY TIDE is a cozy seafood restaurant in Hogsmeade, where the air is thick with the scent of freshly caught fish and magically created ocean breezes whistle through the windows. Its rustic wooden tables and softly glowing lanterns illuminate the walls, which are lined with aquariums filled with shimmering fish. The menu features a variety of magical and muggle-inspired seafood dishes

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

#shifting to hogwarts #hogwarts dr #hogwarts scripting #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifters #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifting motivation #hogwarts aesthetic #hogwarts headcanons #hogsmeade #scripting ideas #shifting script #hogwarts shifting #hogwarts shifting script

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w1w2 · 4 months ago

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A Holiday to Remember

Huh Yunjin x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 3,5k

Synopsis: In the magical glow of a snow-covered holiday town, Y/N and Yunjin prepare for their first Christmas together.

Note: Have a great Christmas babes! Thank you so much for your support and kindness, it truly means the world to me. 🥹 I hope you enjoy this magical time, surrounded by love, laughter, and all the things that make your heart happy.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The small town looked like it had been plucked straight from a Christmas card. A fresh blanket of snow sparkled under the glow of twinkling fairy lights strung between lamp posts, their warm yellow hue casting a golden glow over the cobblestone streets. Storefronts were decked out in holiday displays: miniature Christmas villages, red and gold ornaments, and faux snow glimmering in the soft light. The faint aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted from a nearby bakery, mingling with the brisk, frosty air. Somewhere down the street, a group of carolers harmonized to the gentle melody of Silent Night, their voices as soothing as a crackling fire.

Y/N strolled through the bustling town square, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. The energy of the holiday season buzzed all around her, but her mind was focused on one thing or rather, one person.

“This is going to be the most special Christmas ever” she thought, her heart fluttering at the thought of Yunjin. It was their first holiday season as a couple, and every little detail felt significant. Y/N had spent weeks daydreaming about the perfect way to celebrate, imagining cozy nights by the fire and stolen kisses under the mistletoe. But today, her mission was clear: finding the perfect gift for Yunjin.

As she weaved through the cheerful crowd, Y/N couldn’t help but smile. This town had always felt magical during the holidays, but this year, it was different. Everything seemed brighter, warmer because she had someone special to share it with. She paused by a street vendor selling handcrafted ornaments, her gaze drawn to a delicate angel carved from wood.

“Would she like this?” Y/N muttered to herself, tilting her head as she examined the tiny figure. But then she remembered something Yunjin had said in passing a few weeks ago I love gifts that come from the heart. They don’t have to be expensive, just thoughtful.

The memory sparked a mix of excitement and nervousness in Y/N. It was sweet of Yunjin to care more about the meaning behind a gift than its price tag, but it also meant the stakes felt impossibly high. She wanted her gift to be perfect, something that would show Yunjin how much she truly meant to her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a child’s laughter as a snowball fight broke out nearby. Y/N chuckled, the sound lifting her spirits. She adjusted her coat and decided to keep looking. Somewhere in this picturesque little town was the perfect present.

“Alright, Yunjin,” she whispered with determination, “you’re getting a Christmas gift you’ll never forget.”

With that, Y/N set off down the street, determination settling in her chest like a warm ember. The twinkling holiday lights above her seemed to cheer her on as she made her way toward her next destination. She’d heard about the bustling holiday market in town, a place filled with unique treasures that might hold the perfect gift for Yunjin.

The gentle hum of Christmas carols grew louder as she approached, and soon, the vibrant scene came into view.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself as she stepped into the heart of the holiday market. The place was buzzing with life, vendors calling out to advertise their goods, couples strolling hand-in-hand, and kids gleefully tugging their parents toward colorful stalls.

Each booth was a treasure trove of unique, handcrafted items: delicate glass ornaments, cozy knitted scarves, wooden toys, and candles in every imaginable scent.

Her eyes flitted from stall to stall, her thoughts consumed by one question What would Yunjin love the most?

She stopped at a booth displaying an array of intricate ornaments. One in particular caught her eye, a frosted glass globe painted with a snowy forest scene. It was stunning, and she reached out to pick it up carefully. Or at least, she tried.

The ornament slipped from her fingers and tumbled toward the ground. “Oh no!” Y/N yelped, her heart skipping a beat. She winced as the glass shattered into tiny pieces at her feet.

The vendor, a kind-faced older woman, waved it off with a warm smile. “Don’t worry about it, dear. It’s just a sign that you’re meant to find something even better.”

Y/N let out a relieved laugh, crouching down to help clean up the mess. “I’m so sorry. I’m a bit clumsy sometimes.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” the woman said, placing a comforting hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “Take your time. It’s not about the first thing you see, it’s about the one that feels right.”

Thanking the vendor, Y/N moved on, her cheeks still pink from embarrassment. She turned a corner and found herself at a quieter stall selling antique trinkets. Her gaze landed on a small music box nestled among the clutter. She picked it up and wound the key, and as the melody played, her heart swelled.

It was their song, the one Yunjin had sung softly to her on a late-night walk months ago, when they’d first started falling for each other. Y/N closed her eyes, letting the tune wash over her.

“This could be it,” she murmured. But doubt crept in as quickly as the excitement. "Is it too simple? Too small?" She hesitated, unsure if the music box alone would be enough to express how much Yunjin meant to her.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling to a familiar number. “Sakura Unnie” Y/N said as soon as the call connected. “I need your help.”

Sakura’s teasing laugh rang out on the other end. “This is about Yunjin, isn’t it? You sound lovestruck.”

Y/N groaned. “I’m serious! I found something, but I’m not sure if it’s the right gift. I mean, it’s cute and meaningful, but what if—”

“Y/N,” Sakura interrupted, her tone affectionate. “You’re overthinking this. Yunjin loves you, and she’s going to love whatever you pick as long as it’s from the heart. Just go with your gut.”

Y/N sighed but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re right. Thanks, Unnie.”

“Of course I’m right. Now stop panicking and focus on making her happy,” Sakura said, and Y/N could hear the grin in her voice.

Ending the call, Y/N felt her determination solidify. She decided to buy the music box, tucking it safely into her bag before heading to her next stop. The cool evening air nipped at her cheeks as she walked down the festive street, her thoughts racing ahead to where she might find something else that would speak to Yunjin’s heart.

She passed a row of brightly lit shops until her eyes landed on a boutique with a chic display of accessories in the window. A glimmer of inspiration struck her, and she pushed open the door, a small bell jingling softly overhead.

The boutique’s interior was sleek and modern, with soft jazz playing in the background and rows of beautifully displayed accessories. Y/N wandered through the aisles, her eyes drawn to a delicate gold necklace with a charm shaped like a star. It was elegant, timeless, perfect for Yunjin’s sophisticated side.

But then, she spotted something equally tempting: a pair of quirky earrings shaped like tiny microphones. They were playful and fun, just like Yunjin’s sense of humor.

Y/N stood frozen, holding one in each hand. “Why is this so hard?” she muttered, biting her lip.

“Having trouble deciding?” a friendly voice asked. The shopkeeper, a stylish woman with a sharp eye for detail, smiled knowingly.

“Yeah,” Y/N admitted. “I want to get my girlfriend something special, but I can’t pick between these two.”

The shopkeeper chuckled. “Let me tell you a secret. The best gifts aren’t about how they look, they’re about what they mean. Think about what each piece says about her and your relationship. Which one speaks to you?”

Y/N stared at the necklace and earrings for a long moment before the answer became clear. She smiled, thanking the shopkeeper as she made her choice. With her purchase carefully tucked into her bag alongside the music box, she stepped back out into the chilly air.

The streets were quieter now, the golden glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. She checked her list one last time, a new idea forming in her mind as she recalled a little craft store she’d passed earlier.

By the time Y/N reached the craft store, the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting the snow-covered town in shades of orange and pink. Inside, the store was a riot of colors, bins of beads, shelves of glitter, and racks of paints lined the walls.

Inspired by the shopkeeper’s advice, Y/N decided to make part of Yunjin’s gift herself. She picked out supplies for a small photo frame: pastel paints, a handful of tiny star-shaped beads, and a glittery gold ribbon for finishing touches.

As she paid for her items, Y/N could already picture how it would look: a simple, heartfelt frame to hold a photo of one of their favorite moments together.

Back at home that evening, after Yunjin had returned to her dorms, Y/N spread her supplies across the kitchen table. It was her turn to pour her heart into something special. As she painted and glued, she accidentally spilled an entire tube of glitter across the floor.

“Oh no!” she laughed, watching the sparkly mess spread with every movement. Her laughter turned into a full-blown giggle fit when she realized the glitter had gotten into her hair, shimmering under the soft light.

By the time she finished, her fingers were sticky with glue, and the photo frame sparkled under the light. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers and she couldn’t wait to see Yunjin’s reaction. With a contented sigh, Y/N carefully set the frame aside to dry and glanced at the clock. She still had a few more stops to make before the day was over.

Next day while Y/N was out putting the final touches with her gift, back at her apartment, Yunjin had been busy with her own preparations.

The soft glow of fairy lights bathed Y/N’s living room in a warm, golden hue. A freshly decorated Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, adorned with delicate ornaments and shimmering tinsel. Yunjin stepped back to admire her handiwork, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. She had insisted on decorating the tree herself, wanting everything to be perfect for their first Christmas together.

Yunjin had perched on the couch in Y/N’s apartment, letting out a content sigh as she surveyed her handiwork. The Christmas tree twinkled softly in the corner, the fairy lights casting a golden glow over the room. Cozy blankets were draped over the couch, and she had even set out mugs for hot cocoa to complete the scene.

Every detail was wrapped in anticipation of seeing Y/N’s face light up later that evening. Her gaze drifted to the small pile of wrapped gifts under the tree, and her chest tightened. Among the presents was her main gift: a hand-written song.

The idea had come to her weeks ago, during a sleepless night at the dorms. Writing it had been cathartic, every note and lyric spilling straight from her heart. But as she sat there in the quiet warmth of Y/N’s apartment, doubt began to creep in.

What if it’s not enough?

Yunjin ran her fingers through her hair, her mind replaying moments from the past year. She thought back to a chilly evening in spring, when they’d walked by the river after a particularly grueling day. Y/N had noticed her quietness right away, wrapping her arm around Yunjin and insisting they take a detour to get hot chocolate.

“You don’t have to pretend everything’s okay,” Y/N had said softly, her warmth cutting through the chill.

Yunjin had opened up that night in a way she rarely did with anyone, and Y/N had listened,truly listened without judgment or interruption. It was one of the many moments that had made Yunjin realize she’d found something extraordinary in Y/N.

How do you put all of that into a gift?

The memory lingered as Yunjin reached for her guitar, which she had brought along to finalize her song. Her fingers brushed over the strings as she hummed the melody, letting the words come naturally

"In the glow of your smile, I find my peace,

Every moment with you feels like a masterpiece.

Through the highs and the lows, the laughter, the tears,

You’re my constant, my comfort, my reason to cheer."

Her voice faltered, and she frowned. Is this enough to show her how much she means to me?

Yunjin leaned back, the guitar resting on her lap. She thought about adding something else to the song, a special touch to make it feel even more personal. Maybe a custom necklace with their initials? Or a small charm that symbolized something only they would understand.

She closed her eyes, letting the melody play in her head again. The lyrics weren’t perfect, but they were hers. Every word carried the weight of her feelings for Y/N, and deep down, Yunjin knew that was what mattered most.

A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. It was Y/N’s neighbor, stopping by to drop off cookies they’d baked for the holiday. Yunjin thanked them with a polite smile, tucking the tin away on the kitchen counter. As she returned to the couch, her mind drifted back to the song, her fingers instinctively strumming the chords again.

She pictured the way Y/N’s eyes would light up when she heard the first notes, the way her hands would clasp over her heart as the lyrics unfolded. The thought made Yunjin’s lips curl into a soft, almost shy smile.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “This is going to be perfect.”

With her resolve firmed, Yunjin placed the guitar back in its stand and got to work. She rewrapped one of the smaller gifts, adding a bow for extra flair. She adjusted the fairy lights to ensure they cast the most romantic glow. Every little detail, every touch, was for Y/N.

As the evening deepened, Yunjin curled up on the couch, her heart fluttering with equal parts excitement and nervousness. This Christmas wasn’t about extravagant gestures or lavish presents, it was about the love and connection they’d built together.

And as far as Yunjin was concerned, there was no greater gift than that.

The evening air was crisp as Y/N climbed the steps to her apartment, her bag tucked under one arm and her breath visible in the icy cold. From outside the door, she could already see the soft glow of fairy lights spilling through the windows, casting a warm and inviting light into the winter night. Her heart raced, not just from the cold but from anticipation.

She fumbled with her keys, and as she opened the door, the sight inside made her breath catch.

The living room was nothing short of magical. The Christmas tree stood tall, its ornaments glittering in the light of the fairy strings that wrapped around it. Cozy blankets were draped over the couch, and candles flickered gently on the coffee table, filling the room with the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon. Yunjin stood in the center of it all, a wide smile spreading across her face as she caught sight of Y/N.

“Welcome home,” Yunjin said, her voice warm and tender. She crossed the room in a few quick strides and pulled Y/N into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around her as though she’d waited all day for this moment.

Y/N melted into the embrace, her nerves and the stress of the day evaporating instantly. “You’ve outdone yourself,” she murmured against Yunjin’s shoulder.

Yunjin pulled back just enough to meet Y/N’s gaze, her eyes twinkling like the lights around them. “It’s our first Christmas together. I wanted it to be special.”

“It already is,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Yunjin took her hand and led her to the couch. They sat down, their knees brushing as Y/N set her bag beside her. The room felt like their own little world, safe and warm, insulated from the chilly night outside.

“I have something for you,�� Y/N said, her voice soft but excited. She reached into her bag and pulled out two carefully wrapped items: the handmade photo frame and the music box.

Yunjin’s eyes widened as she accepted the gifts, her fingers brushing over the wrapping paper. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said, but her tone betrayed her eagerness to see what was inside.

“Open them,” Y/N urged, biting her lip nervously.

Yunjin unwrapped the photo frame first. She gasped softly when she saw it, a small but beautifully decorated frame that sparkled with tiny star-shaped beads and gold accents. Inside was a photo of the two of them from a day they’d spent at the park, their laughter frozen in time.

“Y/N,” Yunjin said, her voice trembling slightly. “This is... it’s perfect.”

Y/N smiled, her cheeks glowing pink. “I wanted you to have something personal, something that reminds you of us.”

Yunjin placed the frame carefully on the coffee table before unwrapping the music box. The familiar melody filled the room as she turned the key, and her expression softened even more.

“This song,” Yunjin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s our song.”

Y/N nodded, her heart swelling with affection. “I heard it and immediately thought of you. I couldn’t resist.”

Yunjin set the music box down and reached for Y/N’s hands, her grip gentle but firm. “You have no idea how much this means to me,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Thank you.”

Y/N was about to respond when Yunjin stood abruptly. “Wait. I have something for you too.”

She disappeared briefly into the bedroom and returned with her guitar slung over her shoulder. Sitting back down, she looked at Y/N, her expression a mix of excitement and vulnerability.

“I wrote you a song,” Yunjin said shyly, her fingers lightly brushing the guitar strings. “It’s not perfect, but it’s... it’s everything I feel for you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched as Yunjin began to play. The melody was soft and sweet, wrapping around them like a blanket. Yunjin’s voice was steady but emotional, every note carrying the depth of her feelings.

As the song went on, Y/N felt her eyes sting with tears. The lyrics told their story. The quiet moments they’d shared, the ways they’d lifted each other up, and the undeniable love that had grown between them.

When the final chord faded into the air, Yunjin looked up, her cheeks flushed. “So... what do you think?”

Y/N couldn’t find the words. Instead, she leaned forward and cupped Yunjin’s face in her hands, pulling her into a kiss. It was slow and tender, a silent answer to the question Yunjin had asked.

When they pulled back, Y/N rested her forehead against Yunjin’s. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion.

Yunjin grinned, her confidence returning as she wrapped her arms around Y/N. “I’m glad you like it,” she said softly. “Merry Christmas, love.”

“Merry Christmas, Jen” Y/N replied, her heart feeling impossibly full.

The two of them stayed curled up on the couch, their gifts sitting nearby as silent witnesses to the love they shared. The night stretched on, filled with quiet laughter, whispered words, and a sense of peace neither of them had ever known before.

And as the snow continued to fall outside, it was clear that this Christmas Eve would be one they’d remember forever.

The morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. Snowflakes drifted lazily past the window, creating a serene winter wonderland outside. Y/N stirred awake, snuggled beneath the warm blankets. The scent of fresh coffee and something sweet wafted through the air, pulling her from the haze of sleep.

She turned her head and smiled at the sight of Yunjin sitting at the edge of the bed, holding a steaming mug. Yunjin was still in her pajamas, a cozy set of red flannel and her hair was slightly mussed from sleep.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Yunjin said, her voice soft and teasing. She handed Y/N the mug, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Good morning,” Y/N mumbled, sitting up and wrapping her hands around the warm cup. She took a sip, humming in delight. “Coffee and kisses first thing? I could get used to this.”

Yunjin laughed and pulled Y/N to her feet. “Come on, I made breakfast. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

The two of them made their way to the kitchen, where the table was set with stacks of fluffy pancakes, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a small pitcher of syrup. They sat across from each other, sharing bites and stealing glances, the kind of quiet intimacy that only mornings like this could bring.

After breakfast, they bundled up in coats and scarves, ready to brave the snowy outdoors. The fresh snow crunched beneath their boots as they stepped outside, the cold air biting at their cheeks.

Yunjin bent down to scoop up a handful of snow, forming it into a ball with practiced precision. “You better run,” she warned playfully, her grin wide and mischievous.

Y/N yelped, ducking behind a tree just as the snowball whizzed past her. “Oh, it’s on!” she shouted, grabbing her own handful of snow and launching it toward Yunjin.

The quiet street filled with laughter as they chased each other through the snow, their cheeks pink from the cold and the effort. At one point, Yunjin caught Y/N off-guard, wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her into a hug.

“No fair,” Y/N panted, giggling as she tried to catch her breath.

“All’s fair in love and snowball fights,” Yunjin teased, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on Y/N’s frostbitten nose.

They ended their snowy escapade by building a tiny snowman together, decorating it with pebbles for eyes and a twig for a smile. Y/N pulled out her phone, and they snapped a series of selfies, some cute, some silly to commemorate the morning.

Back inside, they warmed up with mugs of hot cocoa, their legs tangled together under a shared blanket on the couch. The Christmas tree lights twinkled softly in the background, casting the room in a golden glow.

Y/N rested her head on Yunjin’s shoulder, sighing contentedly. “This Christmas has been perfect.”

Yunjin kissed the top of her head, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s not the gifts or the snow or the decorations. It’s you. You make it perfect.”

Y/N tilted her head up, meeting Yunjin’s gaze with a tender smile. “And you make me feel like the luckiest person in the world.”

They sat there in comfortable silence, watching the snow fall outside. This Christmas wasn’t about the gifts they’d exchanged or the moments they’d captured in photos, it was about the love they’d shared, the memories they’d created, and the promise of many more holidays to come.

As the day stretched on, they stayed wrapped in each other’s warmth, savoring the simple, beautiful magic of being together.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #kpop x reader #huh yunjin x reader #le sserafim x reader #le sserafim x fem reader #gg x reader #huh yunjin x fem reader

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sunsetlobster · 13 days ago

Text

To Satiate a Hunger part 1

Authors: Myself and @sovietstrange45

Summary: Finding an appropriate stop on the brink of starvation, The Sons of the Scarred Dawn, A Night lord War band ransacks Ghilana for every morsel of food and fuel they have. In the process, Ladomir an ex-terror squad member stumbles upon one thing they've been sorely needing.

Warnings: Self harm, horror themes, blood, implied violence, forced proximity, Ladomir has a blood kink, the writing structure is a raw cut from what was originally written so apologies for any weirdness there ><

Word Count: 2.1k

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Screams. Screams were the first noise that had become readily noticeable. Screams took varieties of forms, joy, shock, anger, pleasure, and fear. Some were distinctly clear from others, whereas the lines between few became muddled. Fear was unmistakeable. The natural primal terror of a human was something that could not be replicated, only induced. Yet, once one knew how to induce it, you could never fail to produce results.

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Streets ran red with rivers of blood, a sanguine disaster as mortals scampered across roads, tumbling over each other, slipping from the biological oil spills. No rhyme nor reason, not a semblance of strategy within any of them. Only that primal urge to run, that diminished any logical chance at survival. The battle against the cacophony of terror, was met with the screech of chain blades. Punctuated occasionally by the throating thump of rocket propelled shells hitting home in fleshy targets, that had no hope of dulling the resulting explosions. As for those that had been, for all intents in purposes by complete and utter luck, not been chosen for death. They, were hauled to the behemoth lumbering over their sky like a dying god, raining down its unmerciful wrath, whilst giving its death rattles. Spouting fire with every cough from its prow batteries. Amidst this rapture of death, a door was viciously kicked from its hinges. Slamming into its opposite wall with the force and symphony of a crashing vehicle. Light pouring in from the bleeding horizon casting its harsh orange glow and silhouetting the figure in his self-made opening. Shadowed, and with a head that was bat winged in nature, with blood red eyes that burned like miniature suns, without any clear target to scorch in its rays.

The clear scent of bread, pies and all manner of baked goods was almost nauseating to a fiend who'd endured such hunger. Yet the one who presumably made this was nowhere to be found and there were no inklings of his brothers’ marks on any of the small store's interior. Nor its door that led to the back. It was a simple homely place, wooden trims and a chalk board with written pricing and meals, bread of all kinds lined the back cabinet and sandwiches laid behind the counter, the thin shield of glass being the only thing sheltering them from the beast who skulked about in search of the owner.

The figure made no noise, only the wrenching growl of his joints signalled his movement. Changing from a hunched figure, to startling tall and still figure, clad in thick plate Armor. Like a lightning flash, near white, blue suddenly filled the room. His armour flashing with the crackled of lightning that seemed to shift along the surface of his form. It lasted long enough to take in the most... pressing things, about his appearance. He seemed like one of the angels of death, the Emperor's angels. Clad in midnight blue and trimmed with a gold that held no luster or wealth. His helmet was the gnarled visage of a multi fanged skull with no lower jaw and burning red eyes. Bat winged, with blood red that ended halfway, and became a chipped and fragment ending to its form of different colours, on both sides. On his left it was a dull and dark green, and on the other it was a vibrant yellow. His left shoulder held the sculpture of a skull. Perhaps rather, the mangled and defiled idea of a skull. It's lower jaw touching on the lower rim, and extending all the way to the upper trim, before it finally rounded out into what somehow managed to be a distressed and sorrowed skeletal gaze. His chest piece had once held the imperial aquila, but the eagle had been carved and shaved away until it resembled a skull of its own, the wings left as a bastardization of the carrion Emperor's heraldry. Then, the light was gone, it's flickering haven vanishing within a moment, and replaced by the thudding of his boots. Steps that equalled a tank thudding across the shop's floor, all the way forward to the counter. Dropping the blood dripping, corroded chain glaive in his gauntleted hand, he suddenly shoved a fist through the display case, sending shards of glass flying, and the sound of its destruction resonating throughout the room.

Sneh flinched at the smash from the other room, but she dared not move, dared not breath even. She was only a middling woman and everyone she'd ever known now had just about been murdered or taken. The baker had no chance at going toe to toe with what laid out there waiting to snap her between its jaws. And yet she still clung to the massive sharp, serrated bread knife. It was the length of her entire forearm and her last line of defence as she sat hidden amid the flour sacks. Her deep red gown making her regret her choice in clothing that morning. If worse came to worse though, she could end it, quickly, without much suffering and it'd be her decision not that of a monster’s.

Then, the figure ripped his helmet from his form. Slamming it atop of the counter, he grasped one of the baked goods between his fingers. Nose twitching as the smells, true and infiltered by an old vox grill, hit his gene enhanced senses. With a grunt he scarfed the delicacy down. Practically one gulp, and it had disappeared. The beast even took the time to scarf down a few more like a feral beast, burdened by the need for sustenance. Something akin to a groan leaving his throat with each bite he took, leaving behind a sugars and powers on his lips with each parcel devoured. With a hiss, he licked his lips and rubbed the back of his gauntlet across his mouth, eyes the consistent blackness of absolute nothingness, flying to the door behind the counter. A wicked grin, splitting his lips once more as he approached. Taking a decidedly different approach, he softened his step, and gently grasped the doors handle, and gave it a soft shove. As to let it creak it's way open, and bleed light into the next room like blood from an artery.

Sneh listened, holding her breath as it approached, and she readied her weapon on herself. A violent fearful glare in her usually soft eyes. The teeth of the blade gently rested on her throat ready at any moment to sink in on her flesh and wrench forth the very thing that'd save her from worse pain. She'd heard only whispers of their kind, angels warped into demons by any matter of force. Creatures that now stalked the night and tormented the dreams of those unlucky enough to hear of them. Biting her tongue to remain focused, Sneh dared not watch with her naked eye but rather the mirrored reflection from the pans lining the sink.

The worst part was the silence of it all. How even the low growl of armour joints that shifted with his movements, sounded nondifferent than the low hum of any machinery or electronics one would find anywhere. Lowering himself low, to a crouch, he was still just as large and nearly as tall as a normal man. Then lowering himself to a stalking crawl, he looked like a great beast still. The smell of far, quite literal fear, and bakery goods mixing within his senses in a uniquely delightful combination, that Ladomir lamented he just might never experience again. So, he would savour this like a delicacy. The blue crackle of light flickered up again as he crawled, blending with the bleeding sun to blind the room of any obvious source, and only flickering to near death once again after he had stalked to the other side of the room, peering just around a cabinet's corner at the woman, with eyes and hair black as death's embrace, and skin as pale as a corpse lips.

She returned it, a show of no fear or at least the face of one who was more than willing to fight against the fear that tried to fester in her stomach. The blade kissed and gently tore into her throat with a hiss, the small stream of crimson rolling down her neck as she faintly winced at the minor pain. It was shallow, just enough to show she damn well meant it without saying as much as a word to it that which lurked in the dark.

The head bobbed, shocked, jittered like the wracking pains of a seizure. All in this utterly silent, staring contest. Then, he slipped back behind the cupboard, and a sound slowly filtered its way throughout the room. Like a low whine, until it grew louder, and it became clear that he had been laughing. Small chuckles that quacked his form, to near mad laughter that followed the beast's once more hidden form. Blue lightning crackling away once more, disappearing more quickly this time, near the door along with his laughter. Until the door slammed shut, the laughter stopped, all light was snuffed from the room, and even the growl of servo joints seemed gone entirely.

She didn’t waste time; he had the knife to her throat and was ready to cut once more. She goes out on her own terms not that of a beast who hid the dark. And yet her hand softly trembled, she chose a terrible blade for this. But she has no choice, it was this or a mind-numbing amount of suffering and she certainly didn’t want you consider the latter. So, pressing the teeth harsher to her jugular she took a lone shaken breath and went to strike the blade down over herself.

Just then, out of a seemingly improbable time to cover such a distance, the great terror was just behind her. The thud of his armour as he stomped into the floor the only indication before he grasps her by the wrist, yanking the hand back from her own throat before she could do any more harm. With none of the urgency he's just display, he slowly stepped around to the mortal woman's front, staring down at her with perfect dark vision. Lighting flared and crackled around his midnight armour in a silent vortex. Illuminating them both and finally revealing the creature who had been stalking her. His hair was long, pushed back over his head in a surprisingly graceful styling of hair, two streaks of grey dashing from the edge of his temples and all the way to the base of his neck with the rest, breaking up the raven black ocean. His irises were blindingly white, the only colour in his eyes. His nose was thin, pointed like a crow's beak. Dark stubble lining his squared jaw, and thin lips split by scars that ran to the edge of his jaw, another going all the way to his neck and disappearing under his body glove. "I admire your attempt." He remarked, voice booming with an odd accent that did not seem suited for any form of gothic.

A lone tear rolled down her cheek, it was enough of a chastise within itself over her cowardice. Now became of her moment of thought she’d be lain to the worst pain man could conjure now, wouldn’t she? After all the devil was always described to have a handsome face.

It seemed to move him none. He was everything that described the Emperor's angels, perverted into its most twisted and malformed version. "Tell me, did you bake the delicacies in this shop?" He spoke again, bringing her wrist closer to his face, and dragging his tongue across the knife. Lapping the blood, and uncaring for the way it split his tongue. For just as quickly as he bled, he clotted, and when it clotted, it began to seal. As if, it had never happened. The only emotion shown, being the soft hum, he let out, and the twitch of his nose.

Sneh nodded, not opening her mouth lest she have her neck snapped as he so brazenly lapped at her only way out as though it too should’ve been displayed under the now smashed counter. And yet even in the dark with little light to show, she never left his face, a burning resolve deep in those eyes.

He bore into them, unflinching, never blinking once. Silence filling in the fluttering and flickering of lightning on his armour. Perhaps he was searching for something there, deep within her soul. Perhaps, it meant absolutely nothing at all. Then he let out a laugh, something akin to elation lacing the noise. Booming from him like a drum as he grinned madly. "Forfallian dal sur shissis lalil na sha dareel!" The demon managed in between his joy, a tongue that might as well have been alien within comparison to Gothic. "Rejoice. Today, you fly far away from here, little bird."

#warhammer 40k #night lords #warhammer ocs #oc x oc roleplay #oc x oc ship #rp writing

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da-birb-writes-sometimes · 1 year ago

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Good Things

You deserve good things, and Kalim makes his point.

Character; Kalim Al-Asim

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, romance implied

Word Count; 450+

Please do not put my work into AI. If you would like to see more of my work check out my masterlist!

A soft sigh escapes Kalim’s lips, warm ruby eyes looking up at you as if you had hung all the stars in the sky. He was quiet, something that would have surprised anyone, but you knew that despite his loud and warm demeanour, Kalim had a calmer side, still warm but in the sense of the warmth of a comforting blanket instead of the sometimes harsh brightness of the sun.

You hummed, pausing your hands in his hair, looking back at him with a silent question.

He brought your hands down from his hair down to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on your knuckles, paying each joint of each finger mind before placing a kiss on the inside of your wrist and nuzzling into it.

“What was that for,” you hummed, a flustered yet giddy smile on your face. Even if you wanted to hide it, it was nearly impossible. Plus this was Kalim; why would you hide your happiness from him?

Kalim smiled widely at you, still holding your one hand. “Because you deserve good things!”

You deserve good things! Such a simple statement yet it held more weight than its simplicity.

Good things.

Kalim nearly drowned you in good things. One may think he gifted you gold and more valuables than humanly possible, and while that was true at the beginning, he had eased up.

And while he does still give you a miniature stroke every now and then by gifting you something that you honestly don’t want to even think about the price of, the ‘good things’ had changed as he got to know you. As you got more comfortable around him. As the lines between friendship and romance blurred until you found yourself clutching onto his cardigan as you melted into one of his warm embraces during a particularly rough day.

He didn’t push for answers, he didn’t push for anything. He was authentic with you from the first day you met him, and you, in turn, became authentic with him.

He never judged you. Never pushed you to go outside your comfort zone. And he stuck back with you where others may have walked on ahead.

You brought up his hands to your lips now and paid the same mind he did to your hands. “You deserve good things too,” you sighed in contentment. “I may not have-”

Kalim stopped you gently by getting his head off your lap and placing a kiss on your forehead. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. That’s enough… you are enough.”

You looked at him, and his bright eyes looked at you with the warmth of the sun.

Cupping his face between your hands gently, you placed a kiss on his forehead too, lingering there. “Thank you, Kalim… for everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” and he placed a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. Soft, yet it felt like the sun gently warming your skin.

~~~~~~~

Tags; @bloomstruck @eynnwwyjth @ithseem @inkybloom-luv @leonistic @lucid-stories @syrenkitsune @the-v-lociraptor @twistwonderlanddevotee @xxoomiii

#twst #twst x reader #twst x gn reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x gn reader #kalim al asim #kalim al asim x reader #kalim al asim x gn reader #something possessed me but i really like how this turned out #brain wanted to write a soft kalim and soft kalim it received #just something short and sweet for now since i'm working almost full time rn but been wanting to write something for a bit #to the kalim kissers i hope you enjoy!!!!

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ryuzakemo128 · 6 months ago

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I Am Once Again Average At Best

Pairing: Ex-Fiance! Eddie Munson x Italian Mafia Princess! Female Reader

Content Warnings: Cheating, affair, infidelity, violence, blood, swearing, cursing, arranged marriage.

Words: 1020

Masterlist

Credit for the Template and Dividers: @cafekitsune

Summary:

“I know you don't want to talk to me,” he began, his voice cracking, “but I just had to see you.”

You raised an eyebrow at his remark, you didn't have the luxury of waiting for another excuse, “I'm getting married soon. I don't have the time or the patience for you.”

You were planning to get married for the past six months until it fell through when you found him sleeping with your close friend. You cancelled the wedding, chucking all of his things out of the window. Furthermore, you would not let him ruin everything you built for yourself. Ever. He let his greed ruin everything.

You were in your mushroom shed, where all the mushrooms you grew resided inside. You were happy, at least it what you thought you would be, right? Who would want someone like you, right? A gruesome soul amongst those glistening brighter than you.

A gemstone worth less than ten dollars and even less than a diamond. Why would they want you?

Why would anyone want an amethyst? Only ever worth between $20 to $50. Only worth it if someone couldn’t afford a diamond encased in 18k gold. The worth of a ring crafted what made you, you would have been sold for at least a thousand times.

But here you are, surrounded by the fungi of the earth, the unsung heroes of nature's bounty, feeling worth less than their decomposing counterparts.

You had met him at the flea market, his eyes had sparkled with a mischief you thought was charming.

You had been the one to introduce him to the wonders of the mycological world, showing him the magic of how life could sprout from decay.

But he had never seen the beauty in it, the way you did.

He had never understood true value comes from the soul, not from the price tag.

The shed was your sanctuary now, a place where you could escape the judgmental whispers of the townspeople. You had turned it into a miniature forest, with wooden shelves acting as branches for your fungal friends to grow upon. The air was thick with the earthy scent of life and the faint hint of oyster mushrooms cooking on the stove. It was comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness of the outside world.

When he saw you again, you were buying fabric to make more clothes for you. You weren't going to buy clothes like you used to. He tried to approach you, his eyes pleading, but you turned away, the fabric swishing around your legs like a wall of protection.

You didn't need his apologies or his excuses. You had moved on, found solace in the quiet whispers of the mushroom shed, where your thoughts grew as wild as the fungi themselves.

Your dad was beyond keen on marrying you off to a rival crime family to keep the peace between your clan and theirs. You were the Italian Mafia Princess, the bargaining chip in a game of power and alliances. But when you saw Eddie at the flea market, you felt something you hadn't felt before — a spark of genuine interest.

He was a breath of fresh, non-criminal air in your otherwise suffocating world. You had hoped that with him, you could escape the destiny already laid out for you.

But he decided cheating on you was better than being around you. You shook your head, removing the thought from your skull.

The bell on the door jingled as a customer entered the shop, bringing with them a gust of cool autumn air. You looked up, expecting it to be another regular looking to stock up on their weekly fungi supply, but instead, you were met with the unmistakable presence of Eddie. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes wrinkled, and his eyes…his eyes had lost the spark of mischief, replaced by a desperate sadness.

“I know you don't want to talk to me,” he began, his voice cracking, “but I just had to see you.”

You raised an eyebrow at his remark, you didn't have the luxury of waiting for another excuse, “I'm getting married soon. I don't have the time or the patience for you.”

Eddie’s eyes widened in shock, the colour draining from his face, “What? Who? When?” he stuttered.

“I don't know.” you answered, looking away from his face, his deep brown eyes were enough to make your knees weak in the past. Now all you cared to do was to punch him in the face and make him cry. “It's out of my hands now. And for once, I don’t have to think about the aftermath of someone else’s bad decisions.”

Eddie didn’t know whether to scream at you or tell you to take him back, for the sake of your life being worth more than the shallow graves dug out for those who dared to break your heart in the past. The murders planned, carried out and undergone under the same roof you had grown up in.

Your father is a ruthless man, standing at six feet seven inches tall, dressed in fine suits and rarely seen dressed in anything less than perfection. His eyes bore into Eddie, sizing him up as if he were a piece of meat at a deli counter.

You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, calculating whether he was worth keeping around. But you had made your decision, and it was final. You didn’t need Eddie’s kind of love, not anymore.

You also convinced your father that killing Eddie would bring him nothing in return.

He understood the value of getting something worthwhile in return. Your father banned him from his butcher shops, he wouldn't be allowed near you while you were working in them, at least.

Though your father is more of a girl dad than a boy dad, it meant you were spoiled from the day you were born, and you never asked for much.

Which to him meant you were relatively easy to care for. Easy to make and keep happy, at least until you had fallen in love with Eddie. Now, you were his daughter first and a bargaining chip second.

Your father kept every drawing, art piece, and craft you had ever made, displayed proudly on the walls of his office. He was a man who valued the unspoken bond between a father and daughter, something that Eddie never understood.

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vinylsforaphrodite · 12 days ago

Text

tranquility

dainsleif x fem!reader | 6.7k+ words

synopsis: in a quiet moment of reflection, an old soul vividly recalls the ardent love he once shared with you from a past life, a connection that transcends time and lingers in his heart.

note: might not be completely canon bc khaenri'ah lore is crazy, (but I did my research and tried my best), also descriptions of khaenri'ah are made up and my own.

i wrote this while on holiday in the south of france, so some descriptions are reminiscent of that ;)

content: suggestive but not explicit, major character death, war & destruction, you're an artist, fluff and angst, worldbuilding, khaenri'ah+the cataclysm.

You told him about the universe and he said it scared him, the way it keeps expanding. And you said, That’s my favorite part. You said the universe is making sure that no one will ever know everything because it never stays the same long enough for a curious person to catch up.

You said that in summer at night. Very late at night, it must have been, for there was no one around but you and the waxing crescent moon that curiously gazed down bellow, content and tired grin shining brightly as if to say, Your hushed whispers fool no one! Your jumbled words and rosy cheeks and jittery hands do not hide the most obvious fact: Love… yes it is love that is drifting through the salty breeze!

The two of you had spent the day at the harbor market. Dainsleif had just gotten relieved from duty the night before, and he couldn’t wait to spend the next week with you by his side, with no work and no worries lingering in the recesses of his usually busy mind.

Clamorous and enterprising shopkeepers set up their booths along the main harbor square, their wagons wheeling carts of handmade antiques and miniature sculptures, flowers in water buckets, old family specialties made of the most decadent ingredients, and too much more for him to take it all in. Your favorite part of the market had been the flower quarter, in which florists with the help of their assistants— usually young girls and boys trying to make a small penny— laid out their arrangements in orderly pairs of the most beautiful Khaenri'ahn flora.

You favored the campanulas. Their periwinkle and deep royal purple bowl-like complexions had an aroma so sweet that they made it out to be a famous ingredient for expensive Khaenri'ahn perfume. Dainsleif bought you a campanula bouquet for half of its original price after heartwarmingly chatting up the florist. His words being: Who can deny such a beautiful young lady a matching beautiful bouquet of flowers?

“Is this how you woo all the young, beautiful ladies you bring along on these dates?” you had asked.

“No,” he chuckled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as his hair spun of gold from the sun itself. “Just you.”

Your skillful hands knew exactly which peaches had the right, ripe vermillion and pink sunset crevices. And the watermelon! How could he forget? The watermelon was delightful that day, with its refreshing sweetness melting on his tongue and mixing wonderfully with the lemonade you bought from young Gisela at her mother’s booth. The little girl’s face lit up when she saw you approach. You were, after all, her most cherished and valued customer. In your white dress with its ruffles and lace trim, you carried your basket and greeted her with a kind smile.

Although it brings him great pain, he often finds himself picturing that smile. Your smile. The smile he would start forgetting deep into the midnight when he was abruptly woken up by a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead and down his back. Days: He stopped counting long ago. Weeks: He did not know. Months: Seven. Years: Five hundred and twenty-two. This was the time since he last saw that smile, and every day it had gotten harder and harder to draw it out perfectly in his imagination, just how he saw it under that grinning moon then.

So when he has trouble falling asleep – wherever that may be these days – under a tree, in an abandoned adventurers campground, in a cave, in an old inn if the caretaker is kind enough to let him stay, to distract himself from the sounds of horror and fire and smell of ash he imagines that day where you smiled at little Gisela and purchased her homemade sparkling lemonade for the two of you to share. But the idea that he started to forget the exact shape of your dress, the exact pair of heels you wore that day, the color of your earrings, if there were three or four freckles by the right arch of your brow, haunted him immensely.

Impending doom. It sounds positively terrifying to Dainsleif. What if one day — and it may be tomorrow or another five hundred years from now — he wakes up and this memory of you is merely gone forever? That he simply… forgets? That it is finally your time to be laid to rest in the spiritual world, in the small part of the world of his heart he had designated, had left, for you?

There are little moments, little sparks in which Dainsleif’s worries are eased. They come in waves on certain days. He might just be walking up a grassy hill, gathering wood for a fire, or sitting in Angel’s Share (though he prefers the Cat’s Tail on the occasion he decides to enjoy a more easygoing crowd). It is during these moments when an image of you suddenly tingles his consciousness, and it brings warmth, as well as ache, to his troubled heart.

The vibrato of your sweet voice.

The softness of your sunkissed skin.

You sounded like storefront windchimes.

You felt like the ocean at twilight.

You reminded him of sweet strawberry waffles and breakfast in bed.

You were like green cottage shutters and lemon slices in black tea.

You were like a rustic stone fireplace after a day out in the snow.

The taste of your heart. It is a flavor that once matched his tongue.

The smell of your hair. It reminded him of life, indefinitely.

He is glad that these memories of you are still alive and there for him to savor whenever he can. A memory, that’s all that exists of you. But everything you felt, everything you loved, everything you thought and cared for disappeared the day you did.

The sea was calm that day. You looped your arm through his bent elbow, walking side by side on the promenade after leaving the market with your campanula bouquet and a basket full of treats, your steps mirroring each other. Running parallel to the beach, the walk was lined with willow trees swaying in the gentle breeze. Both locals and tourists were sunbathing and engaging in lively conversations at beachside cafes with their bright red and yellow umbrellas. That day felt like a watercolor painting. It felt like blends of soft pigments overlapping in symphonic unity.

The sea disappeared into the sky, an indistinguishable horizon. He would only make out where the sea stopped and the sky began by the many sailboats savoring the sun that day. Crowds lined the coast. You told him you liked how the beaches of southern Khaenri'ah were pebbly instead of sandy. You said you liked the touch of the cool surfaces — that dried easily and never stuck to your skin — beneath your feet. You said you liked the waves gently lapping against the shore and the rhythmic clatter of pebbles as the water receded.

The scene would have slipped through his fingers at the touch.

You set your basket aside, the basket full of those peaches, a plump and round watermelon, slices of bread, and a new jar of jam. You took turns sipping from Gisela’s lemonade bottle. A silent agreement: Dainsleif would take two sips and then pass it to you. You would take two sips and pass it back to him. You thought it would be comical to press the cool bottle dripping with condensation to the back of his neck. Only it did not startle him to the point of your expectations. He enjoyed the rejuvenating feeling chilling him down from the hot sun. He laughed. He always enjoyed your little attempts at pranks and mischief, even if they didn’t always (almost always) manage to surprise him.

You threw pebbles into the water. A contest: who could throw it farther. And when that got tiresome, you slipped off your heels and your frilly white socks and dipped your toes in, going so far as only to the line where the teal blue surface darkened, lifting the delicate fabric of your dress so it wouldn’t get wet. With the flick of your ankles and a much devious expression, you splashed him, which sent him into a sarcastically impressed frenzy, and he returned the favor. Your efforts to keep your dress dry left fruitless.

Then, laying side by side on the picnic blanket, sipping lemonade, fingers intertwined with his left thumb drawing circles at the top of your hand, he remembers your whispered words brushing against his hair as the sun set and the grinning moon rose.

When he thinks of those times with you now, those years feel too short. He was a part of most of your life, but you were barely a sliver of his.

Why would the universe grant bad things to good people? If there were an almighty god, how could he allow this?

The castle walls of the knights’ quarters were sturdy, built out of the strongest of stones. Dainsleif liked calling it home. He had his own room, yes, but not as luxurious as the lord’s chambers— though that didn’t bother him too much. It certainly never bothered you. You had brought your life into that room.

Soon after the two of you had gotten closer, when Dainsleif finally managed the courage to invite you over for tea, his place began to fill with your tiny trinkets. A delicate china vase of your mother’s, a few books you gifted him in that purple wrapping paper, your very own creation: a watercolor painting. A precise yet somehow simultaneously free drawn sight of a pond with water lilies. They reflected on the surface. A fawn and its mother with their pointy white ears and bent necks drinking the lily water.

You were at a dinner party when you gave it to him. Its title: “Tranquility”. It said so on the back of the canvas, your name stamped by. He doesn’t remember whose party it was. Not the food you ate nor the people that were there. He spent that evening only talking to you. I pianist was there, that he remembers. He remembers your deep conversations, that look in your eyes. Longing, love, adoration. He remembers you wearing an elegant blue dress with matching blue gloves. Your hair was up to reveal dangly pearl earrings. And he remembers the keys of the piano lulling him into drunken love as he folded open that purple wrapping paper to reveal the two deers and their water lilies.

The two of you sat on a cushion by the windowsill. This he remembers because he felt the open breeze trace his cheeks and one of your legs swinging back and forth out the window. Your heels had come off and you left them somewhere. You told him your feet ached and you couldn’t care less where those damn heels were now. He called you crazy and you said thank you.

“I want you to have this,” you had said.

“What is it?”

“Go on now,” you urged him. “Open it.”

And so he did, and he had kissed you. You fluttered your lashes, your cheeks growing hot.

“It’s definitely not one of my best works, but I think something draws me to it. I… I thought you would like it.”

Dainsleif exhaled. The murmur in the room became a distant echo.

“It’s beautiful.”

You giggled. “Alright, stop it. People looking at my art makes me nervous, you know that.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way. You’re a very talented artist.” You blushed more and he continued. “I think people need to see how great you are. You haven’t given them the chance.”

Two weeks later you let your art appear at a local exhibition for the first time. Just a couple blocks away from the beach, the streets were full of old and young couples alike. Kids running around with their kites and ice cream cones.

You were a fan of curiosity, of the expanding universe. It fascinated you. But to say you weren’t nervous would be a lie. You were absolutely terrified. The night before, under many blankets, he held you and you asked, “What if they don’t like it?”

“Then they are fools.”

You settled your nose into the crook of his neck. “If they hate it… I don’t think I’ll show my face in public ever again.”

Dainsleif, who was running his fingers through your hair, urged you to look up at him.

“Art reveals your unique perspective of the world; if others fail to appreciate it, they simply miss the beauty that you perceive.”

You grinned, your eyes twinkling in the dark room. “Do you see the beauty I perceive?”

He chuckled, shaking his head and leaning down to run his fingers down your bare back. You started to giggle, writhing and desperately trying to push him away to stop him from tickling you.

“I’m not telling,” he teased. “You already know the answer to that.”

The chime that hung at the door rang when he entered the gallery. You were too busy to notice him there, busy chatting away with a couple of wealthy tourists from the north who were interested in purchasing one of your pieces. You looked more mature that day. Bright red lipstick, a long skirt, something about wanting to be taken seriously as an artist. He didn’t question it. Thinking about it now, the two of you were so young. So young and so clueless.

He took long steps around the room. It was quite busy. In fact, it had been his idea to offer guests desserts and champagne. The madeleines were a popular pick. He had helped you bake them, and in return, you perfected the recipe.

Five hundred and more years later, he yearns to taste them again.

Your watercolor paintings hung on every wall. Both rich art collectors and simple locals passed Dainsleif. It made him proud to see the room so alive.

He stopped by a less crowded painting. Its only viewer was an old man in a straw hat. The man leaned on his walking stick and took short puffs from his cigar.

Dainsleif greeted the man with a bow of his chin. The man huffed in return. “Boy,” the old man addressed him. “What do you suppose this work is supposed to mean? Titled, ‘Swimming in The Moon’...? The two figures there, how are they swimming in the moon, you say…? And what is that there?” he wiggled his pointed finger. “What do you suppose they are doing?”

Dainsleif thought about it. To him, it was obvious.

“In a figurative sense, they are swimming in the moonlight, not the moon itself. And what are they doing? Well…

… they’re drinking lemonade.”

Now, Dainsleif stares up at the wall, watching his shadow flicker in the candlelight as he bites his bottom lip, careful to hide noises of pain. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, concentrating on the racket of the spinning mill to distract himself from what was most bitterly evident. It is here where Ms. Bai, the owner of the mill in Qingce Village, lets him stay in the spare bedroom of her home sometimes. It is here where Dainsleif knows nothing can hurt him, no danger can be found. He comes here to rest, but quickly, for there is so much more still needed to be done.

When Dainsleif first arrived at Qingce Village, he was a mere passerby looking for some place to crash for the night. He headed to the Stone Gate, but the adventurers coming in the opposite direction warned him of incoming storms. He did not know it then, but those storms would last two weeks. A short time, but a longer time with soaking wet boots.

The old woman saw him out in the pouring rain. Pity, that was what she felt. A humble retirement village, what was a young gentleman of his age doing here? Out and about, so miserable in the ghastly weather?

She swung the door open on its rusty hinges and invited him in. He, of course, politely declined several times. Poor Ms. Bai had to practically drag him inside. It was not until she brought him hot soup and dry blankets that Dainsleif began to feel appreciative, that maybe some hospitality was good once in a while.

“You sweet thing, what were you doing out there? Have you gone mad? Do you want to even imagine the kind of cold you could catch? These people take their health very seriously. We’re old, but we have to make a living!”

Dainsleif could only let her scold him. She was right.

“Oh child,” she said, her eyes falling weary as she took in his condition. “You look like the Archons took you down with their spears and back up again… like you haven’t got any sleep ages!”

If only she knew.

And then she offered him to stay the night, showing him the empty bedroom. Dainsleif did not decline this time. He really was extremely fatigued. He would have offered to pay but had no mora. It is alright, she had said. I don’t need your money. But he insisted on offering almost anything and she declined again. A pattern of rejecting generosity.

The next morning, she cooked him breakfast. Rice and eggs and orange juice and muffins. Dainsleif hadn’t had a proper meal in ages. He ate it all. And though he expected them, she would not ask any questions. It was only until he came back to the village several months later with great injuries to his physique, blood covering his skin when she subtly brought it up.

“I am not going to bother you, it is not my personal business, but I can tell you need this. So I tell you, if you need to feel safe, you are always welcome here.”

A safe haven.

Years passed and Ms. Bai grew older and her children and grandchildren stopped visiting as often. If she noticed that Dainsleif had stayed the exact same, never aging, she never dared say it out loud.

“I don’t know where you are from. Not from these parts that is for sure,” she smiled, the lines in her cheeks revealing years of happiness. “But what I do know is that you are grieving. And child… grief is something we all feel. Grief is just love that has nowhere to go.”

That is what Dainsleif had learned. Ms. Bai, the old lady and owner of the mill in Qingce Village, had made him open his eyes, had made him discover something he had been blinded to for all of his years without you by his side. Had made him cut up a piece of his mind and soul into an area unbeknownst to him.

The memory of you enters his mind again and he thinks,

As long as there’s grief

I will endure it

because it means

that you were here

and that it mattered.

Dainsleif groans into his bottom lip. He tastes blood on his tongue. The rippling, sharp stabbing sensations coating his torso only seem to escalate with each passing breath. He pants into the open air, trying to steady his shaking hands, gripping the needle harder.

He was attacked in the dead of night. A demented Oceanid creature from the Sal Terrae. He had never seen something like it before. He sensed abyssal magic during the attack, perhaps an escaped exploratory subject.

It took all of his strength to defeat the cruel monster. He stood alone, watching the life drain out of it. But with victory came a price. A physical, painful one.

He bites down harder. If he isn’t careful, he could bite the whole thing off. He sets the needle down and takes his discarded shirt, ripping part of the fabric to put into his mouth. The fabric does well in muffling his torture. It certainly saves his lips from further pain. Dainsleif takes the needle again and punctures his skin. He threads it slowly. Inhale, into the skin. Exhale, out. With his other hand, he holds the skin together to ensure the stitches will stay. Blood continues to drip out, but as he stitches onward, the gash closes.

He’s been doing this for several hours. Ms. Bai is out, probably in the big city for the week. The sun starts to peak out from the horizon. Cranes with their long necks and mighty wings fly across the dawn-lit sky. They remind him of your brush strokes.

“Look,” you had said. “Use a fluffy brush or a sponge to create the clouds. Dip it in white paint and lightly dab it onto the canvas in the upper sections, like this…” You held his hand that held the brush and steered him. “Allow it to blend softly into the blue.”

It was one of the hottest days of the year, and the fan that usually cooled your studio had been broken. You opened the window shutters to let some air through. Below you heard the hustle of morning traffic, of wagons and carriages and distant calls of seagulls.

The two of you were sweating like crazy. It stuck to your skin like sweet and rich honey that no matter how many times you tried to wash off, it would still be there. He made you iced tea in a crystal glass pitcher, and then you sat down on the cool floor to paint.

Dainsleif was too busy looking at you instead of the task at hand. Your skin was tanner than it was before, your hair a little lighter. From being out in the sun too much, he figured. You had on a pair of shorts and a cotton camisole. They were matching, red with white polka dots.

“Dain…” you smiled a toothy grin, raising your eyebrows at him. “Are you paying attention?”

He cleared his throat, noting that he’d been staring for too long.

“Once the background is dry, use a small brush or even a fine-tipped paint applicator to lightly sketch the outlines of the birds.” You guided his hand and drew the shapes. He felt your breath on his bare shoulder and at the tip of his collarbone. “They can be depicted like this. Small 'V's or 'M's to represent their wings and bodies.”

You paused when you felt it too hot to breathe.

“Dain…” you said. “Are you listening?”

And then in one swift motion he tipped you backwards until your back hit the wooden floor, his arms straight and caging you in. The brush you helped him hold fell out of your hands and landed somewhere in the room. He hoped the paint on its hairs didn’t smudge on the canvas nor on the woven rug not far away.

He leaned down to kiss you but stopped just a breath away, feeling the speed of your inhales and exhales escalate with every passing second.

He could tell he was torturing you when you almost let out a whine, tracing your fingers up the nape of his neck into his hair. The sensation sent a shiver through him and he let go of a sigh into the hot air.

When he finally brushed his lips over yours, you both understood that the painting with the clouds and the birds would be forgotten about until later the next day.

The cranes had flown away now, and Dainsleif was on the last stitch. He pulls the string out and exhales deeply in relief. He snaps the excess string and ties it into place. He spits out the fabric in his mouth and looks down. The bed is stained in red. A sight he is far too familiar with.

And so he recalls a bitter winter night when things took a turn for the worse.

“Dain…?”

He hummed.

“I… I read some things in the paper this morning. Something about…”

Your breath got caught in your throat. Dainsleif knew what you were going to say. Ever since those documents came out to the public, everything was quieter. The people of Khaenri'ah were waiting for a train they knew may or may never arrive. He expected what you were going to bring up. He desperately didn’t want to face it.

He noticed that you moved your body closer to his, pressing against him tight. His hand met your temple, his fingers tucking away hair behind your ear. “Shhh… it will be alright,” he whispered.

“Those buildings covered in smog down the coast… I didn’t know they were discovering… that they were using new kinds of alchemy. Are we going to war? What’s happening?”

He kissed the crown of your head as your nose settled into his neck. “My dear, it is too early to worry about that.”

You pushed yourself away to gain some distance, his face getting a better view of your conflicted eyes.

“But Dainsleif, you knew about this. The Royal Guard, all the knights, the military, the king… everyone but the public. How could this happen? How can this art create new life? Isn’t it dangerous? Won’t there be consequences?”

Dainsleif took a deep breath. You looked like an angel above him, the candlelight casting its glow onto your back.

“Nobody wants war to happen. It will not happen.”

“But you knew. Why didn’t you say anything? This is dangerous. Why did the public have no say? Why were we blinded to this for so long?”

Dainsleif could tell you were on the brink of panic but doing your best to compose yourself. You were a calm person with a calm and caring character. Things never got too out of hand for you to run into the spinning wheels of anxiety. But with the complicated discussion of war, these feelings, for anyone for that matter, were inevitable.

“Dear,” he began, running his fingers up and down the length of your arms to ease your distress. “We, the knights, the guard, are given confidential information regularly. There were only mere discussions of pursuing the Art of Khemia, just a possibility. We did this for protection. I would never hold information from you, even in the utmost importance. What if there is going to be no war… no danger? Why would I expose you to useless worry and fear? Field Tillers have been a military weapon prototype for a long time now. Just as they are in control, Khemia will be controlled too. Things…” he paused, scanning your features with his cautious eyes… “The public’s interest became involved only because things began to escalate.” You shook your head vigorously. You got up from bed and walked over to the closed window. “So, things are escalating? Are we going to be safe?”

Dainsleif sighed and sat up to watch you. You had your back to him, staring out the window and the falling snow as you bit your nails.

“Right now… there is nothing for us to fear.”

Dainsleif, an esteemed knight and the Twilight Sword to the throne with insider knowledge of the monarchy, knew almost as much as you did. He said those words to you then because he wanted to protect you. He wanted to make you feel safe. But thinking back to it, he believed barely half of what he uttered.

If only he hadn’t been as stubborn, as young, and as stupid, he would’ve listened to your cries and fears and fled with you to any universe, nearby or not, so you could have stayed alive. But no one had fully grasped what was to come. No one had predicted a cataclysm.

“Come back to bed,” he whispered.

You turned your chin over your left shoulder. He could see tears on the rim of your eyes begging to break but you would not let them. You had always been strong, up to your very last breath.

He watched the snow fall behind you. They were gentle snowflakes fluttering down in a whimsical dance. They found their comfort on the full pine needles and thick tree branches, the same branches that reflected off that waterlily pond, now frozen. The same branches that watched over the fawn and its mother, sharing nature’s tranquility in the warmer months.

You sniffled.

“Please,” he said, reaching out his arm for you to take. “Come back to me.”

And you did because you loved him. You did because you trusted him. And you laid down on his chest and he wrapped his arms around you. He felt your heartbeat against his own. It comforted him.

Why? Because that day you did come back to him. Only one day, you didn’t.

The normally boisterous and charming citizens of Khaenri'ah who had turned into quiet and fearful creatures practically overnight, thought winter would never end.

That year it had been of greater cruelty. Literature that was later left to irrevocably burn had described it as barbaric, with never-ending blizzards and food shortages, waves that crashed into wooden ships and sailboats leaving no mercy on the poor souls within.

Those long months were spent huddled by the fireplace in his room, and the junior ranking knights were jealous, for their accommodations didn’t have such luxuries.

He had been lucky. Thinking back to it, too lucky. With his higher rank, he received much generous support from the royal family themselves. Warmth, money, food, and then salt. Yes, salt was the most important. So high in demand and with the markets shifting, the value rose exponentially. Everything…all of it had been an esteemed achievement, and he swore to be forever thankful for their protection. For him, and of course, for you.

He spent his time at his desk, filling out reports for the time being, occasionally peering out the window to watch the frozen water of the lily pond gain new cracks on its surface. There was little work to be done, just sending unlucky chosen squads to patrol the royal grounds, gardens, and streets. Even that wasn’t necessary, it was protocol, for there were no souls needed watching outside.

You would not say it out loud, but from the look in your eyes Dainsleif could tell you were struggling. Resistance movements of the dangerous alchemy operated from the peaks of the mountains in the Khaenri'ahn north to the shores in the south, ranging from non-cooperation to propaganda. The two of you were watching the world crumbling before you before it had actually happened. To predict what would happen would have been an ancient forbidden art form in itself, but what you were seeing was not far off.

Fear was evident in every street corner, every frozen well, every closed coffee shop, in every third floor apartment, in every humble bungalow. The coast was covered in an ashy, brown-like haze all of winter.

Business was slow. Dainsleif noticed you spending more time helping your family, which mosty included cooking and cleaning the house for them. Then, you would go to the corner shop, and carry whatever food it had left to the knight’s quarters at the right hill of the castle walls. They recognized you, old friends you had drinks with earlier that previous year. Let her in, they said. It’s the Twilight Sword’s fiancée. And when you opened his door and walked in, you saw him hunched over at his desk, pen in hand, staring blankly out the window.

So, it had been a miracle granted by all the gods themselves when the barbaric winter finally said goodbye. Ironic, for all the citizens had thought it overstayed its welcome. A welcome never granted in the first place.

Yes, he thought, the cruel winter had left, but the branches of trees had not conceived any leaves, nor did they show signs of new shoots ready to grow.

Spring. It was not too cold but not warm enough either. So, when the morning sun said hello to a new day, its rays shining through the iridescent white curtains and illuminating your sweet face in an angel-like glow, Dainsleif had hope.

It had been a gentle kiss, both his and of the sun’s that woke you up. You fluttered your eyelashes and tiredly smiled.

The icy pond in the garden of the knight’s quarters had melted completely, and as the curtains swayed in the breeze, he heard ducklings quack approvingly at their hardworking mother.

You groaned, stretching your limbs, then, in his ear, you whispered, “What shall we do today?”

“I have some things to attend to,” he said, his fingers drawing shapes on your stomach. “But do not worry. It shouldn’t take long. I can meet you down by the pier for lunch today. Would you like that?”

You said you’d love that, and that you would meet him there.

And with one last kiss to his cheek you sprung up from bed and put on a white dress with a long skirt and a red ribbon and matching red heels, looked over your shoulder one last time at him, waved, and left.

While recalling that moment, he screams. He internally screams at himself, for how could he be so stupid to let you walk away from him so easily? Why didn’t he beg you to stay, just for a little longer? Why hadn’t he made you his then, in the early morning hours when the grass still had fresh wet dew? Why had he waiting for so long?

And he screams at you too. How could you smile like that with everything happening in the world? A monarchy so corrupt and greedy it had no care for its people… all the while he worked for them… he was on their side? How could you leave him when he needed you most? How could you take it and sit there, sit there and take in his foolishness, his failure at being a better person, a better man, a better leader, a better partner?

Because just before the church bells would ring twelve times to mark half of the day, just before most shopkeepers and market staff would go on their break, just before he was to meet you at the pier for lunch, Dainsleif stood at a busy street, waiting for a carriage to pass when he felt the grumbling under his feet.

The next few events are a blur to Dainsleif, something his mind unintentionally wiped from his memory and he doesn’t know why. But what he can remember is the vibrations in the ground, the shrieking, the way the carriage tipped to its side and the horses leapt in horror. He remembers dust and ash falling from the sky like snow. Only the sky wasn’t white like your dress, it was red, with falling rocks too.

There was a deafening roar, rolling like thunder, that he is sure of. There were hot rivers of fire consuming everything in their path, snaking through the streets and parks and homes as women held their crying babies.

The ash obstructed his line of vision, but all he could think about as he ran for the pier was you.

He thought you’d be difficult to find, but there you were, your silhouette flat on the destroyed cobblestone road, and his feet started to move before his mind even registered it. Calling out your name in misery, he reached your side and saw the front of your dress stained the same color as your ribbon, your heels, the sun when it set as you drank lemonade, the current state of the sky, and the rivers of fire.

Dainsleif held your face in his lap, his hands finding their spot in your blood-covered hair.

It was hard to see your body clearly. All the distractions, from the beat of his racing heart to the tears in his eyes. He realized then that he was crying. Dainsleif had been known to be a strong and sensible man. He never cried.

Repeating your name in hushed whispers, he stroked your face gently, feeling the wetness of your own cheeks.

You had been crying too. Dead people don’t cry.

“Wake up,” he said. “Wake up.”

And when you groaned, he cradled your neck to his chest and lifted your limp body up, holding you like a broken bride.

He started walking, as fast as his panicking pace allowed him. Where? He did not know. Somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the smoldering heat, perhaps a way out completely.

“Dain…” you muttered so quietly that he wouldn't have heard if he hadn’t held your face so close to his own.

“You’re going to be alright. Promise to stay with me, okay?”

He held you tighter and you hissed in pain.

“Dain…”

He was crying harder.

“Dain, you’re hurting me.”

Only when he looked down did he see more red marks seeping through the several, once purely white, layers of your clothing. There, right below the right side of your ribcage, through the rapid gallop of your breathing, a sharp, heavy, terrifyingly clear shard of glass revealed itself in the auburn light.

That was the moment Dainsleif lost his first battle to the transcendence of mortality.

He was heaving. Sweat lined his forehead and he coughed up the soot that clouded around you.

“Shhh…” he stammered. “You’re going to be okay. Hold on just a little longer.”

You gripped his hand and tightly clenched it.

“Please,” you whimpered. “It hurts so much. I don’t think I can…”

“I’ll get you out of here, I promise. Just hold on to me.”

Dainsleif recalls hearing more crashing in the background as he ran, buildings and ancient structures full of love and history crumbling down as the archons acted in destruction. Though his hearing, all of his senses, were faltering as the grip you had on his hand loosened slowly.

“Dain, I want you to know that I love you. So much.”

Dainsleif’s head was spinning. He sniffled, shaking his head over and over again.

“Don’t go like this,” he said. “Come back to me.”

Only you didn’t. Your hand dropped its weight, and your eyes, once so full of life, lost their focus.

“I love you too,” he whispered endlessly into your skin. But he cursed himself as it will curse him for all of eternity…

…because you never got to hear him say it back.

Dainsleif, who had cleaned his cut and his tools, packed and stitched up his clothes, was ready to leave Qingce Village. The few escaped rays of light just barely peak out of the robust Minlin hills and mountains when he steps outside into the early Liyuen hours. He hears the wooden mill, weathered and adorned with moss, turning slowly, powered by the force of the current. A creak trickles down toward the terrace farms, where a few villagers have already started their day’s work.

He closes the door to Ms. Bai’s home, remembering to leave some mora he collected here and there on the porch rocking chair, as a way of thanks.

He doesn’t know when he’ll return. Perhaps soon. Perhaps never. Perhaps in another one hundred years. But he has trained his conscience never to get attached to a place for too long. He learned it to be a very dangerous thing.

And so he walks down the gravel path away from the village, onto the next adventure, wherever that might lead him, hearing soft clatter and kettles ringing as the villagers get ready for their day. He sees dew sparkling on the grass in the shade where the sunlight hasn’t kissed yet. He sees a ginger cat cross the path, its rounded face looking back at him peculiarly when his footsteps make a sound, only to run away further when losing interest. He sees purple flowers in a windowsill in a chipped vase, and they remind him of your campanulas. He smells roasted coffee and breakfast spices drifting in the wind.

And just like that, he hums a little song, for the new day is full of possibilities. He enjoys mornings like this the most. They are not cold and not lonely like old winter nights. They are serene. Golden. He feels radiant. He feels hopeful.

And he is like a deer drinking water from a pond of lilies.

Because in mornings like this, he feels tranquility.

♡♡♡♡♡

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