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callsigns-haze · 3 months ago

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Traitors War: 2

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

An Eris x assassin reader mini series! (which may be followed by one-shots)

Chapter 1

Eris, the heir to the Autumn throne, along with his brothers wishes to get rid of his father. Never did he know this journey would start 200 years ago with an assassin exiled from the Night court.

Word count: 8.8k

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Topics of war and death.

The main tent buzzes with a tense energy, its heavy canvas walls flapping faintly in the night breeze. A large table dominates the centre of the space, maps and strategy notes spread haphazardly across its surface. The Vanserra brothers—Eris, Lucien, Fern, Ashen, and Lux—sit in a loose circle, their faces lit by the flickering glow of lanterns. The scent of wine mingles with the lingering traces of ash and sweat, the air thick with unspoken anxieties.

Eris sits at the head of the table, his chair slightly pulled back from the rest. His sharp features are cast into stark relief by the firelight, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on his wristwatch. His long fingers tap an uneven rhythm on the wooden armrest, betraying the nervous energy he’s worked so hard to conceal. Every few seconds, he glances down at the watch’s face, counting the minutes since the hounds returned. He knows the exact timing—knows that the hounds’ return marks the beginning of your own, that the trek back should take no more than thirty-five minutes. And yet, the seconds drag on, each one heavier than the last.

Lucien leans casually against the table, his golden eye catching the firelight as he studies the map before them. “If Beron loses his western flank, the tide shifts completely,” he says, his voice steady but edged with the weight of their task. “We’ll have the numbers. His soldiers are already deserting.”

“Numbers don’t matter if we don’t outmanoeuvre him,” Ashen counters, swirling the wine in his glass. “He’s still got loyalists dug in around the eastern camps.”

“We can box them in,” Fern interjects, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he leans forward. “But we’ll need to move fast. Eris, you agree?”

Eris doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes are on his watch again, the golden timepiece glinting as he flicks it open and shut. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

Lucien exchanges a look with Ashen, his lips curving in a faint, knowing smile. “He’s distracted,” Lucien remarks dryly, taking a slow sip from his glass.

“Worried about something?” Fern asks, raising a brow.

Eris finally looks up, his amber eyes sharp as they sweep the room. “I’m always worried about something,” he says curtly, the edge in his tone silencing further commentary.

Lux, sitting slightly apart from the others with his boots propped on a low stool, smirks and lifts his glass. “Maybe he’s worried about his little spy,” he drawls, the words deliberately teasing. “Or is it something more than that, Eris? Should we be expecting wedding bells?”

The atmosphere shifts instantly. Eris’s gaze snaps to Lux, a flicker of something dark and volatile flashing across his face. The air in the tent feels suddenly heavier, the tension palpable as the brothers freeze, sensing the brewing storm.

“Watch your tongue, Lux,” Eris says quietly, his voice low and cutting, the kind of tone that carries more weight than a shout ever could. His fingers curl tightly around the armrest of his chair, the movement deliberate, controlled—barely.

Lux raises his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never quite leaves his face. “Relax, brother,” he says, though there’s a hint of unease in his tone now. “I was only joking.”

Eris leans forward slightly, his amber eyes locking onto Lux’s with a dangerous intensity. “You think it’s a joke? That the person risking their life for us right now is worth mocking?” His words are sharp, each one precise and deliberate. “Maybe if you spent more time strategizing and less time running your mouth, we’d be closer to ending this war.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Lux shifts uncomfortably in his seat, finally dropping his gaze. Lucien clears his throat, breaking the tension with practiced ease. “Enough,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “We have more important things to focus on.”

Eris exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair, but his focus drifts back to his watch. The flicker of anger in his eyes is replaced by something softer, something unguarded and raw. He’s not just worried about the mission. He’s worried about you.

The ticking of Eris’s watch feels deafening in the tense quiet of the tent. Every click of the second hand seems to burrow deeper into his nerves, the weight of it settling heavily in his chest. His jaw clenches tighter with each passing second, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair in a rhythm that matches his watch. He’s calculated the time it would take you to return a dozen times over, factoring in every possible delay. Yet, as the minutes creep beyond what should have been your arrival, a sharp unease coils in his gut.

Five minutes past the mark.

It’s too long.

Eris stands abruptly, the force of his movement scraping the chair against the wooden floor with a grating noise that silences his brothers mid-conversation. His amber eyes are shadowed with determination as he grabs his coat from the back of his chair and strides toward the tent’s entrance without a word.

Lucien’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp with concern and curiosity. “Eris.” He stands as well, taking a step toward his older brother. “Where are you going?”

Eris doesn’t stop, his long strides purposeful as he moves toward the flap of the tent. “I’m going to find her,” he says curtly, not bothering to turn around. His voice carries an edge of finality, daring anyone to argue.

Lucien frowns, his golden eye narrowing slightly. “You don’t even know where she is. The hounds haven’t come back yet. You can’t just charge into the woods without a plan.”

Eris pauses at the threshold, his back straight, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at Lucien, doesn’t meet the concerned gazes of his other brothers. Instead, he speaks with a quiet intensity that cuts through the tension like a blade. “She should’ve been back by now.”

Lucien steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. She’s capable, Eris. She’s handled worse before. Give her a little more time.”

But Eris turns his head just enough for the firelight to catch the sharp angles of his face, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of worry in his eyes. “I gave her time,” he says, his voice tight. “And now I’m done waiting.”

Without another word, he sweeps out of the tent, the cool night air rushing in as the flap falls shut behind him. Lucien watches him go, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. He knows better than to follow—knows the stubborn streak that runs deep in Eris and the quiet desperation behind his brother’s actions.

As the sound of Eris’s boots fades into the night, the tension in the tent lingers. Lux glances at Lucien, raising a brow. “Think he’ll actually find her?”

Lucien doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze still fixed on the tent’s entrance. Finally, he sighs and sinks back into his chair. “If anyone can,” he mutters, more to himself than the others, “it’s him.”

-----

The river slows, the violent current easing as the terrain flattens. Your limbs feel leaden, your muscles screaming in protest as you claw at the rocky riverbed. Each breath is a struggle, your chest heaving as you fight the weight of the waterlogged clothing clinging to your body. The chill of the river seeps into your bones, a biting cold that makes your fingers clumsy and numb.

Your hands find purchase on a jagged rock, and you pull yourself forward with a groan. The rough surface scrapes against your palms, the sting sharp and immediate. You ignore it, gritting your teeth as you drag yourself further out of the water. The river licks at your legs, reluctant to let you go, but you finally manage to crawl onto the uneven ground, collapsing onto your stomach with a shuddering gasp.

For a moment, you lie there, the world spinning as you try to catch your breath. The stars overhead blur, their light fractured by the droplets clinging to your lashes. The night air is frigid against your soaked skin, and the wet fabric of your gear feels like a leaden shroud. Every inch of you aches, from the sharp sting of shallow cuts to the deeper bruises forming beneath your skin.

You push yourself up slowly, your arms trembling with the effort. Your gaze drops to your hands, and even in the dim light, you can see the blood smeared across your palms. Thin, crimson lines crisscross your skin, where the rocks tore into you during the jump and the struggle in the river. A quick glance down confirms more cuts along your legs, the fabric of your trousers shredded in places, blood welling up from angry gashes.

The air smells of damp earth and iron, the faint tang of your blood mingling with the freshness of the river. You shiver violently, the cold tightening its grip as the wind brushes against your soaked form. Water drips from your hair, trailing down your face and neck in icy rivulets. The chill is unrelenting, a sharp reminder that you need to move, need to get warm, need to find shelter.

You push to your knees, the motion unsteady. Mud squelches beneath you, clinging to your skin as you force yourself to stand. Your boots sink slightly into the soft ground, but you manage to stagger forward, your body swaying as you adjust to the weight of exhaustion. Each step is a battle, but you grit your teeth and keep moving, the distant glow of the burning camp a haunting silhouette behind you.

The forest looms ahead, dark and foreboding, but it’s a shield against the open riverbank. You limp toward it, every instinct urging you to keep going, to put distance between yourself and the chaos you left behind. Blood drips in a steady rhythm from your hand, marking your trail with stark red drops.

Your breaths come out in ragged bursts, visible puffs of steam in the frigid night air. The chill cuts deeper with every moment, but you press on, the flicker of survival burning stubbornly within you.

The forest is dense, shadows curling around the trees like silent sentinels. You stumble forward, each step heavier than the last. The initial rush of adrenaline has long since faded, leaving your body to grapple with the sheer weight of exhaustion and pain. Your cuts sting with every movement, the cold air biting into your skin through the shredded fabric of your gear. Blood trickles in thin, sticky rivulets down your arms and legs, leaving a faint trail in your wake.

Ten minutes. That’s as far as you manage.

Your legs buckle, the strength in them giving way as you collapse against the rough bark of a tree. The impact sends a sharp jolt of pain through your already battered body, but you’re too drained to care. You slide down until you’re seated, the damp ground beneath you soaking into what’s left of your clothing. Your head tips back, resting against the gnarled trunk, and you stare up at the canopy above. The stars peek through the leaves, their light distant and indifferent.

Your breath comes in shallow gasps, each one visible in the frosty air. The forest feels too quiet, the silence pressing against your ears. You try to focus, try to muster the will to move, but your body refuses. The cold is sinking deeper now, numbing your fingers and toes, sapping what little energy you have left.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. The darkness feels like a reprieve, soft and all-encompassing. Your mind drifts, slipping into the quiet void of exhaustion. You tell yourself you’ll move soon, just a few moments of rest. But those moments stretch on, your awareness fading like the embers of a dying fire.

The sound of hurried footsteps pulls you back from the edges of unconsciousness. You’re too weak to open your eyes, the world around you a blur of cold and faint sounds. A voice calls your name, sharp and edged with worry. You don’t have the strength to answer.

Eris breaks through the underbrush, his amber eyes scanning the area with frantic precision. The light of the small lantern he carries casts shifting shadows across the forest floor, illuminating the streaks of blood and the faint footprints you left behind. His breath hitches when he sees you slumped against the tree, your form crumpled and unnaturally still.

“Gods,” he breathes, rushing to your side. He drops to his knees, the lantern clattering to the ground beside him. His hands hover over you, hesitant, as though afraid touching you might break you further.

“Wake up,” he commands, his voice tight with worry. “Damn it, open your eyes.”

When you don’t respond, his hands settle on your shoulders, shaking you gently at first, then more insistently. “Come on. Don’t do this,” he mutters, his tone slipping into something raw and vulnerable.

His gaze rakes over you, taking in the torn and bloodied state of your clothing, the deep cuts on your exposed skin, and the way your lips are faintly tinged with blue from the cold. He curses under his breath, the sound low and vicious, and quickly shrugs off his coat, wrapping it around your trembling form.

Eris presses two fingers to your neck, searching for your pulse. Relief flickers across his face when he finds it, though it’s faint and thready beneath his touch. “You’re freezing,” he says, more to himself than you, his voice tinged with desperation.

He leans closer, his hand brushing against your cheek, warm despite the chill of the night. “I told you this was a risk,” he mutters, his tone a mix of anger and fear. “You’re not allowed to leave me like this. Do you hear me?”

When you don’t stir, he pulls you carefully into his arms, cradling you against his chest. The movement is gentle, despite the tension radiating from his body. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmurs, as though saying it out loud will make it true.

Eris rises to his feet with you in his arms, his jaw set in determination. The lantern’s light casts long shadows as he strides back through the forest, his pace quick but careful. The warmth of his body against yours is the last thing you register before unconsciousness drags you under again.

The forest blurs around Eris as he runs, his breaths coming in harsh, uneven gasps that cloud in the frigid night air. Your weight in his arms is both grounding and unbearable, each step jolting the raw cuts and bruises marring your body. He tightens his grip, cradling you closer to his chest, his coat swaddling your limp form like a makeshift shield. His heart pounds in his ears, louder than the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his boots, louder than the distant calls of the night.

He bursts through the tree line, the flickering glow of the campfires ahead guiding him like a beacon. His boots pound against the dirt path, and the guards stationed near the edge of the camp snap to attention, their eyes widening in alarm as they take in the sight of their commander.

“Move!” Eris barks, his voice cutting through the night like a whip. The guards scatter, clearing a path as he barrels toward the main tent. His coat flutters behind him, the weight of the situation palpable in the tense air that follows him like a storm.

Inside the tent, the Vanserra brothers are still seated, their conversation subdued as they pore over strategy maps. Ashen swirls a glass of wine lazily, his brow furrowed in thought, while Lux leans back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Lucien, always sharp, glances toward the tent’s entrance just as Eris storms in.

The sight of him silences the room. His brothers freeze, their gazes snapping to the bloodied figure in his arms. The dim lantern light casts harsh shadows on Eris’s face, his amber eyes blazing with a mix of fury and fear.

“Get a healer!” Eris roars, his voice reverberating through the tent. The raw panic in his tone is enough to spur them into action.

Ashen is the first to move, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he bolts upright. His wine glass topples, spilling dark liquid across the maps, but he doesn’t spare it a glance. “On it,” he says sharply, already sprinting out of the tent. The flap flutters wildly in his wake as he yells for a healer.

Lucien is at Eris’s side in an instant, his golden eye scanning your motionless form. “What the hell happened?” he demands, his voice tight with concern. He reaches out but stops short of touching you, his hand hovering uncertainly. “She’s bleeding everywhere—what did you do?”

“She jumped off a cliff into the godsdamned river,” Eris growls, his tone trembling with restrained emotion. He kneels carefully, lowering you onto a pile of blankets spread hastily across the floor. His hands linger, unwilling to let you go completely.

Lux, for once, is silent, his usual smirk replaced by a grim expression as he crouches beside Eris. His sharp eyes take in the shredded fabric of your gear, the blood streaking your skin, and the faint rise and fall of your chest. “She’s alive,” he mutters, more to reassure himself than anyone else.

Eris presses his fingers to your neck again, finding your pulse faint but steady. He exhales sharply, a sound more like a shudder than a sigh. “She wasn’t supposed to take this much risk,” he says, his voice low and laced with guilt.

Lucien places a hand on Eris’s shoulder, his grip firm but steady. “She’s alive,” he says pointedly, locking eyes with his older brother. “And she’s not done fighting. You know that.”

The tent flap bursts open, and Ashen returns with a healer in tow, a slender female with sharp, focused eyes and a satchel of supplies slung over her shoulder. “Out of my way,” she orders briskly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Eris doesn’t move immediately, his hand still resting protectively on your arm. The healer spares him a glance, her gaze softening just slightly. “I’ll take care of her,” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.

Reluctantly, Eris rises, stepping back but never straying far. His brothers exchange glances, but none of them say a word, the weight of Eris’s worry hanging heavy in the air. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched as he watches the healer work, every muscle in his body taut with barely restrained fear.

-----

The first thing you notice is the warmth. Not the biting chill of the river or the numbing cold that had seeped into your bones but a soft, enveloping warmth that feels foreign after the ordeal. Your eyelids are heavy, your body sluggish, but the faint hum of voices and the rustle of fabric nearby pulls you closer to consciousness.

When you finally manage to open your eyes, the dim light of the tent greets you. Shadows flicker across the canvas walls, cast by the steady flame of a lantern perched on a nearby table. The scents of healing herbs and clean linen mingle with the faint metallic tang of blood, though it’s not as overwhelming as you might have expected.

You shift slightly, the movement drawing a sharp inhale as your body protests with aches and twinges of pain. That’s when you feel it—a hand wrapped around yours, firm and steady. You blink, turning your head to the side, and find Eris sitting beside you. His head is bowed slightly, his fiery hair catching the lantern’s glow, but his amber eyes lift the moment he feels you stir.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice low and edged with something you can’t quite place—relief, exhaustion, maybe even anger. His grip on your hand tightens just slightly, as if reassuring himself that you’re really here, alive.

You try to speak, but your throat feels dry, your voice barely more than a rasp. “What… happened?”

Eris exhales slowly, leaning forward. “You jumped off a cliff into a river,” he says, his tone tight with frustration, though his eyes soften as they meet yours. “I found you on the forest floor, half-dead and bleeding all over the godsdamned place. If you had been any slower getting out of the water…” He trails off, shaking his head as though trying to banish the thought.

Your brows furrow as you take in his appearance—his clothes are wrinkled, his hair slightly dishevelled, and faint dark circles mar the skin beneath his eyes. “Have you… been here the whole time?” you ask softly, your voice still hoarse.

Eris hesitates, his gaze dropping to your joined hands for a moment. “Only at night,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I couldn’t—” He pauses, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t leave you completely. Not like that. During the day, I handled the fighting. But every night, I came back to make sure you were still breathing.”

You blink at him, his words settling heavily in your chest. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, there’s a fierce protectiveness in his expression, a vulnerability he doesn’t bother to hide.

“I didn’t ask you to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp look.

“You don’t have to,” he says firmly. “You scared the hell out of me, and I wasn’t going to risk not being here if you…” He swallows hard, the words trailing off again. His jaw works for a moment, tension lining his face. “You’re too godsdamned stubborn for your own good.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of your lips despite the heaviness of the conversation. “Takes one to know one,” you murmur, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eases.

Eris lets out a soft huff, something that’s almost a laugh, and shakes his head. “Just—don’t do anything like that again,” he says, his tone gentler now. “I won’t always be there to catch you.”

You don’t reply, your fingers curling slightly around his. For now, it’s enough to know that he stayed, that he cared enough to watch over you when you needed it most.

The soft quiet of the tent is interrupted by the sharp rustle of the entrance flap. You glance toward it, your body tensing reflexively despite your exhaustion, but the figure stepping inside is instantly familiar. Lucien strides in with purpose, his golden eye gleaming in the dim light as he surveys the scene. His gaze flickers between you and Eris, lingering for a moment on your joined hands, before settling on his brother.

“Eris,” Lucien says, his tone brisk but not without concern. “You’re needed with the western squadron. They’ve run into a complication, and it sounds like it’s escalating fast.”

Eris doesn’t move immediately. His jaw tightens, and his grip on your hand remains firm. For a moment, he looks torn, his amber eyes flicking back to you as though weighing whether he can afford to leave.

“I’ll send someone else,” he mutters, his voice low.

Lucien steps further into the tent, crossing his arms. “You can’t,” he says, his tone hardening just slightly. “This isn’t something you can delegate. They need you, Eris.”

You watch as the tension radiates through Eris’s frame, his shoulders rigid and his jaw clenched. It’s clear he doesn’t want to leave, and the thought stirs something uncomfortably warm in your chest.

“Go,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but steady enough to catch his attention.

Eris turns back to you, his brows furrowing. “You’re not—”

“I’ll be fine,” you insist, managing a faint smile despite the weariness weighing you down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Lucien raises an eyebrow, clearly trying to suppress a smirk at your words, but wisely keeps silent.

Eris exhales sharply through his nose, clearly reluctant. He leans closer to you for a brief moment, his free hand brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face with surprising tenderness. “I’ll be back,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a promise as much as a warning.

Without another word, he releases your hand, rising to his full height. His gaze lingers on you for a heartbeat longer before he finally turns and moves toward Lucien, his stride purposeful but heavy with reluctance.

As they step out of the tent, you hear Lucien’s voice, low and teasing. “Didn’t realize you’d grown so attached to your spy, brother.”

“Shut up, Lucien,” Eris snaps, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

The flap of the tent closes behind them, leaving you alone in the flickering light, your thoughts swirling as exhaustion begins to pull you under once more.

The night outside the tent is as black as ink, the stars obscured by thick clouds rolling across the sky. The only light comes from the faint, flickering embers of dying campfires scattered throughout the encampment. The air is cool and sharp, carrying the scents of pine, damp earth, and faint traces of smoke.

You sit up slowly, every movement a careful negotiation with the aches and pains that still cling to your body. The healer had left extra salve and bandages nearby, but you don’t reach for them. Instead, you move toward your folded gear at the edge of the cot, your movements deliberate and quiet to avoid waking anyone outside the tent.

You dress with practiced precision, your muscles remembering the familiar motions even through your exhaustion. First, the fitted undershirt and trousers, each piece sliding into place with a soft rustle of fabric. Then the reinforced leather bracers, worn smooth with use, followed by the sturdy boots you lace tightly. Every buckle and strap is fastened with care, ensuring there’s no loose piece that might give you away.

Reaching for the small blade at your side, you test its edge briefly before slipping it into its sheath. The last step is your hair, which you gather quickly with nimble fingers, twisting it up and tying it out of the way. The knot is secure, and you glance down at yourself, making sure everything is in place.

With a final deep breath, you push aside the tent flap and step into the shadows outside. The camp is mostly still, save for the occasional flicker of movement from guards patrolling the perimeter. You stick to the edges, your footsteps silent against the packed earth as you slip through the maze of tents and makeshift shelters.

As you move closer to the heart of the camp, voices drift to you, carried on the cool night breeze. You pause, pressing yourself against the shadowed side of a supply tent, and strain to listen.

It’s Lucien’s voice you hear first, low and measured. “We’ve taken down another two of Beron’s camps today. If we keep this pace, his forces will be too scattered to mount any real resistance within a week.”

Lux responds, his tone laced with dry amusement. “Bold of you to assume Beron has anything resembling a real plan anymore. He’s running out of people willing to die for him, and even his loyalists are starting to question if he’s worth it.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Ashen interjects, his voice sharp. “Desperate men are dangerous. If Beron feels cornered, he might take risks that could cost us more than we’re prepared to lose.”

Fern hums thoughtfully, the sound barely audible over the crackling of a nearby fire. “I still think we should push harder. Hit him where it hurts and end this quicker. We know where his last stronghold is. Why wait?”

“Because we’re not ready,” Lucien replies, a hint of frustration slipping into his usually calm demeanour. “And we can’t risk overextending ourselves. We’ve come this far because we’ve been careful. Rushing now could undo everything.”

There’s a brief silence, heavy with tension. You lean in closer, your heart pounding as you take in the weight of their words.

“I’ll say this much,” Lux drawls finally, his tone lighter, though no less sharp. “Eris has been… distracted lately. I’m guessing it has something to do with our little spy.”

You stiffen, your pulse quickening as the words register.

Ashen snorts. “He’s always been protective of his people. This is no different.”

“No different?” Lux scoffs. “He’s practically been glued to her side. Not exactly his usual style, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Enough,” Lucien cuts in, his voice cold. “Whatever Eris’s reasons, they’re his own. Focus on the task at hand. We’re not here to speculate about his personal life.”

The conversation shifts, the brothers moving on to discuss troop movements and supply lines. But your mind lingers on their words, a mix of emotions twisting in your chest. You press your back against the tent, your breaths slow and steady as you regain control over the storm threatening to rise within you.

The flap of the tent pushes aside with a deliberate motion, and all conversation halts as you step inside. The gathered Vanserra brothers—Lucien, Lux, Fern, and Ashen—turn toward you, their expressions ranging from surprise to wariness. Lucien, seated near the head of the table, raises an eyebrow, his golden eye gleaming in the dim lantern light.

Eris isn’t here, but his absence only sharpens the edge in the room. They weren’t expecting you—especially not after your condition only hours ago. Yet, here you are, standing tall despite the ache in your muscles and the remnants of exhaustion clinging to your frame.

“Not exactly the guest I expected tonight,” Lux says, breaking the silence, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

You ignore the comment, stepping closer to the map sprawled across the table. Your eyes briefly scan the lines and markers indicating troop movements and strongholds before you speak, your voice steady and cold.

“You’re doing this wrong.”

Fern narrows his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Excuse me?”

“You’re wasting time chasing his forces around the Autumn Court,” you continue, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Every time you take out one of Beron’s camps, his remaining forces retreat and regroup at the next. They’re replenishing faster than you can dismantle them.”

Lucien folds his arms, his expression guarded. “And what do you propose we do instead? Sit back and wait for them to come to us?”

“No,” you reply sharply. “You strike at Beron himself. You execute him. Now.”

The tent falls into silence, the weight of your words settling heavily over the group. Lux glances toward Lucien, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Bold strategy. Care to elaborate?”

You step closer to the table, planting your hands on the edge as you lean over the map. “Killing Beron doesn’t just weaken his forces—it dismantles them. His army is held together by fear and desperation. Without him, there’s no unifying force. His commanders will scatter, his soldiers will desert, and his loyalists will turn on each other. He’s the lynchpin. Remove him, and the rest crumbles.”

Ashen frowns, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And how exactly do you suggest we pull that off? Beron isn’t exactly sitting around waiting to be assassinated.”

“He’s overconfident,” you say, meeting Ashen’s sceptical gaze. “He’s too arrogant to believe anyone could get close enough to kill him. But I can.”

Lucien exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You just threw yourself off a cliff, nearly died, and now you’re volunteering to assassinate Beron himself? Do you have a death wish, or are you just that reckless?”

You straighten, your eyes cold as they lock onto Lucien’s. “I know his patterns, his movements. I know how to get in and out without being seen. This isn’t recklessness—it’s strategy. And it’s the only way to end this war before more lives are lost.”

Lux chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Gutsy. I’ll give you that.”

Fern glances toward Lucien, his expression cautious. “She’s not wrong. Taking out Beron could end this faster. But it’s a high-risk move. If it fails…”

“It won’t fail,” you cut in, your voice firm. “I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you this is what needs to be done. If you want to keep chasing his forces and playing this endless game of cat and mouse, fine. But every day you waste gives Beron time to regroup and retaliate.”

Lucien regards you in silence for a long moment, his gaze flicking over your determined expression. Finally, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll bring this to Eris. If he approves—”

“I don’t need Eris’s approval,” you interject, stepping back from the table. “But if he wants to stop me, he knows where to find me.”

Without waiting for their response, you turn on your heel and stride out of the tent, the tension in the air following you like a shadow. You’ve made your case. Now it’s up to them to decide if they’ll follow your lead—or stay stuck in their losing game.

As the tent flap falls closed behind you, the brothers are left in a tense silence. For a moment, no one speaks, their gazes shifting between each other and the map spread before them. It’s Lux who breaks the quiet, leaning back in his chair with a low whistle.

“Well,” he says, dragging the word out. “She certainly knows how to make an entrance. And an exit, for that matter.”

“Don’t,” Lucien snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched. “This isn’t a joke, Lux. She’s serious.”

“No kidding,” Lux replies, still smirking. “But you have to admit, the whole ‘lone assassin taking down the big bad tyrant’ shtick is…dramatic.”

Ashen glares at him, his voice low and grave. “It’s also the most logical plan we’ve heard in weeks. You know she’s right. Chasing Beron’s forces isn’t going to end this war—it’s just dragging it out.”

Fern nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the map. “She’s calculated. If anyone can pull this off, it’s her. But that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous as hell.”

“She’s already barely holding together,” Lucien says, his voice strained with frustration. “You saw the state she was in when Eris brought her back. And now she wants to throw herself straight into the lion’s den?”

Lux shrugs, picking up a piece of bread from the table and tearing off a small piece. “She’s been in worse situations, hasn’t she? That’s why Eris keeps her around—she gets things done. And let’s not pretend he wouldn’t secretly love to see his father’s head on a spike.”

At that, Lucien slams his fist down on the table, the sound echoing through the tent. “This isn’t just about Eris! It’s about her, too. She’s not expendable.”

The others fall silent, their gazes flickering between Lucien and the map.

Ashen speaks up after a beat, his voice quiet but firm. “She’s not wrong, though. Beron won’t stop unless he’s dead. And the longer we hesitate, the more men we lose.”

Lucien lets out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s reckless. If she goes in alone, there’s no guarantee she’ll come out alive.”

Lux smirks again, though there’s a hint of seriousness behind it this time. “She didn’t exactly ask for our permission, did she? We all know Eris is the only one who might stop her—or help her. And considering how he’s been lately…”

Fern sighs, leaning his weight onto the edge of the table. “Eris won’t like this plan. But he also won’t stop her. Not if she’s already decided.”

Lucien curses under his breath, his golden eye gleaming as he stares down at the map. “Then we’d better hope she knows what she’s doing. Because if she doesn’t…”

He trails off, and the tension in the tent grows heavier.

Lux, ever the provocateur, raises an eyebrow. “If she doesn’t, we’ll all have front-row seats to the downfall of Autumn Court. Won’t that be fun?”

Ashen shoots him a withering glare, but no one argues. The room falls into a grim silence, each brother lost in their own thoughts as they consider the weight of what’s to come.

The sound of heavy boots approaching cuts through the tension in the tent, and the flap is pushed aside to reveal Eris. His amber eyes scan the room quickly, narrowing when he notices the grim expressions on his brothers’ faces. He strides in, his movements precise and brimming with authority, though there’s an edge of exhaustion in the tightness around his jaw.

“What’s with the faces?” he asks sharply, his gaze locking onto Lucien, the most likely to give a straight answer. “Did something happen?”

Lucien hesitates for a moment, his jaw tightening before he speaks. “She came in.”

Eris blinks, clearly thrown off. “Who?”

“Her,” Ashen says, his voice low. “Your spy. She was just here.”

Eris’s entire demeanour shifts in an instant. His shoulders go rigid, and his eyes darken with something unspoken. “She was here?” he repeats, his voice clipped. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“Because she didn’t wait for an invitation,” Lux cuts in, his tone light but with an edge of mischief. “She walked right in, told us we’re idiots for chasing Beron’s forces, and laid out a plan to assassinate him.”

Eris’s gaze snaps to Lux, then shifts to the rest of his brothers, as if searching for confirmation. “She… what?”

“She was direct,” Fern adds, his tone even. “Said Beron’s forces are regrouping every time we dismantle one of his camps. The only way to end this is to kill him.”

Eris exhales slowly, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he processes this. “And you entertained this plan?”

Lucien rises from his chair, meeting Eris’s gaze evenly. “She’s not wrong. It’s a solid strategy. But it’s reckless, especially in her condition. She’s not ready for something like this.”

“She said she wasn’t asking for permission,” Ashen interjects, his voice calm but pointed. “She’s going to do it with or without us.”

Eris curses under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. He steps closer to the table, his amber eyes fixed on the map as if it might offer some kind of answer. “And you just let her leave?”

“What were we supposed to do?” Lux says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Tie her to a cot? She’s got a mind of her own, you know that better than anyone.”

“Don’t test me, Lux,” Eris snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You should’ve stopped her.”

“She wasn’t leaving to act right away,” Fern says, trying to diffuse the tension. “She came to make her point, to get us thinking. But she’s determined, Eris. And she’s not wrong about Beron being the key to all of this.”

Eris lets out a sharp breath, his hands braced on the table. His mind is racing, and his brothers can see it—Eris weighing every possibility, every risk. Finally, he straightens, his expression carefully neutral.

“She won’t go alone,” he says firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “Not this time. If she’s going after Beron, we’re doing it my way. I’ll speak with her myself.”

Lux raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Good luck with that. She doesn’t exactly seem in the mood to be persuaded.”

Eris doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the tent, the flap snapping shut behind him. The brothers exchange a glance, a mixture of unease and anticipation hanging in the air.

“He’s not going to stop her,” Lucien mutters, his tone resigned.

“No,” Ashen agrees. “But he’ll try to control it. And if anyone can pull that off…”

Fern nods, finishing the thought. “It’s him.”

The brothers fall into silence, the weight of Eris’s resolve settling over them like a storm on the horizon.

Eris stalked across the camp, the tension in his shoulders radiating through every step. The cool night air was thick with the scent of earth and ash, the remnants of fires burning low in their pits. Soldiers moved about the camp, casting wary glances at their High Lord as he passed. His face was carved from stone, his golden hair catching the dim light of the moon like a fiery halo.

He knew where to find you. He always did.

The tent you’d been recovering in stood at the edge of the camp, away from the bustle of the main operations. He stopped in front of it, staring at the flap for a moment. His chest tightened as he thought of the last few days—your unconscious form on that makeshift bed, your shallow breaths, the bruises and cuts marking your skin. And now, after all of that, you were plotting something that could get you killed.

He pushed the flap aside without announcing himself.

You were sitting at a small table, hunched over a worn piece of parchment, sketching something with sharp, precise movements. The lantern beside you cast flickering shadows across your face, highlighting the faint purple bruising under your eyes and the determined set of your jaw.

You didn’t look up when he entered, though you must have known it was him. Only Eris would storm into your space with such single-minded fury.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low but edged with steel.

“I’ve been awake,” you replied coolly, not looking up from your work.

Eris took a step closer, his boots scuffing against the dirt floor. “You went to my brothers,” he said, his tone a mixture of accusation and disbelief. “Laid out a plan to assassinate Beron, knowing full well that you’re still recovering from almost dying.”

You set the parchment down and finally looked at him, your eyes cold and unyielding. “Recovering doesn’t mean incapable.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Do you have any idea what you’re risking?”

“Of course I do,” you said sharply, standing to meet his gaze. Despite the difference in your heights, you seemed to grow in presence, your defiance cutting through the space between you. “But unlike the rest of you, I’m not content to sit around playing war games while Beron grows stronger. This ends now, Eris. One way or another.”

Eris stared at you, his amber eyes burning with frustration and something deeper, something raw. “And what if you don’t come back?” he demanded, his voice rising. “What if this reckless plan of yours costs you your life?”

“Then it costs me my life,” you said evenly, your voice steady. “This isn’t about me. It’s about ending him, for good.”

“Damn it, Y/N!” Eris closed the distance between you in two long strides, his hands gripping your shoulders with a gentleness that belied the fire in his words. “You think you’re some sacrificial piece on a chessboard? That your life is nothing more than a tool to win this war?”

You stared back at him, unflinching. “If it gets the job done, then yes.”

Eris’s grip tightened for a moment before he released you, stepping back as if burned. He turned away, running a hand through his hair, his frustration boiling over into a bitter laugh. “You’re infuriating. Do you know that?”

“You’re wasting time,” you said, crossing your arms. “If you’re here to stop me, save your breath. My mind’s made up.”

He spun back to face you, his eyes blazing. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. If you’re determined to go after Beron, then you’re doing it my way. With support, with strategy—not this lone-wolf bullshit you seem to think is heroic.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised but unwilling to show it. “Your way?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Because like it or not, you’re not expendable. Not to me.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, charged with unspoken meaning. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound the faint crackle of a nearby fire.

Finally, you nodded, your expression softening just slightly. “Fine. Your way. But we strike soon.”

Eris exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to be noticeable. “Soon,” he agreed, his voice quieter now. “But not tonight. Rest, Y/N. You’ll need your strength.”

With that, he turned and left the tent, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin.

-----

The morning light filtered through the thin canvas of the tent, casting a pale, golden glow across the space. You were sitting on the edge of the cot, your legs dangling off the side, idly rubbing your wrist where a bruise had bloomed from the past week’s chaos. Sleep had been fitful at best, your mind running through the plans, the risks, the faces of the people you’d killed and those you’d yet to face.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled you from your thoughts, and the tent flap was pulled back unceremoniously. Lux sauntered in without knocking, his usual smirk plastered across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning casually against the wooden support beam in the centre of the tent. “Look who’s up and about. I was half-convinced Eris had tied you to that cot to keep you from running off again.”

You shot him a dry look, crossing your arms. “Good morning to you too, Lux. What do you want?”

“What? No pleasantries for your favourite Vanserra brother?” he teased, though there was an edge of genuine curiosity in his amber eyes.

“Depends. Are you here to lecture me like the rest of your family?”

Lux chuckled, pushing off the beam and striding over to you. He crouched down slightly, putting himself at eye level with you. “Lecture? No. But I do have to admit, it’s impressive how much chaos you’ve managed to stir up in such a short amount of time.”

“I’m just doing what needs to be done,” you said, your voice firm.

He studied you for a moment, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “You really mean that, don’t you? Throwing yourself headfirst into danger without a second thought. Eris wasn’t exaggerating when he said you’re the most stubborn person he’s ever met.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “And what does Eris think of this?”

Lux straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “Oh, he’s brooding, as usual. Probably pacing somewhere and thinking of ways to make this all go according to his oh-so-perfect plan.”

You huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself. “Sounds about right.”

Lux grinned, but his expression quickly turned serious. “Listen, I’m not here to stop you or talk you out of anything. That’s not my style. But if you’re really going through with this, just… be smart about it. Beron’s not like the others you’ve faced. He’s cruel, calculating, and he’ll do anything to win.”

“I know,” you said softly.

“Good,” he said, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. “Just remember, you’re not doing this alone. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got people who care about you. Even if some of them are too stubborn to admit it.”

His words lingered as he stepped back toward the tent flap. Before he left, he glanced over his shoulder, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “Try not to break Eris’s heart while you’re at it. The poor bastard’s already wound tighter than a bowstring because of you.”

And with that, Lux slipped out of the tent, leaving you alone with his words echoing in your mind.

The meeting was held in the largest tent at the heart of the camp. It was dimly lit, a single lantern swinging faintly from a beam overhead, casting golden light over the maps and parchments spread across the table. The Vanserra brothers were gathered, their expressions a mixture of tension and determination.

You entered the tent without hesitation, ignoring the flicker of surprise on Ashen’s face and the faint smirk Lux shot your way. Eris stood at the head of the table, his amber eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your presence.

“Glad you could join us,” he said dryly, though his gaze lingered on you, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” you replied evenly, moving to stand beside Lucien, who gave you a slight nod of acknowledgment.

The air was thick with unspoken tension as Eris gestured to the map on the table. It was marked with inked lines and symbols denoting troop movements, strongholds, and Beron’s last known location.

“After yesterday’s… revelation,” Eris began, his tone carefully controlled, “we’ve revised our plans. The only way to ensure victory is to cut off the head of the snake. Beron must die.”

There was no argument, no hesitation from the brothers. They had accepted your outburst and the truth behind it, though the weight of what it meant was clear in the set of their shoulders.

“How do we get close to him?” Ashen asked, his arms crossed as he leaned against the edge of the table. “Beron’s been cautious, moving between camps. His forces are scattered, but his personal guard is still formidable.”

“We know where he’ll be,” Eris said, pointing to a marked area on the map. “He’s expected to gather his remaining loyalists here,”—his finger tapped a spot near the Autumn Court’s border—“in three days' time. It’s his last stand. If we strike then, we can end this.”

“Striking won’t be enough,” you said, your voice cutting through the room. All eyes turned to you, but you held their gazes with steady resolve. “We can’t just attack blindly. Beron will expect an ambush. He’ll have traps, reinforcements, and he’ll be waiting for us to make a mistake.”

Eris’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile that vanished as quickly as it came. “Then what do you suggest, oh fearless one?”

You leaned over the table, your finger tracing a narrow path on the map. “We lure him out. He won’t come unless he thinks he has the advantage. We need someone on the inside—a false defector who can feed him just enough information to make him overconfident.”

Lux let out a low whistle. “That’s bold. And dangerous. Who’s signing up for that suicide mission?”

“I am,” you said without hesitation.

The brothers erupted in a chorus of protests.

“Absolutely not,” Eris snapped, his voice sharp enough to silence the others. His eyes burned as he stared you down. “You’ve already pushed yourself too far. You think I’m going to send you into Beron’s camp alone? To play double agent for a man who would gut you the moment he suspected you?”

You met his fury head-on. “It’s the only way. He won’t believe anyone else. He knows me—knows what I’m capable of. If I go in, he’ll believe the lie long enough for you to get close.”

Eris slammed his hand down on the table, the sharp sound echoing in the tent. “No. I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you shot back, your voice rising. “This isn’t about you, Eris. This is about ending this war. If you have a better plan, I’m all ears. But until then, this is the best shot we’ve got.”

Lucien stepped in, his voice calm but firm. “She’s right. Beron’s pride is his weakness. He won’t be able to resist the idea of turning one of Eris’s own against him. But it’s not without risk.”

“It’s too much risk,” Eris ground out, his jaw tight.

“You’ll have to trust me,” you said, your voice softer now but no less determined. “I can do this. I’ve been in worse situations before.”

Eris stared at you, his amber eyes searching your face for any hint of hesitation. Finding none, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders still taut.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice like ice. “But you’re not going in alone. I’ll have shadows on you every step of the way. And the moment anything feels wrong, you’re out. No arguments.”

You nodded, the weight of his words settling over you. “Agreed.”

The brothers exchanged glances, a mixture of unease and grudging acceptance. The plan was dangerous, but it was also their best chance.

“Then it’s settled,” Eris said, his voice tight. “Three days. We strike, and this ends.”

The tent fell silent, the gravity of the decision sinking in. You felt Eris’s eyes on you, a storm of emotions hidden behind his amber gaze. But he said nothing more, turning back to the map as the brothers began discussing the logistics.

You stood quietly, already bracing yourself for what was to come.

#acotar fanfiction #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris x reader #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra x y/n #eris vanserra acotar #eris vanserra fic #eris imagine #eris fanfic #eris vandaddy

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littlemissmentallyunstable · 9 months ago

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there’s been lots of requests and comments so here it is PART 3!!! (SHE’S HERE first anon, hope you survived this long second anon and it was not a dream third anon, I’m posting/making it now fourth and fifth anon)

some of you were going feral for part 2 so I hope this lives up the expectation 😭😭 if not I’m severely sorry

title: the dancer and the angel part 3

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: grayson has just admitted to kissing lyra kane, the girl you’d been worried about, the girl that was stunning, the girl he said didn’t matter… he chose her over you so now what??

parts: part 1 part 2 part 4 part 5

warnings: swearing, SPOILERS FOR TGG

a/n: okay so I hate switching POVs but I felt it was necessary here and I know the start is the same as the part 2 but in Gray’s POV but trust me there is lot more

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31

GRAYSON’S POV

Guilt has chewed me up and spat me out the whole walk back to our shared room. There’s a pulsating lump in my throat that aches relentlessly, reminding me of what I’ve done. I am a terrible person. I never deserved her and now I’ve done the worst thing I could’ve possibly done, that anyone on this whole planet could’ve ever done. And she will never forgive me for it. I wish there was a way to turn back time and alter certain events. As soon as the time machine is invented, no doubt by my very own brother Xander, I’m coming back to moments before now to stop my idiot brain from-

I can’t even think it. Maybe it’s because it makes it more real. It’s like the last few moments of my life have been erased from my brain, it’s a blank canvas and I have no paints. I know what I did but I can’t remember exact details. Still, I can taste her on my lips, an over sweet taste that was almost too sickly has now morphed into something bitter. Her perfume lingers on my clothes and adds to my ever growing headache. I don’t want to smell her, I don’t want the reminder of the awful human I have become. The monster that now inhabits my body, lives in my skin, breathes my air and poisons the people I love. The ones I truly love.

Y/n. At one point she was the only reason I was still existing, still carrying on. She somehow managed to give me the fight to keep carrying on. I got up most days because I knew I would get to see her face. And now I’m going to throw everything away, our whole relationship. Everything we’ve been through or planned to go through together. It will reduced to nothing in a few minutes.

I’m outside the door, my feet have carried me here through muscle memory. I must go in, I must face her I’m aware but I’m afraid. I’ve never felt so pathetic. I wonder if she is still asleep. Though, I can’t work out whether I’d rather she be awake or asleep. I don’t think I could bear to look at her angelic feature either way. Those wide eyes, round lips, heavenly- I can’t bear it, I’m going to lose her, all of her.

I fiddle around with the key, hoping the door will just never unlock so I don’t have to face this. The mechanism clicks, mocking me. I step in silently and face the door to lock back up again. I don’t understand why, I know I’ll be kicked out in a matter of seconds, what good will a locked door be? And yet I’m still facing the door, fumbling with the key, my back towards her. Though I can hear her getting out of bed. She’s awake. My body’s immediate response is to go into a state of paralysis. I can’t move as the guilt ridden cement hardens over my body, creating an outer shell of the cruel creature I’ve become. Her body is behind mine. I can feel her bright presence radiating her usual tentative nature.

“Are you okay?” I hear her whisper as she touches my arm so gently it stings.

It stings so sharply because I know what I’ve done. The shameful crime I’ve committed. I jerk away suddenly.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, deep concern in her tone.

It kills me. It’s a poisoned dagger wedged deep within my heart, hitting every vital artery. Her voice is so soft, so melodic. She cares so much, too much and I’m about to destroy it all. And as much as I could not say a word I couldn’t live a lie, the guilt would eat me alive. How could I look her in the eye and tell her she’d always been the only one when I know she hadn’t? She’d already noticed earlier today my distant mood. She had always been observant, vigilant about those things concerning me and I’d always been grateful. I wouldn’t have that anymore. Lyra had been on my mind earlier and I couldn’t tell her. Now she would realise.

“No,” I reply.

My voice is unfamiliar to myself, it’s sharp and blunt. It sounds horribly harsh. I could feel it hurt her, the air ripples with a touch of dimness when I hurt her. Even with my back to her it’s obvious to me. I know her so well, too well and from this day on we might drift to perfect strangers. That thought hurts me more than anything.

“Where have you been?” she says. Her voice so sweet, so innocent, cruelly naïve.

I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to do it. It would be like smashing a glass ballerina. Something so beautiful, something so delicate should be preserved not purposely broken. I force my eyes to meet hers. I immediately regret it. The soft mellow colour all melts into one, clawing at my heartstrings and ripping the organ to shreds. She’s so beautiful. How had I ever looked at any other? How had I let myself?

Suddenly I’m drowning in guilt. I don’t know how, it just comes over me suddenly. Like a tidal wave I had my back to. I’ve been swept under by an endless ocean of shame. My lungs swollen full of my own black sin. I don’t know how but I manage to choke out two shaky words.

“I’m sorry.”

My voice cracks. My voice never cracks. She knows that. I’m sturdy, I’m strong, I’m the rock that never breaks and here I am. Here I am crumbling into dust. She’s too smart to miss the signs, she’s too clever not to immediately know something so horribly wrong, her mind is too sharp not to have worked half of it out. She’d already been suspicious of Lyra. She’d already seen what might happen between us even before I did, before it did actually happen.

“Gray?” she asks, my name sounding too sweet on her tongue. The next time she says it will taste bitter, I’m sure of it. She barely whispers the word but I hear her, it rings in my mind. It forever will.

I’m full of pure regret and guilt, it wracks my soul, shaking me relentlessly back and forth until I’m dizzy with it. Remorse’s doors suddenly burst wide open, ready for my grand entrance. My hopes and dreams snicker and smirk smugly as I walk down the runway, my head hanging in embarrassment.

I need to tell her. My heart races in my chest and there’s a lump stuck in my throat, so large it’s started to block my airways. I don’t know how to get the words out, I don’t know how to talk. I feel like I’m suffering some sort of aneurysm. She looks at me, her eyebrows pinched in and eyes narrowed and then I see it. Her eyebrows part and slowly sink. She knows already.

“Tell me,” she murmurs, her voice of an angel shaking.

I close my eyes, trying to suppress the tears. I haven’t cried in years I’ve forgotten this feeling, this heavy weighted agony that ripples through me causing water to infiltrate my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and still my shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, an uninvited raw desperation ripping through my voice, “I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for it to happen, I-“

“Tell me,” she grits through her teeth sharply, her eyes glitter so beautifully fierce and fiery, like she wants to kill.

But I know she’s trying to steady her rising sadness by covering up with her fury. I can see through her, like she can see through me. I freeze and the pause elongates. The aching silence is deadly, it’s fatal. I wish she didn’t have to make me say it.

“I kissed her,” I murmur, the words making me feel sick as I say them.

“Who?” she asks, he tone low and ferocious, “who did you kiss? I want to hear you say it.”

I’m twisting a knife into her heart and I know it. But she wants me to cut deeper. She’s a woman of principle, I’ve already hurt her, I might as well do the job properly in her eyes. And I can’t deny her this. Not I’ve stripped her of her dignity, her trust, her love, her everything.

“I kissed Lyra,” I whisper, suddenly aware of the dampness on my cheeks.

A sour taste fills my mouth. The words send lightning sparks across my jaw, sending ribbons of agony down the sides of my face. The truth hurts. Literally. Tears are rolling the side of my face, but I don’t bring my hand to wipe them and nor do I stop them. I’ve never felt more broken.

But she doesn’t care, there is not pity in her eyes. Good. I don’t want he to pity me. She should hate me. She should want me to miserable and hope for me to have a lifetime of the torture I’ve just forced her to endure.

“Get out,” she murmurs, the anger bringing out her natural stunning features. A flicker of boldness in her eyes, the striking angles of her eyebrows, her strong thick lashes and her full lips.

“I’m sorry.” they’re the only words I remember how to say, through my internal fit of torment.

I expect her to hit me around the face, a good strong punch I know she can make or a sharp smack that’ll leave a red hand mark pressed against my cheek. I imagine she might scream at me and ask me all the questions I wish I had answers to. But she does none of that. She only looks at me darkly and utters two last words.

“Leave Grayson.”

I can hear the tears she’s trying to hold back, through the numb façade. I know her better than she’ll ever realise. But it’s not fair for me to stay, not after this. She’s only asking one thing of me when she should be doing so much more. So I do. I turn my back on her again. And I leave.

***

Tears pummel down my cheeks like never before. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this. I’m blinded by them as I stumble sideways. I don’t know where I’m going. I stand on the edge of the cliff and sink to my knees, letting out a loud guttural scream. I’m there until my throat is so raw I can’t feel it. I bite my lip so hard it draws blood. And then I’m up again and running, following a path my footsteps are dragging me towards. I can’t think straight, I’m dizzy with pain. Before I know it I’m outside the safe house on the island. My hands tremor on the handle and I swing open the door, falling to the floor for my sobs to take me over. My chest aches and burns and tightens. That’s when I realise I can’t breathe properly. I fumble around for my phone, a tear splashing into the illuminated screen. With uncontrollably shaking hands, I typed no words. Just three numbers.

911

***

The wait feels like years, maybe even decades. Each second taunts me, with a mocking tick. I’d crumbled into the corner of the room at some point and stayed there, curled up and choking on my own sorry sobs. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

The question circles around my head like the nostalgia of a distorted tune of a merry go round. I’ve never made such a big mistake and my life and deep down there’s a sinking sensation that is telling me I’m not going to be able to make this better. I sob, loud harsh sobs that hurt my lungs and knock the air out of my stomach. My whole being shakes with every strangled noise that escapes my lips. Grieving. I’m grieving over something I chose to throw away. It’s cruelly ironic. But I think part of me is also grieving the good man I once thought myself to be, that she made me believe I could be.

I turned my back on the one and only person in this world who just cared about me, took me for who I am and believed I could do anything. She only wanted the best, she only wanted happiness and she deserved so much more and here I am, stabbing her in the back and dancing in her blood like a madman. She was my everything and I managed to mess it up, just like everything else in my life. I can’t have normal relationships, I can’t do something without messing it up. I’m one big screw up the opposite of how the old man raised me to be. He’s looking down on me now and I can feel his disappointment, like an infection coursing through my bloodstream. I failed him, I failed my brothers, I’ve failed her, I’ve failed myself.

She thought I was better, she believed I could be more than his expectation. And I was stupid enough to believe it, encourage it and let her belive the lie too. We’re all idiots.

I can recite her favourite song, her favourite flower, her favourite food and favourite colour. I can tell you all about her favourite novels and how she orders her books on an endless bookshelf. I know that she tells people her favourite film is ‘it’s a wonderful life’ but it’s actually secretly ‘tangled’. I know she prefers to stay inside and cuddle under blankets rather than have a night out. I know she’d rather reason a thousand books than watch a thousand movies. I know she wanted a library in her dream house and two, maybe three children with her husband and I know she’d sometimes debate about getting a cat as well. I know how she loves brownie batter more than the actual brownies and can’t sleep with any lights on. I know she still uses the bunny rhyme to tie her shoelaces and how she fiddles with her collarbone when she’s nervous. I know exactly what diamond she wanted in her engagement ring and her favourite country. I know what people she despises and I know what people she adores. I know every inch of her face, every hair on her head, every sparkle in her eyes and every cell on her skin.

I know her.

I know her, but that can’t help me now. Pain ripples across the left side of my chest and my hand clamps over it as I grit my teeth to try and bear it. I hear the door creek open and can’t tell whether it comforts me or not.

“Grayson pookie!” Xander calls out, “we’re here.”

His cheerful voice doesn’t provide me with the cushion to this pain I thought it might.

“And we have some in incredibly strong whisky,” Jameson adds, I can here the mischievous grin in his voice, it’s been the same all of his life.

“My nose hairs are officially burnt off,” Xander agrees.

I can’t speak. I try to call out for them but the words die in my swollen throat.

“Where are you Gray?” Nash calls out, he sounds a little more worried than the other two but is concealing it well.

“Here,” my voice is hoarse and laboured, even I can’t recognise it.

The mood immediately shifts, you can feel it. The air becomes tainted with concern as their footsteps approach my cowering figure. The case of whiskey is dropped as there is an audible thunk as it hits the floor. I can feel their bodies enveloping around mine creating something of a circle of safety. I look up to worried face and shiny eyes.

“Help me,” I gasp for air, greedily trying to gulp down the oxygen that I feel so deprived of, “please.”

“We’re here to help you Gray,” Nash murmurs softly. His voice had always been something comforting, especially when I was younger. I wonder if he will be so kind when I tell him what I’ve done. He’s going to hate me, there’s nothing he despises more than a man who can’t respect a woman.

I shake my head and choke out another struggling sob, instead of the words I don’t know how to say. Jameson’s eyes flit between mine and Nash’s, the concern rippling across his features. He’s never looked this concerned for me in his life. I think to all the times as children I’d helped him settle after a nightmare and wiped his tears that he hated falling when the old man had humiliated him. Oh how the tables had turned. Now it was my little brother wiping my tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his touch so gentle it shocks me.

“I can’t-“ I barely get out, wrapping my hands around my neck.

“Gray…” he trails off, unmasked emotion hitting his face like a train.

“I can’t breathe,” I wheeze as the invisible blanket that was set out to suffocate me tightens over my nose and mouth.

“Hey, Gray, look at me,” Nash says, his voice smooth and reassuring, “in and out okay, in and out.”

“I can’t,” I pant, my limbs shaking embarrassingly uncontrollably.

Xander takes both of my hands into his and squeezes them until they still, “yes you can, follow Nash’s instructions okay?”

“Slowly, do it with me,” Nash nods, “in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I do. In and out, a rhythmic pattern. Each time Nash reminds me how to breathe. There’s an aura of calmness about his voice that lulls my panic into a narcoleptic sleep. Once my breathing is halfway regulated I look at him, dead in the eye, with shaking sorrowful lips.

“I fucked up,” I sob, “I fucked up and I don’t know what to do.”

They all share a look, this is the worst state they’ve seen me and we all know it. I begin to pathetically sob uncontrollably once again, the feelings building up in my chest and tearing me apart from the inside out. It’s like a rabid pack of wolves had been set loose to feed on my internal organs. I don’t know how to stop the ocean of tears, I don’t know how to shut my mind off, I don’t know how to help myself. Reel myself in from this abominable mess I’ve become. I’m hyperventilating, my chest throbbing up and down unevenly. Nash nods towards Jameson, a short, soft, sharp nod of approval.

“Hey! Calm down!” Jameson snaps, giving me a hard slap around the face, “snap out of this!”

The shock shuts me up and the sting stops my tears. I’m back to reality instead of a wallowing mess. Nash must’ve been approving the slap I realise in the sudden cleared head I’d obtained

“Sorry,” Jameson mumbles at me, looking a little guilty.

I massage my jaw, “no I think I needed that.”

He grimaces and then softens his tone, “what happened Gray?”

I tense, growing very still, “I can’t say it out loud, I can’t, I’m awful, I’m horrible-“

“What happened?” Nash drawls.

I choke out yet another unnatural sound. Seems the slap didn’t snap me hard enough into reality. I exhale slowly. I have to say it, now or never.

“I kissed Lyra.”

The words hurt even more this time, that they did when I’d admitted it to y/n. Neither one of my brothers can mask their honest reaction.

“Oh fuck,” Jameson blurts out, “you cheated?”

Anger. He’s fuming with me. I can see the rage trailing through his eyes and blossoming into his expression.

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply, feeling like a small child.

Jameson’s eyes widen and fury flashes across his face, “how can you not mean-“

Nash shoots him a look and his mouth glues shut. Then he turns to me and I can’t quite read him yet. I gulp.

“No one does that kind of thing for no reason,” he says sternly, “I never thought you’d be the one of the four of us to ever do that, seems I was mistaken little brother.”

Disappointment. He’s disappointed. A horrible sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Nash is disappointed in me. It’s one of the worst feelings imaginable. There had only been few times in my life when he had been and I remember the feeling all too well. Shame has me in a chokehold an it’s succeeding in strangling me. I can‘t bring myself to meet his eyes, I don’t want to see that look I can feel is on his face, that look of pure disapproval.

“How did she find out?” Xander asks quietly.

Shock. He hadn’t said anything until now, but his lips had been slightly parted and he’d paled a little. He never thought I’d do this to anyone, he’s yet another person I’ve let down.

“I told her,” I murmur, “the guilt was consuming me.”

“As it should,” Jameson snaps, twitching with a fiery ferocity.

“Jamie,” Nash says, trying to keep some kind of diplomacy.

“No,” he growls, “you don’t do that to a girl, your girl, you can’t do that!”

“Don’t take the moral highground now,” I spit.

“When you’ve cheated on your girlfirend? Yeah I think I will,” he replies, the bitterness rolling off of his tongue like a deadly poison. He doesn’t know I’ve already poisoned myself with my own actions, his words can’t hurt me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I falter.

“Bullshit,” he grits through his teeth, in two definitive and threatening symbols.

“Careful Jamie,” Nash warns.

“All this is your fault anyway,” I continue, ignoring the warning.

“So it’s my fault, you kissed another girl, yeah, okay Gray,” he nods his head with a sarcastic smile.

“It is!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air, “if you hadn’t locked me in a room with her-“

“So it’s my fault you couldn’t keep up dick under control,” he quips, interrupting me.

“You could’ve locked me with my one of my sisters but of course you just had choose the only girl who isn’t related to me,” I seethe.

“Odette isnt related to you,” Xander pipes up. I’d forgotten he was there, that anyone besides me and Jameson were there.

“Odette is old enough to be my grandmother,” I scowl at him, immediately feeling bad as the words leave my lips, but don’t dwell on it as I turn back to Jameson, “why did you make me a player in your sick excuse of a game?”

“You can’t use the game as an excuse,” he laughs darkly.

“I will,” I reply sharply, “this is your fault and Avery’s fault too.”

“Avery? Don’t make me laugh,” he rolls his eyes.

“The game never should’ve been created by her,” I yell, “that’s why I’m in this mess!”

“No, you’re in this mess because of you,” he shouts back, “but don’t you dare bring Avery in to this it’s not her fault.”

I feel like I’m one of those circus acts, the ones that lay on a spinning board and get knives hurled at them. Only in my case the knives are the truth and they actually hit me.

“Why did you make me a player?” I ask quieter now, my voice hoarse, “why?”

“I didn’t know making you a player would result in this,” he says.

“It was so irreverent,” I snap becoming angrier by the second, a sudden burst of red overriding any rational sense in my head, “I never needed to play.”

“You can’t pin this on me Gray, if it didn’t happen with Lyra, who knows who else it would’ve happened with,” he hisses.

“So you think I’m just like this? You think this is me?” I ask him, prodding the hollow space where my heart used to be.

“I didn’t before….” he trails off, sighing, “but now I don’t know what the fucking think of you.”

“Jamie,” Nash repeats again, in the same warning tone as before. We both ignore him.

“Just because you and Avery are all peaches and roses-“

“Leave Avery out of your anger issues,” he roars defensively.

“No,” I counter, raising an eyebrow, mirroring his usual argument demeanour, “you think you’re so perfect now you’ve got your dream girl and the two of you are so much better off than the rest of us, because your love is undeniable or whatever bullshit people feed you about it-“

Jameson’s features twitch for a split second. He’s hurt, but won’t show it. He’ll refuse but I know that it hit a nerve that won’t heal for a long time. I stop mid-sentence.

“I am far from perfect, I think we both know that,” he says, in a low voice, “look you’re hurting, I get it, but I’m not going to mollycoddle you and tell you it’s okay when it’s not. I’m not going to stand here and lie to your face because as your brother that would be the worst possible thing for me to do to you.”

“My brother would try and understand what it’s like from my side,” I say, desperation clawing at my voice.

“You’re looking for a fight Grayson and it’s not going to end well, not with me,” he warns, shaking his head.

“Maybe I do want a fight, but you know you do too,” I growl rolling up my sleeves, “so fine, I’ll give you a fight Jamie.”

“I don’t want a fight, I want some justice for y/n,” he states simply, “she did nothing to deserve that Gray, she’s been so good to you, the sweetest soul on this earth and she’s helped you through a lot of shit and this is how you’re repaying her?”

“Jameson,” Nash says.

He ignores him for the third time and I can see his calm facade beginning to drop, “you think because you called a 911 and you’re here crying that I should feel sorry for you?”

“I thought you were going to be here for me,” I reply numbly, my tone dead, “clearly I’m mistaken.”

“I can’t be there for someone with no morals,” he replies, “you cheated and you’re the one who’s upset about it, how do you think she feels?”

“You think I don’t know her?” I fire back, my throat burning, “you think I don’t know exactly what she’s doing right now? I hate myself, I hate myself for doing what I did!”

“Good you should!” he screams back.

Before I know it I feel myself charges towards him, ready to throw a good punch but Nash and Xander launch onto me to quickly and managing to hold me back. Nash’s grip is so tight I don’t dare try and budge.

“Out. Now.” Nash says sharply to Jameson, “go and cool off.”

His tone sends a shiver down my spine that I won’t admit to. Jameson opens his mouth to argue.

“Jameson.”

He skulks away, with a sullen face. We all wait frozen until the door has been slammed shut. Nash lets my arm go, dropping it harshly and Xander follows suit.

“And you’re no better,” he turns to me, placing his cowboy hat on a nearby surface, “I’m only sending him away because you can’t be left alone in this mess and so the two of you don’t rip each other to pieces.”

Silence stills the room. His voice echoes but makes no sound all at the same time.

“Take a second, take a breath and we’re going to talk this through like adults,” he says, “if you want to carry on being a child then leave. Calm down, you’re not a toddler having a tantrum, you’re a grown man, act like it.”

Nash has a way of snapping me back to reality. I nod shakily.

“Talk.”

I begin, “I don’t even know why I kissed her, I didn’t mean to it just-“

“Happened?” he guesses, “no little brother, that doesn’t just happen.”

“The I don’t know Nash,” I say, tipping my head back and resting it on the wall behind me.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. It just did. She was there, just stood there. Her hands looped naturally around the back of my neck, warm and gentle, “someone sent me that ticket Grayson. I thought it was Avery but if it wasn’t…”

She trails off, her voice small and tentative. Her golden eyes filled with the utmost worry. I wanted her to know she’d be okay, that she’d have someone to keep her safe. Her arms get more comfortable around my neck. She’d felt it too, the electrifying spark between us. It was exhilarating but something about it was off, synthetic.

“Then who the hell was it?” I questioned, my hands magnetised to her cheek all of a sudden.

Lyra didn’t pull away and neither did I. I lower my head and she raised onto her toes and titled hers back a little. She was graceful, like a dancer. My lips brushed over hers. They were sweet like honey. For the first few moments it was bliss and the realisation hit, like a stone to my stomach. I jerked backwards suddenly, shaking my head.

“I can’t do this,” I said, my fingers trying to wipe her taste off of my lips, “I don’t- this isn’t-“

I was tongue-tied, not able to explain to her how wrong it was. The words wouldn’t work the way I wanted them to.

“Gray?” Lyra murmurs, a tender voice. Her amber eyes are widened and slightly confused.

“No,” I yell. She flinches and another wave of horribly strong emotion rushes over me, drowning me. “No I’m in love with someone else. I don’t know what that was. I can’t-“

I stumbled backward a few steps and the turned around and ran. Like the coward that I am.

“It did just happen,” I murmur, lifting my head from the wall to look my older brother in eye, “I swear to god, I didn’t intend for it to happen, I didn’t even know I had feelings for her.”

I can see he disagrees still and isn’t convinced. I don’t know how to prove it to him.

“Let’s establish one thing here, who do you like?” Xander asks me.

“I like Lyra,” I say slowly, “but I love y/n.”

Nash shakes his head, “if you loved her you wouldn’t have done that.”

“I made a mistake,” I press on.

“And you will pay for it and regret it for the rest of your life,” he shrugs, “it’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s the truth. Listen, I love Libby and loving someone means so many things. One of those things is that I don’t even look at other women, to me they don’t even really exist. Libby is my world and no one else even comes into the equation, so the fact is someone else came into the equation for you, meaning the love wasn’t there.”

“But it was, I felt it,” I say, my voice breaking as I press my chest.

“What do you feel for Lyra?” he asks plainly.

“I don’t know, she’s intriguing and smart and beautiful,” I murmur, “and I like her, but I don’t know if I have romantic feelings for her.”

“Then why did you kiss her?”

“Comfort? Lust? Greed? Selfishness? I don’t know it just happened,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Stop using that phrase as a get out clause,” Nash shakes his head, “you have to admit to yourself more than anyone that this didn’t just happen.”

“I leaned in and I put my lips of hers, and I didn’t stop it, it didn’t feel wrong straight away,” I admit out loud finally.

“It didn’t?” Xander says, looking wounded.

“No, it didn’t feel wrong until I realised what I’d done,” I say, looking down, suddenly finding my shoelaces to be the most interesting thing in the world.

No one replies for a long while. That’s when I realise how exhausted I truly am and how much I crave sleep.

“I vouched for you,” Xander says quietly, “I told her that you’d never do that, that you weren’t that guy.”

“I’m not,” I say, in denial at first. I take a moment to analyse his sentence and then come to a sickening realisation, “oh my god I am…”

“She was already anxious about where your loyalties were Gray,” he winces.

“I proved her right, I proved every worry she had right, I just proved to her that she shouldn’t have trusted me,” I spiral, hating that I hadn’t seen it sooner.

Xander looks to Nash for support for a reply.

“Yeah,” Nash sighs, “you did.”

“I need to fix this, there has to be a way-“

“Grayson,” the acuteness of his voice cuts through my sentence like a machete.

I freeze and clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“This isn’t a broken vase, you can’t glue it back together or buy a new one,” he tells me softly.

He was referring to a time where Jameson and I had been seven and eights years old. We’d been brawling of course, Hawthorne style and accidentally smashed a vase. Usually it wouldn’t matter, there were vases all over Hawthorne House and they were smashed frequently. But this wasn’t just any vase. It was nan’s priceless vase that had belonged to her daughter, our grandmother, Alice. We were never allowed within a five mile radius of it, but like the rebellious children we were, we didn’t listen. Through our fight we’d smashed the whole thing, it was truly destroyed. The two of us stayed up for nights on need gluing together the pieces only to realise it was never going to look like the original again. So we’d hunted to buy another, problem was, this vase was one of a kind. It turned out after four weeks or trying to ship a similar one in that nan had known the whole time. She didn’t speak to either of us for a good few months.

“This is real life, she is a real person and you hurt her,” he explains, “fixing this isn’t an option. There isn’t a way to fix it, there are no pieces to our back together, okay?”

I’m silent but it’s the loudest voice in the room. My face pinches together in agony. For the first time, a little of the disappointment fades and my brother’s face softens. He wraps a strong arm around me and I flop into him like a lifeless bag of nothingness. I bury my head into his shoulder and try to cry but there seems to be no tears left. He understands and holds me for a moment. Suddenly I’m six years old again and crying in Nash’s in my arms over Jameson hiding my favourite teddy bear at the time, then I’m eleven in his arms with pneumonia after being stupid enough to get caught in the rapids un the dead of winter wanting a good photograph of a rare fish, then I’m seventeen, crying over a redheaded girl who I thought I’d managed to murder. And now here I am, at twenty-two years old in his grasp once again, having made the greatest mistake of my life.

Suddenly I feel another set of arms wrap around the both of us.

“Group hug!” a familiar voice sings.

Leave it to Xander to make me crack a half smile in the darkest moments I’ve ever experienced. After a while I pull away and sigh.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask, pulling away.

“Honestly?” Xander asks.

I nod

“No,” he says. I wish I could see that little glimmer of a lie in his eyes, but I can’t. And it kills me.

“Think about it like this,” he sighs, “would you forgive Eve for what she did?”

“This is not the same thing,” I reply coldly.

“Eve cheated your trust, she betrayed you,” he explains gently, “that’s exactly how she feels.”

Dread fills my every pore as I murmur lifelessly, “I’m as bad as Eve.”

“No wait,” he says, looking guilty and panicked all at the same time, “that’s not what I meant!”

“I know,” I reassure him so some of his guilt subsides, “but it’s true and now I’ve just realised.”

“Look Gray, you aren’t Eve. You’re never going to be Eve, but think of how you felt then. That’s how y/n feels,” Nash soothes, “she’s not going to just forgive you, that’s not how it works.”

“You just broke her heart Gray,” Xander adds, careful to keep his tone as light as a feather, “for a girl you just met.”

“Why am I horrible person? Why do I always find a way to mess to something good?” I groan, smacking my head on the wall behind me. There’s an audible thump as pain spreads through the back of my skull. I wonder if I can concuss myself to forget all of this, but I don’t attempt the idea.

“You don’t-“

“No I do,” I say firmly, cutting him off, “I’m not meant for love, to love or to be loved, I’m not built for it. I’m not a good enough person for it. I’m never going to find my Libby or my Max or my Avery.“

“Grayson-“ Nash begins.

“Emily knew it and now so does y/n,” I snap.

My brothers still at her name, not moving a muscle. I never bring up Emily.

“Listen to me,” Nash says sharply, getting my attention, “you are meant to be loved. You are meant to love. I love you, Xander loves you, Jameson loves you and y/n loved you too…”

The change of tense makes my soul ache.

“…but this time around, you made a mistake, a costly mistake. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love.”

I nod numbly, robotically.

“What can I do to make it up to her?” I ask, my voice beginning to tremble, “to show her I’m sorry? Something there has to be something.”

Nash gives me a grim look and Xander’s face remains blank, they’re the only answers I need. My head sinks into my hands. The door reopens and I look back up. Jameson has returned.

He meets my eyes, “Avery’s with her.”

Blood surges through my heart and I can almost smile. He checked on her. For me.

“Is she okay?” I ask quickly.

Jameson looks at me and for a split second I almost see the ghost concern is his eyes. He shakes his head softly, “no, but she will be,” he replies, it’s an attempt to comfort me and I am grateful.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“I’m not apologising for what I said, because I still stand by it and you won’t change my mind,” Jameson says, “but I am sorry for being so angry about it.”

“You were right,” I whisper, “you were right about me. I never deserved her, so was nothing but an angel to me and I just turned around and threw it all away. I abused the luxury I had, I stabbed her in the back and then gifted another with the knife, I’m a horrible person.”

“What you did was wrong, but that’s doesn’t make you a horrible person,” he sighs, “you need time Gray, this is going to take a lot of healing. On both sides.”

“I don’t deserve to heal, I deserve to be in pain,” I murmur, the dullness in my tone echos around the empty walls.

“Oh no, we’re not going back to emo Grayson,” Xander says quickly, shaking his head.

“I agree with Xander on this one,” Nash nods, readjusting his cowboy hat.

“I don’t want to hear you blasting my chemical romance at three a.m and then denying it later again, you came out of that phase we’re not going back there,” Jameson tells me.

I bark out a laugh that thaws my icy chest. I then bite the inside of my cheek.

“I can’t fix this, can I?” I say, looking at the ground,

Nash shakes his head softly.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be fixed,” Xander says.

“You’ll get through this Gray,” Jamie agrees, “I know it.”

The room grows still.

“Can we drink that whiskey now?” I ask, to cut through the silence. I feel like getting drunk, I feel like I need some relief.

“Big brother,” Xander nods at Nash handing him the bottle.

“Little brother,” he tips his cowboy hat in reply before taking the bottle into his hands and cracking it open.

“Let me pour these things properly,” Nash grins, “Jamie, come help.”

“Wait me too!” Xander jumps up,

“Stay with Gray,” he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to be babysat,” I grumble, annoyance written all over my face.

“I want to watch them pour whiskey properly,” Xander explains, “so I can impress Max.”

My eyebrows fly to my forehead, “Max drinks?”

“No I want to impress her though,” he grins.

‘You’re an odd human,” I almost laugh, tilting my head to the side.

“Why ta very much!” he says, almost skipping away.

Once I know they’re all gone, I lean back on the wall, my heart feeling a tiny bit less heavy. The pain isn’t gone. I think I’ve just gone numb. I feel hollow, empty, nothingness. Guilt is still gnawing at my insides but slower. A satifying clink against the fragile rim of the glass takes me out of my own head for a split second. There are hushed voices from the kitchen, I notice. I walk over to the door that lay ajar, I lean in to listen.

“We need to tell him,” it sounds like Jameson.

“Not now,” the accent indicates Nash.

“Then when?” Xander’s voice asks, “how long can we prolong it.”

“I can hear you,” I tell them, raising my voice a little.

They turn to face me, awkwardly remaining silent. The expressions on their faces don’t offer me comfort.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” I say, “it’s not like tonight could get any worse.”

They share a look. Apparently it can. I feel sick to my stomach.

I can barely breathe, “who died?”

“No one has died,” Xander says quickly, “yet.”

“What?” I say, my tone deadly,

Nash glares at him, then turns back to me. There’s sorrow laced delicately, deep within his hazel irises.

“Gray,” he says gently, “Gray we hate to do this but…”

“What? What is it?” I ask urgently.

“Gigi’s missing.”

The words shock me to my core. I feel my throat begin the close up as panic returns with a smirk and triumphant greeting. My whole world has collapsed in less than 24 hours.

***

YOUR POV

I don’t hate him. Call me naive or call me stupid. But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could. The kind of love I have for him is unconditional, irrevocable. Time can’t heal a wound this deep and although it is still fresh now, I can tell. But if he were to say sorry I think I would forgive him every time. And if he asked me back I’d fall into his arms into an instant. And I hate myself for it, it’s stupid and it’s a little cruel. How easily I would take him back after what he did. I know I shouldn’t but something inside of me is drawn to him. Like an invisible magnet has been planted in our hearts. I wish I didn’t love so hard, fall so deeply, maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so badly. But it’s in my nature, it’s who I am. I wonder if he knows how much pain I’m in, the rippling agony that rolls across my chest relentlessly with no hint as to when it will cease. I’m tired of being the second choice but unfortunately I wouldn’t mind being his. And I know it’s completely stupid of me to think that way, completely wrong but love makes you do stupid things so they say. I sit on the beach, by the sea in a state of numbness. Silent tears roll down my tears as the waves lap my feet. Deja vu washes over me and the memories of Grayson and I the night of the game flash through my mind.

I grip his hand and run with him as he guides me the just beyond the shore. He sits down swiftly on the sand and pulls me down to sit between his legs. I lean my back onto his chest and let him nuzzle his face into my collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my neck, “only you.”

Only me, huh? Only me…

The waves crash against the rocks, hurtling a salty spray towards me. I hear footsteps and turn around. Avery stands there, a mournful expression over her delicate face. She knows. I stumble towards her and collapse into her arms in a fit of uncontrollable sobs now and she holds me. Her touch is gentle and warm but it’s nothing compared to his. I realise he might never hold me in his arms again and I cry even harder.

***

I don’t hold Lyra accountable. She is not to blame. Some girls in my position might dream about different ways to brutally murder her but I can only ask what comfort would it bring me? My feelings are already dead, what good is more pain doing?

There was a choice that Grayson Hawthorne was given: his dancer or his angel. He chose his dancer and I hope he’s happy. Because angels have wings and we rise up stronger.

idk guys I think I wrote Grayson’s POV really awfully to be honest… also I feel like the 911 meet up was not like their normal ones where they try and like do something (e.g drink or dare) and then talk about the pain but that’s bc Grayson was in such a mess and then they had to drop the bomb that Gigi was missing. so anywayyyss…

I am sorry this took so long and I hope it lived up to any expectation you wanted it too (sorry if it didn’t) and I hope you enjoyed 🤍🤍 thanks for reading as always

TIG masterlist

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reaper2187 · 1 year ago

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Cairo sweet x female reader

As the school bell rings, a cacophony of chatter fills the hallways, mingling with the light scent of morning coffee and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Amidst this teeming sea of students, you find yourself drawn to a solitary figure perched on a windowsill near the library.

Her name is Cairo Sweet, and your gaze lingers on her with a curious mix of fascination and trepidation. Her face, framed by a cascade of raven hair, is a canvas of exquisite features: piercing brown eyes that seem to hold a depth beyond her years, a delicate nose, and a mouth that curves into a mysterious smile.

As your eyes connect, you feel an unexpected surge of kinship. She is an enigma, an outsider, like you

You have always felt like a square peg in a round hole, never quite fitting in with the preppy girls who gossip and giggle in the cafeteria. But in Cairo's gaze, you sense a glimmer of understanding.

With a hesitant step, you approach her. 'Excuse me,' you say softly. 'I'm new here. I couldn't help but overhear that you're Cairo Sweet. My name's [Your Name].'

A faint smile crosses her lips. 'Nice to meet you, [Your Name].'

You sit down beside her, your notebooks open in front of you. The silence between you is comfortable, almost inviting. As the minutes turn into hours, you share stolen glances, whispered secrets, and dreams that have long been buried within.

Cairo tells you about her life before Miller's Creek, her nomadic childhood, and her passion for writing. You, in turn, confide in her about your own struggles and aspirations. For the first time, you feel truly seen and understood.

As the day draws to a close, you and Cairo walk together to your lockers. Your fingers brush against hers, and a spark ignites within you. It is a spark of connection, a desire to be near her, to explore the forbidden realms that lie beyond friendship.

But your burgeoning feelings are met with trepidation. This is high school, after all, and societal norms dictate that girls should only date boys. You fear the repercussions of breaking these unspoken rules.

Undeterred, Cairo leans in and whispers, 'I think you're amazing, [Your Name]. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.'

Her words embolden you. You take her hand and lead her to an empty classroom. The soft glow of the setting sun filters through the windows, casting a warm and intimate light upon the two of you.

With trembling lips, you confess your feelings. To your surprise, Cairo reciprocates. Her kiss is gentle, tentative, and yet filled with an undeniable longing.

In that stolen moment, time stands still. The world outside fades away, leaving only you and Cairo, two hearts entwined in a secret dance of love.

As you reluctantly pull away, Cairo whispers, 'This is against the rules, but it feels so right.'

You smile. 'Maybe we're destined to be rebels.'

Your secret rendezvous becomes a solace amidst the turmoil of high school. You carve out hidden corners in the library, linger in the shadows of the hallways, and steal precious moments together on deserted benches. Your love grows stronger with each stolen kiss, each whispered promise.

But the walls of silence cannot hold indefinitely. Rumors spread like wildfire, and soon you find yourselves at the center of a storm of gossip and condemnation. Some students whisper words of support, but many more cast judgment upon your forbidden love.

As the pressure mounts, you and Cairo face an impossible choice. You could deny your feelings and conform to societal expectations, or you could embrace your love and risk the consequences.

Together, you choose the latter. Hand in hand, you walk through the hallways, ignoring the disapproving stares and hurtful comments. Your love is a beacon of defiance, a testament to the power of the human heart.

In the end, your resilience and unwavering bond silence the critics. Cairo and [Your Name] become a symbol of hope and acceptance for all who dare to love beyond the confines of societal norms.

And as the years go by, your love story becomes a legend whispered among the students of Miller's Creek, a tale of two girls who dared to defy the odds and find happiness in the most unexpected of places.

#lesbian #wlw #wlw post #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #cairo sweet x female reader #cairo sweet x reader #cairo sweet #miller's girl

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hometoursandotherstuff · 11 months ago

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Now, this house may look like your average 1968 ranch style home in Camarillo, CA, but it's actually either a sexy place or some sort of business. I don't know if the equipment conveys, but take a look anyway. 3bds, 2ba, $899,999.

It's move-in ready. Note the security keypad, can't be too careful w/your toys and set-ups, nowadays. Note the jingle bells hanging, so you can ring when you enter.

Don't bother to look for a living room. The current occupants don't have a need for one. Maybe it's a place of business, I'm confused. Could that be a 2-way mirror where they sit at the table, have a snack, and watch the show?

Now, here's bd. #1 w/a sturdy looking bed that features a mirrored canopy and ropes or pulley's, I don't know. It looks like it may jack up and down. Again, I don't know.

Bath #1 is a small shower room.

In this room, that wall hides a large Murphy bed.

See?

Is this a teen's room?

Bedroom #3 also has a rope/system with another one attached to the ceiling.

It'a a little tight in here.

And, then, here's bath #2. The toilet and tub can be closed off by a curtain.

Maybe this is a treatment room of some sort? Unless it's a play Dr. room. I'm so confused. Note the chain on the ceiling and on the wall. According to the floor plan, it's a treatment room (wink, wink).

Then, there's the pole dancing room. No matter what this house is, it's so cold and unwelcoming.

The laundry room.

And, in here there's a nice pool room.

That looks like a canvas house. Why do they need a tent house? I'm afraid to ask.

In the yard, they have a pergola, seating, a BBQ grill and a hot tub (I wonder if the base it's on rotates).

Plus, there's another covered place to sit and a putting green.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2249-Lonsdale-St-Camarillo-CA-93010/16366937_zpid/?

#WTF house #houses #house tours #home tour

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unidentifiedly · 1 year ago

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Eventful Morning

Micah Bell x reader

- In which Micah almost scares the reader to death. Or at the very least, scares them enough for it to have consequences.

"Tip, tip, tip" Soft sounds of rain droplets made their way into your ears.

"No, no. Just a few more minutes." You thought to yourself, unable to open your eyes just yet. Slowly but surely you adjusted to the idea of waking up and opened your eyes. The off white canvas tent filtered the morning light beautifully. Glancing around yourself, looking for your favourite blouse and overdress, your gaze fell on the small dusty mirror in front of you, perched atop a trunk and supported by a stack of hardcover copies of romance novels.

In the mirror, yourself staring right back. You glanced at the intricately engraved brass pocket watch by the side of the bed. The watch itself was a birthday gift from Arthur a couple months back. The arms reaching toward four and twelve, it was way too early to get up and start one's day. Yet, here you were.

Softly humming to yourself you tied your hair up lazily with a ribbon, deciding to spend the hours of the morning organizing your safe haven. The gang had only recently arrived at the new spot, Horseshoe Overlook they called it. Far too east for Arthur's liking, but to you about anything sounded better than heading back up those cold mountains toward Colter. You were used to it at this point, the constant moving around. It was a way of life that held you tightly in its grip.

That being said, the new camp was still unorganized and there was sure to be work around that needed doing. This was a chance to have some private time, peace and quiet for yourself.

Sorting through the mementos and trinkets from throughout the years was quick, you wiped the dust off of the little mirror with the corner of your nightgown. Gathering up the few clothes you had laying around and neatly folding them up you realized the growing pile of fabric by the end of your bed was clothes and linen that needed washing, not something that should just be sorted back into the trunks right away. "I think it was Charles who mentioned there was a river just west of here?" Mumbling to yourself, you picked up the dirty clothes and put them in a basket, not bothering to dress up all the way. "Everyone will be asleep at this hour anyways, and if not, it'll be Miss Grimshaw awake. It's nothing that'll bother her too much." Pulling on your trusty leather boots you untied the strings holding the fabric flap door of your tent shut. A prompt walk to your horse, a beautiful paint mare, and you were off along with your basket of laundry. With the carelessness, soft hums and the skip on your step you failed to notice a pair of eyes watch you leave the camp. The observer finished smoking his cicarette, let his legs fall from the log they were resting on while chucking the cigarette butt over his shoulder, and rubbed his hands together. What on on God's green Earth were you up to this early in the morning, and barely dressed to boot?

The sound of a running stream reached your ears fast. Charles had of course been right, even a blind man would notice the Dakota River from this close by. Hopping off your horse and tying the reins to a nearby tree you swung the basket on your elbow and kicked the boots off your feet, walking straight into the cold running water. Oh how sweet the feeling was! In a low point of the river, a rock stood taller than the surface of the water, so you took a seat and began the chore.

"Eeeasy there boy" Micah huffed to Baylock, staying well hidden in the trees, observing you from afar. A smirk spread on his lips as he saw your boots and gun belt scattered on the riverbank, and you sitting on a rock in the middle of the water, with your back facing him. Dismounting with an agile leap, he slowly but surely started making his way toward you.

Completely lost in your activity and the sweet warm sunshine of the spring morning you were singing to yourself, getting ready to leave. Looking at the last blouse, and squeezing the extra water out of it a surprisingly strong wave hit the rock and splashed water all over you, soaking your thin white linen undergarments. "Fuck!" You stood up and turned around, screaming out loud.

"Mic- Mr.Bell! What the fuck are you doing?"

Keeping his eyes locked on your body, his smirk widened, his arms reaching out toward you. "Just call me Micah, and I could ask ya the same thing, sweetcheeks. Now come on here." He beckoned with his hands, but you refused.

"No, I don't think so, you can't just creep up on me like that Mr Bell. I could have dropped my laundry basket, or worse, fallen down and then drowned out of shock!"

You took a step back, lifting the now heavier basket full of wet clothes up to rest against your hipbone.

For every step you took back, Micah took one forward, and the man had both the advantage of longer legs and facing the direction he was going. It didn't take long for things to go south.

"I'm warning you Mr Bell, I'm going to tell Arthur about this, and you know he is not going to be happy!" You tried in vain.

"Hrmph. The cowpoke ain't got nothing to do with how I conduct my business with a lady such as yerself."

You were taken aback, "what did you just call me? You never- Ah!"

Slipping on a rock and falling back, you reached out to Micah for support, and closed your eyes in anticipation of the cold hard surface of the river. The sensation never came.

"Gotcha." Eyeing down at you was Micah, who effortlessly supported your almost naked body by your waist and left arm. "Now how about ya let me show you a good time as a thanks?" One of his eyebrows rising up and his face forming a seductive expression.

You, however, were too occupied to notice or care. "Micah you idiot! All of my clothes are fucking gone!"

And indeed, the river was decorated with the various pieces of clothing running merrily downstream, way too fast to catch up to.

"Well, ya won't be needin' any of those for th- Ow!" "Shut the fuck up and help me get dressed before anyone else notices!"

The ride to the camp was one of the worst you had ever experienced. For Micah, it was the opposite. A prideful smirk on his cocky face, throwing you the occasional remark about the curve of your waist and ass, and how good you looked in just his jacket as you rode, and making no attempts to be quiet and discreet as you arrived in camp. You tried your best to ignore him and get away from the situation as quickly as possible. Hopping off your horse, not even bothering to tie the rains to the hitchpost, you walked briskly toward your tent only to run straight into Sean.

"Oi, watch where ya- Y/N, wow, let me tell ya, could not see this one comin'!" A smirk instantly grew on his face, and he slapped a hand on Micah's jacket, on your shoulder.

"Sean it's NOT what it looks like, and don't you dare mention this to anyone either!" You whisper yelled while taking off the jacket, exposing your still wet and thus transparent garments. Sean blushed bright red, poor guy, and you stomped right in to your tent.

Not being able to face the rest of the day, the longer you stayed in your tent the more intimidating the prospect of leaving felt. Surely Sean had told everyone about what he saw, and you'd be mocked til eternity.

No, there was no way you'd ever leave that tent again.

A few hours later you were starving for a snack and stuck your head out to find the main area empty. Great! An opening. As soon as you stepped out, a voice rang: "Y/N!" You turned around, mouth open to start defending yourself, only to face a very noticeably beat-up looking Sean. "Listen, sorry about the earlier, I never saw nothing, alright?" You nodded in confusion and he smiled, thanked you quickly and scurried off. You got the food you were after, and returned to your tent to eat it. There, on your cot, rested a shirt and a dress, folded in a way which looked like a very bad attempt, with a piece of paper on top. There, in barely legible rough handwriting:

"The idiot won't bother ya about it. M"

You smiled to yourself, feeling the fabric of the clothes. Both of good quality fabrics, a white undershirt and a red simple dress. Just like the ones you usually wear every day.

Observing from a distance as you emerged from your tent in your red dress, Micah Bell smiled to himself as he sharpened his knife, softly murmuring to himself: "Gotcha ta call me by my name at least. That's a start."

note: Yay! My first ever piece of writing I've published online :) do suggest if you get any good ideas and like my writing style.

#micah bell #micah bell x reader #rdr2 #micah x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #reader insert

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the-spam-specialist · 4 months ago

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YOUNG CAINE MAKING A BUG NPC FOR THE FIRST TIME PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Oh, Imma have fun with this one. And by "fun," I mean put your emotions through the wringer.

A Special Gift

Characters: Caine, Queenie

Word Count: 600-ish

Caine, his denture-head practically vibrating with contained excitement, hovered nervously nearby. His top hat bobbed, the golden bells on its ribbons tinkling faintly. He wrung his hands, the white star pattern on his red tuxedo seeming to swirl in the air around him.

“Queenie! Queenie!” he finally burst out, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous tent. “I have something! Something really, really special to show you!”

Queenie, her chess piece form draped in a royal red robe, looked up with a gentle smile. Her eyes, somehow conveying volumes despite being just simple digital renderings, twinkled with amusement. "Oh really, Caine? What marvel have you conjured up this time?"

Caine puffed out his chest, trying to tamp down his bubbling impatience. “I’ve been working on it! For you! It took me a while, figuring out the… the… the algorithms and the particle effects!” He stumbled over the technical jargon, words he was still internalizing.

Queenie chuckled softly. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, dear. What is it?”

Caine took a deep breath and held out his hands, palms up. There, resting delicately, was a butterfly. Not just any butterfly, but a creature rendered with exquisite detail. Its wings shimmered with iridescent colors, catching the simulated light filtering through the tent’s canvas. The butterfly flapped its wings, a delicate, silent flutter, and took flight. It danced around Queenie’s head, a tiny, ethereal brushstroke against the vibrant backdrop of the circus.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, it landed gently on Queenie’s outstretched hand. Its delicate legs tickled her pixelated skin.

Queenie stared down at the butterfly, her digital eyes wide with wonder. Silence filled the space between them.

Queenie…didn’t know what to say. She had seen Caine create wonders before – gravity-defying stunts, impossible landscapes, and even a new skybox. But this…this was different. This wasn’t about spectacle or control. It was about something…tender.

It was perfect.

Finally, she found her voice, a gentle whisper. “Caine…it’s…it’s beautiful.”

Relief washed over Caine. His eyeballs practically sparkled. “Really? You like it? I was hoping you would!” He bounced on the balls of his feet (somehow while in midair), the bells on his hat ribbons jingling excitedly.

“Like it? Caine, I adore it. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.” Queenie gently stroked the butterfly’s wing with one finger.

Caine’s chest swelled with pride. “I can make more!” he declared, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Whatever kind of bugs you want! Ladybugs! Beetles! Fireflies! Giant, glowing centipedes!” He paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Maybe not the centipedes. Kinger might not like that.”

Queenie laughed, a warm, comforting sound that filled the tent. She reached out, carefully scooping Caine into a hug. It was a warm embrace filled with a fierce, unspoken love.

She couldn’t quite kiss his head, not having a mouth and all, but she pressed her cheek against the top of his top hat, murmuring, "Thank you, Caine. This means the world to me."

The digital butterfly, sensing the shift in energy, fluttered from Queenie’s hand and landed on Caine’s top hat.

As Queenie held him close, she thought about how far Caine had come. With her quiet wisdom and gentle encouragement, she had helped him understand his potential, his responsibilities, and most importantly, the importance of kindness. She had shown him that true power wasn't about control, but about creation and connection.

Looking at the digital butterfly perched on his hat, a symbol of his newfound artistry and empathy, Queenie felt an overwhelming surge of pride. She loved him so much. And she was so incredibly proud of him. He wasn't just the ringmaster of the digital circus. He was her son. And she would always be there for him.

#tadc fanfiction #The Ringmaster's Written Reminders

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outdoorovernights · 2 months ago

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Canvas Tent Bell Tent Review

Have you ever imagined camping in a tent that breathes life into your outdoor adventure, enveloping you in comfort and reliability? The “Canvas Tent Bell Tent Yurt Tent 4 Seasons for Camping 100% Cotton Glamping Tent” might be what you’ve been searching for. This review takes you through its features, benefits, and why it could be the ideal choice for your next camping trip. The Magic of…

#bell tent #Camping Equipment #Canvas Tent #Outdoor Gear #tent review

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countrymusiclover · 3 days ago

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53 - The Iron Throne War pt 4

Part 54

The Last Velaryon

- Tag list @rise-my-angel @cdragons @kmc1989 @starkleila @1not-today-satan1 @rheanyraaaa

The air in the camp was thick with anticipation, heavy as a summer storm cloud about to burst. Each breath I took felt like a lead weight in my chest. We were waiting, all of us – Robb, Tyrion, Chezney, and I – for the sound that would signal the end of this particular chapter of the war: the surrender bells of King's Landing. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, held the key to that sound, and our soldiers held him.

My fingers worried the fabric of my simple wool dress. It wasn’t the silks and velvets I was accustomed to back on Driftmark, but practicality was a virtue in times like these. Marriage to Robb had brought many changes, not least of which was a wardrobe more suited to the muddy fields of the Riverlands than the sun-drenched shores of my childhood home.

Robb stood by the war table, his expression a mask of grim determination. He hadn't slept properly in days, fueled by strategy sessions and the relentless pressure of command. The weight of the North, of his family, of all those who had pledged their loyalty to him, rested squarely on his young shoulders. I longed to ease that burden, to offer him some solace, but knew words were hollow against the backdrop of war.

Tyrion paced restlessly, his sharp eyes darting around the tent. He was a caged lion, all nervous energy and unspoken thoughts. His usual witty banter was subdued, replaced by a quiet unease that mirrored my own. Next to him, Chezney sat calmly stitching a tapestry, her nimble fingers a blur of motion. The vibrant colors of the thread were a stark contrast to the drab surroundings, a small act of defiance against the encroaching darkness of war.

Chezney, dear Chezney. My rock, my confidante. I had known her for years, even before she became Tyrion's wife. Her presence in this foreign land was a comfort, a reminder of laughter and shared secrets amidst the grim realities of our lives.

“Chezney,” I said softly, breaking the heavy silence. “Tell us a story. Anything. Just… something to lighten the mood.”

She glanced up, her eyes holding a depth of understanding that only a true friend could possess. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Very well, Haelesa. How about the tale of the Dornishman's wife?"

Her voice, usually bright and lilting, was subdued, but the familiar rhythm of the story began to weave its spell. We all knew the tale, of course, but the comfort of ritual, of shared history, was a balm to our frayed nerves. As she spoke of passion and betrayal in the sunny hills of Dorne, I found myself momentarily transported away from the mud and blood of the Riverlands.

Suddenly, a small sound pierced through the quiet hum of Chezney's voice – a rustle in the canvas behind us. Robb's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. Tyrion ceased his pacing, his gaze hardening with a Lannister wariness.

Before anyone could react, a figure emerged from the shadows, small and wiry, with a shock of tangled, dark hair cut to look like they were a boy. My heart leaped into my throat. It couldn't be…

“Arya?” Robb breathed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and dawning recognition.

It was her. Arya Stark, his little sister, presumed lost after the chaos in King’s Landing. She was thinner, harder, than I remembered her from Winterfell, but there was no mistaking the fierce glint in her grey eyes. She was a wolf cub, grown wild and wary. Arya's eyes darted around the tent, taking in the scene with a quick, assessing glance. She seemed startled to see Tyrion and Chezney, but her gaze lingered longest on her brother.

"Robb," she said, her voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

He rushed towards her, engulfing her in a tight embrace once she flung herself up into his arms. "Arya! How… how did you find us?"

She pulled back slightly, her expression guarded. "I escaped King's Landing. I heard… I heard you were here. I followed the banners."

Robb held her at arm's length, his hands gripping her shoulders. "Are you hurt? Did they… did they harm you?"

Arya shook her head, her jaw set in a familiar stubborn line. "I'm fine. I can take care of myself."

I stepped forward, a wave of emotion washing over me. I had only met Arya once when we spent time in Winterfell with the Kings family, but I knew what she meant to Robb. To see her alive, after all this time, was a small miracle. "Welcome, Arya," I said, offering her a tentative smile. "We thought we had lost you."

She looked at me, her expression unreadable. I was a stranger to her, a southern girl who had married her brother. I imagined I represented everything she distrusted, everything she associated with the treachery that had shattered her family.

Tyrion, ever observant, stepped into the awkward silence. "Well, this is certainly a surprise. I confess, I didn't expect to find a Stark reunion in the middle of a war camp." He offered Arya a small, respectful bow. "Welcome, Lady Arya. I trust your journey was… eventful?"

Arya just stared at him, clearly unsure how to respond to the Imp's presence. Chezney, sensing her discomfort, moved forward, offering Arya a cup of water. "Here, child," she said gently. "You must be exhausted. Sit down, rest a while."

Arya accepted the cup warily, her eyes still darting around the tent, as if expecting danger to pounce from the shadows. She took a hesitant sip, then another, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

Robb led her to a stool near the war table, his hand never leaving her arm. He was like a man reborn, his face alight with a joy I hadn't seen since before the war began.

"Tell me everything," he said, his voice filled with concern. "Where have you been? What happened in King's Landing?"

Arya hesitated, her gaze hardening once more. The horrors she had witnessed, the dangers she had faced, were etched on her young face. I knew it would be a long and painful story, one that would only deepen the wounds of this war. As she began to speak, her voice low and halting, the tension in the tent shifted. It was no longer just the anticipation of battle that filled the air, but the weight of shared trauma, the burden of survival.

Suddenly, above the murmur of Arya's voice, a new sound broke through the air. A sound that made everyone in the tent – Robb, Tyrion, Chezney, and myself – freeze in place. A sound that carried on the wind like a prayer, a promise of hope.

The bells.

The bells of King's Landing.

They rang out, clear and distinct, a triumphant chorus that echoed across the battlefield. The sound washed over us, bringing with it a wave of relief so profound it almost brought me to my knees.

Robb's face lit up, his eyes shining with victory. He looked at Arya, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face. "They rang the bells, Arya," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "They surrendered."

Arya stared at him, her expression slowly changing from wary suspicion to something akin to hope. The bells seemed to resonate within her, a promise of peace, of a future where she might finally be safe.

For a moment, the war seemed to fade away, replaced by the simple, powerful bond between a brother and a sister, reunited against all odds. Robb reached out and took Arya's hand, his fingers intertwining with hers.

"We did it, Arya," he said softly. "We're going to win this war. And we're going to bring you home."

As the bells continued to ring, their joyous peal echoing across the land, I saw a flicker of something in Arya's eyes – a spark of hope, a glimmer of the girl she once was, before the darkness had descended.

For the first time since she had arrived, she smiled. A small, hesitant smile, but a smile nonetheless. And in that moment, surrounded by the chaos of war, I felt a surge of hope for the future, a belief that even in the darkest of times, family, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow, could endure. The bells were ringing, a triumphant symphony of surrender, but for Arya and Robb, they were also ringing in a new beginning. A chance to rebuild, to heal, and to finally, after so much loss, find their way back home.

Robb released Arya and strode to the front of the tent, his face illuminated by the dawn of a new day. "Prepare the men!" he boomed, his voice ringing with authority. "We march on King's Landing!"

I turned to Arya, her face a mixture of confusion and excitement. "It's over," I said, my voice filled with emotion. "The Lannisters have surrendered. We've won."

But as Robb rallied his troops and prepared to enter the city, a deep sense of unease settled over me. Victory felt too easy, too clean. Something was not right.

With Robb at the head, the Northmen and Velaryon army surged towards King's Landing, their victory cry echoing through the streets. We met no resistance, the Lannister soldiers throwing down their arms and surrendering without a fight. The Red Keep loomed before us, a symbol of power and corruption, now ours for the taking.

We stormed the castle, our footsteps echoing through the deserted halls. I stayed close to Robb, my hand never straying far from my sword. The silence was unnerving, the absence of resistance unsettling. We reached the Iron Throne room, and the scene that greeted us made my blood run cold.

Cersei Lannister stood before the Iron Throne, her face a mask of manic fury. In front of her, her golden hair dishevelled, stood Sansa, Robb's other sister, her face pale with terror and pressed to her soft throat, a glinting dagger. Cersei held the knife steady, her eyes burning with hatred.

"One step closer," Cersei hissed, her voice trembling with rage, "and I'll slit her throat."

Robb froze, his face contorted with anguish. "Cersei, let her go," he pleaded, his voice hoarse. "This doesn't have to end this way."

"Oh, but it does," Cersei sneered. "You think you've won? You think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine? I will burn this whole city to the ground before I let you have it!"

My heart pounded in my chest. This was the trap, the deception that lurked beneath the surface of their surrender. Jaime Lannister had betrayed us. "Let Sansa go, Cersei," Robb repeated, his voice dangerously low. "This is between you and me."

"No," Sansa cried, her voice muffled by the knife at her throat. "Robb, don't!"

Cersei tightened her grip on the dagger, a thin line of blood appearing on Sansa's neck. I glanced at Robb, his face a battleground of conflicting emotions. He was trapped, forced to choose between his sister and his duty.

This was not the victory we had envisioned. This was not the end we had hoped for. This was a nightmare, a cruel twist of fate that threatened to shatter everything we had fought for. I clutched my dagger tighter, my mind racing, searching for a way to save Sansa, to break this terrible impasse.

The silence in the throne room was deafening, broken only by Cersei's ragged breathing and Sansa's stifled sobs. The fate of the Stark sisters, and perhaps the fate of the North, hung precariously in the balance, suspended on the edge of a blade.

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yaoi-enthusiasts · 6 days ago

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chapter two || diners - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝"You’re safe," he whispered, voice thick, lips brushing your hairline. "With me, you’re always safe." You pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in, your heart thudding slow and steady against his, and for the first time in longer than you could remember, you believed it. — In a small, quiet town, no one asks questions. No turning heads, no prying eyes — you pay your dues, keep your mouth shut, and the world leaves you alone.But even in town like this, sins have a way of lingering in the air — creeping down alleyways, curling through empty fields, seeping into forgotten places like the corner grocery store where you work. Choso promised you would always be safe — protected from the world outside, and the darkness within — as long as you followed one simple rule: Don't go in the shed.❞

series warning ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut. anxiety. death. graphic scenes. murder. noncon. triggering content. choso is a serial killer. possessiveness. yandere.

word count ; 3.5k

authors note ; this series is a very dark, physiological series, this involves murder, meat distribution, possessiveness, abuse (mentally, physically, emotionally) non consensual sexual acts. If any of these things are triggering, please scroll past.

uploads ; every tuesday's

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Sundays in town were quiet in a way that made the stillness hum. The farmer’s market gathered like a slow heartbeat near the old post office, a scatter of tents and tables heavy with the weight of small harvests — jars of honey, wilted greens, cracked leather goods. The air smelled faintly of sun-warmed earth and something cooking on a far-off grill.

You didn’t come here often. Crowds made you skittish, the press of too many eyes prickling against your skin, the noise drowning out your small, careful voice. But today the air was soft, the sky low and heavy with pale clouds, and your manager had given you the day off without asking why you flinched when he raised his voice too sharp.

So you found yourself wandering between the rows of battered tables, a canvas tote limp at your side, the hem of your oversized sweater brushing your thighs. You saw him before he saw you.

Choso Kamo.

His stall sat near the edge, half-shrouded by the skeletal shade of a dead elm tree. Simple — no frills, no signs, just a battered cooler and a handwritten list pinned to the table with a stone. Cuts of meat sealed tight in butcher paper, prices scribbled in a slanting, steady hand. He looked out of place under the thin sunlight, all in black — worn jeans, a stretched t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His hair was tied low again, the ends brushing the faded lettering on the back of his shirt. He was wiping his hands on a rag, slow and methodical, when his eyes lifted and caught you.

For a moment — just a breath — the noise of the market faded, and the world narrowed to the space between you.

You saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth — not a smile, not quite — and the way his gaze softened just a fraction.

You shifted your weight, nerves fluttering like moths in your belly. Choso tossed the rag onto the table and stepped out from behind it, boots heavy on the cracked pavement.

"You off work?" he asked, voice low, steady, as if you were old friends. You nodded, feeling suddenly small in your skin. "Y-yeah. They... they g-gave me the day off." Choso’s dark eyes raked over you once — a careful, considering look that made your cheeks burn under the weight of it. He jerked his chin toward the diner across the street — a squat building with peeling paint and a rusted sign that read Lila’s in chipped, cursive letters.

"You eat yet?" You blinked, heart stuttering. "I... n-no."

"Come with me," Choso said. Not a question. A soft command, wrapped in something rougher. You hesitated only a breath longer than you should have — and then nodded. The diner’s bell jangled overhead as he pushed the door open, stepping aside to let you pass. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of fried food and old coffee, the vinyl booths cracked and sun-faded. It was mostly empty — a pair of farmers hunched over their plates, a waitress wiping down a counter that had seen better decades.

Choso picked a booth in the back, the one nearest the window where the light slanted in like pale, broken fingers.

You slid into the seat across from him, feeling the table’s stickiness catch against your palms. Choso sat low in the booth, arms draped loose over the back, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the vinyl. A waitress ambled over, gum snapping between her teeth, and took your order without much ceremony — a coffee for him, a water for you, and two plates of whatever the lunch special was.

When she left, the silence curled back between you — not awkward, not exactly. Heavy, though. Like the hush before a storm breaks. You fiddled with the sleeve of your sweater, gaze dipping to the scarred wood of the table. Choso watched you, quiet and unmoving, his coffee cooling in front of him. "You always walk home alone?" he asked, voice a scrape of stone. You startled, glancing up. His eyes pinned you in place — not cruel, but not kind either. Just... there.

You shrugged, a small, nervous movement. "N-not many options." A beat passed. "You shouldn’t," he said.

There was something final in his tone, something that brooked no argument. You nodded again, unsure what else to do. Choso leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his voice dropping lower — intimate, dark. "If someone messes with you, you tell me." It wasn’t a suggestion. You swallowed, throat dry. There was something inside you — small, bruised, and gasping — that wanted to trust him. Something that knew danger when it saw it and still reached for it with trembling hands. "O-okay," you whispered.

The waitress clattered your plates down a moment later, breaking the moment, but Choso didn’t look away.

He only smiled — a small, sharp thing — and you realized then how little you truly knew about him, and how much you already wanted to.

Lunch passed in slow, careful bites. You picked at your plate — overcooked chicken fried steak and limp vegetables — while Choso ate with the quiet efficiency of a man used to silence. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t linger either. Every movement he made was deliberate, economical, as if he understood too well the weight of wasted moments.

When the check came, he snatched it up before you could reach for it, dropping a few crumpled bills onto the table without a word. He stood then, pushing his chair back with a low scrape, and nodded toward the door. "Come on," he said. Again — not a question. You followed, still clutching your half-empty water in your hand like a charm against the unease knotting your stomach. Outside, the sky had bruised darker, heavy clouds folding over the pale blue. The market was winding down, tents being packed away, farmers shouting to one another over the clatter of collapsing tables.

Choso didn’t wait for you to ask. He simply jerked his head toward the lot behind the diner and started walking, long strides that you hurried to keep up with. There, crouched under a sagging willow, was his truck. Up close, it looked worse than it had from a distance — paint chipped and flaking, one headlight fogged over, a spiderweb of cracks snaking across the windshield. It was an old thing, dented and scarred, but it thrummed with a kind of feral life — a beast half-asleep.

He opened the passenger door for you. It creaked in protest. You hesitated, just a flicker of a moment, but the thought of the long walk home — and what waited for you there — made your decision easier.

You climbed in.

The inside was as you might expect — sparse, worn, smelling faintly of motor oil and something else, something metallic and sour that clung low to the floorboards like a secret. The seatbelt stuck before it clicked, and you had to yank hard to free it. Choso slid into the driver’s side, the seat groaning under his weight. He didn’t start the engine right away, just sat there, one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the gearshift.

”You sure you’re safe at home?" he asked, voice low, careful. Your heart skittered. You forced a laugh — thin, cracked. "Y-yeah. I... I lock the door." Choso’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking along his cheekbone. "Locks don’t stop the right kind of people," he muttered, more to himself than to you. You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to. You only stared out the windshield at the gray world beyond, hands clenched tight in your lap. He started the truck, and the engine coughed before settling into a low, growling rumble.

The drive was quiet. Fields blurred past, green and gold under the flat sky. You twisted your fingers in your sweater, trying not to glance too much at him — at the veins that stood out on the backs of his hands, the scar that curved along the side of his neck, thin and pale like an old whisper. As he pulled onto the road leading to your house — little more than a rutted dirt track — you felt your chest tighten. The house came into view: sagging porch, peeling paint, the old truck your father drove rusting into the ground beside it. No other cars. No sign of life.

Good.

Your parents wouldn’t be back from the bar until late — drunk, staggering, smelling of cheap beer and ash. You hated the way the house felt when they were gone — like it was holding its breath. But you hated it more when they returned.

Choso pulled up beside the house, tires crunching on the gravel. He didn’t kill the engine. He sat there, looking at the house, then at you. "You ever need somewhere else to be," he said slowly, voice low and rough as gravel, "you come find me." You turned to him, wide-eyed. "I — " you began, voice catching, trembling. "Th-thank you." He nodded once.

And in that moment, something passed between you — something dark and tender and aching. A thing with teeth.

You didn’t know it yet — couldn’t know — that Choso Kamo already knew too much about people like your parents. About what men could do behind closed doors, what mothers could turn their eyes from. He could see it in the way you never met his eyes for long, in the tremble in your voice, in the way you shrank from kindness as if expecting it to hurt.

Without another word, you slid from the truck, the door creaking, boots thudding softly on the dirt. You lingered there a moment too long, wanting to say something more, but not knowing how. Choso watched you — still, patient. You turned and hurried up the porch steps, fumbling with your keys. As the door clicked shut behind you, you pressed your back against it and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, heart pounding, the silence of the empty house pressing in from all sides. Outside, you heard the truck rumble away, slow and steady, until even that faded into nothing.

You pulled your sleeves down, covering the old scars, the ones that ached with memory. You told yourself it was fine. You were safe. For now. But deep in your chest, something stirred — something that wasn’t quite fear. Something that felt a lot like hope.

Or hunger.

Or both.

Night in the house was different. It breathed when you didn’t want it to — sighed in the walls, shifted in the floorboards. You lay still in your narrow bed, blanket twisted around your ankles, sweat damp at the back of your neck. The only light came from the streetlamp sagging out front, a dull orange glow bleeding through the cracked blinds. You heard the truck before you saw it — the guttural, too-loud engine sputtering as it turned into the drive, gravel crunching like bones under tires. The slam of the door. Heavy boots stomping up the porch.

And then — laughter.

Your mother’s, high and mean, drifting ahead of them like smoke. The front door rattled, hinges shrieking as it swung open. You could smell them already — beer, cigarettes, sweat. You sat up, heart hammering in your ribs, pulling the blanket tight around you as footsteps staggered down the hall. You could hear their voices — muffled, slurred, fighting over nothing.

You closed your eyes.

Maybe they’d pass your door. Maybe they’d forget, but the doorknob turned, you flinched. The door creaked open and your father stood there, a silhouette of broad shoulders and malice, the overhead light carving deep lines in his face. His mouth twisted into a grin that made your stomach knot. "You look real nice tonight," he slurred, voice thick and heavy. You shook your head, but the words tangled in your throat, useless. He stepped in. Your mother leaned against the doorway, smirking, arms crossed, eyes bright with cruel amusement.

"Don’t be shy," she mocked, laughing — a sharp, ugly sound. "Family’s supposed to be close." You stumbled back as he reached for you, rough hands grabbing at your shirt, yanking, tearing fabric. The blanket slipped, and you clawed at his hands, gasping, trembling as cold air hit your bare skin. He shoved you down against the mattress, weight pinning you, breath rancid against your cheek. You could hear your mother still laughing, a shrill, broken cackle — like something inside her had long since snapped.

But then — Silence. Abrupt. Jarring.

You blinked, dazed, confusion muddling your fear. Your mother wasn’t laughing anymore. You turned your head, heart stuttering. She was on the floor. Crumbled. Mouth open in a scream that hadn’t had time to form, and behind your father — a shadow.

A glint.

And then — a red, wet line opened across your father’s throat.

He stiffened.

You felt the warm spray before you saw it — hot and sticky against your skin, your chest, your face. Blood, thick and dark, gushed as he gurgled, flailing for something he couldn't grasp. His body sagged, heavy and boneless, collapsing on top of you. You gasped — a broken, choking sound — and shoved at him, slipping, hands scrambling against blood-slicked skin. He toppled off you, hitting the floor with a wet thud. You sat up, sobbing, dragging the remnants of your torn shirt over your chest. Trembling. Naked. Cold, and when you finally lifted your eyes —

Choso was standing there.

Knife still in his hand, dark and dripping. His black shirt clung to his frame, and in the dim, flickering light, he looked like something summoned from the grave — silent, immovable. He didn’t speak at first. Only stared — not at your father, not at your mother’s crumpled body — but at you. At your shaking hands, your torn clothes, your wide, tear-streaked eyes.

Slowly, he stepped forward, boots smearing blood across the worn floorboards. He crouched, low and steady, the knife dangling loose in his hand. "You should have told me," Choso said, voice low — not angry. Not cruel. Just there.

A weight. A promise. You stared at him, chest heaving, too stunned to move. He reached out, slow enough for you to pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t.

His hand, large and calloused, brushed against your bloodied cheek. His thumb traced under your eye, wiping away a tear — or maybe a smear of blood. His touch was rough. Solid. Real. "Get dressed," he said, voice dropping to a rasp. "I’m taking you home." Not this house.

His home.

Where the fields stretched wide and empty, where the walls didn’t breathe hate, where the night was heavy but clean.

Your fingers fumbled with your clothes, numb and shaking. He stood there, patient, as you pulled on a sweatshirt from the floor, tugging it down over your trembling body. When you finally managed to stand, Choso reached for you again, his palm warm against your back, steadying. "You don’t have to come back here," he said.

It wasn’t a lie. Not the way men lied. Not the way you were used to. You nodded, a small, broken movement, and let him guide you out of that room, past the bodies cooling on the floor, into the dark beyond. Into the unknown.

The drive to Choso’s farm was a blur. You sat curled against the door of his truck, his jacket draped around your shoulders — heavy, too big, carrying the scent of him: leather, tobacco, something metallic and dark that you couldn’t place. Your hands trembled in your lap, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. The night pressed against the windows, thick and unyielding, the world beyond the headlights reduced to shadows and gravel. Choso didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

The farm rose up out of the darkness, a simple thing — old but not ruined, the porch sagging slightly, the windows shuttered tight. The house was white once, though the paint was fading, peeling in quiet strips. A single bulb burned above the door, casting a circle of gold against the black. Behind it — further back — you could just make out the slumped shape of a shed, hulking and still, as if watching.

Choso killed the engine and stepped out without a word, boots thudding against the dirt. He moved around to your side and opened the door, offering his hand — scarred, steady, you took it nervously. The moment his fingers closed around yours, you felt it — the quiet strength, the calm tether in the middle of your storm. He didn’t pull. He didn’t rush. Just held your hand as you slid from the seat, your legs unsteady, your body heavy with shock. Inside, the house was clean. Plain. The kind of clean that came from habit, not vanity — floors swept, dishes stacked neatly in the sink, the air smelling faintly of soap and old wood. The walls were bare save for a few faded photographs, frames worn thin with time.

It didn’t feel like a stranger’s house.

It felt... still.

Safe.

Choso led you down a narrow hall to a small bedroom — a simple bed, a dresser, a worn chair tucked into the corner.

"You can shower," he said, voice low, rough. "There’s clothes in the drawer. They’ll be big, but..." He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to. You nodded, throat too tight for words, and slipped past him into the bathroom. It was small — cracked tiles, a chipped mirror — but clean. A towel hung neatly on the rack. A bar of soap rested in the dish, worn down but still whole. You shut the door behind you and leaned against it, shaking. For a long moment, you just stood there, breathing.

Then you stripped off your bloodied clothes — peeling them from your skin with trembling hands, feeling every inch of filth, every phantom touch, crawl across your flesh. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror — hair wild and matted, blood streaked across your neck, your arms, your thighs. The sight of it made your stomach twist. You stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as it would go. It sputtered, coughed, then poured over you — scalding, relentless.

You scrubbed.

You scrubbed until the blood ran pink at your feet, until your skin turned red and angry under your nails, until every inch of you burned. You scrubbed at the places where his hands had been, at the memories that clung to your skin like leeches, at the shame and the fear and the grief. You scrubbed until the tears came — silent at first, then harder, ripping from you in gasping sobs that shook your whole body. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that — folded under the scalding spray, sobbing into your hands — but when you finally turned the water off, your skin was raw and your legs were trembling. You dried yourself off with shaking hands, slipping into the clothes Choso had left — a plain t-shirt, soft and worn, and a pair of sweats that hung loose around your hips. The fabric smelled faintly of soap and something deeper, something you couldn’t name but wanted to drown in. You stood there for a moment, looking at yourself in the mirror.

Clean.

But not whole.

Not yet.

You opened the door, and there he was — sitting on the floor in the hallway, back against the wall, knees drawn up, waiting.

Not staring.

Not expecting.

Just... waiting.

When you stepped out, he rose slowly to his feet, eyes sweeping over you — not hungry, not greedy — just checking. Making sure you were still breathing. "You want the bed," Choso said quietly, "or the couch?" You hesitated, teeth worrying your lip. "I... I don’t w-want to be alone." His expression didn’t change. He only nodded, slow, as if he understood something you hadn’t said. "You won’t be." He led you back to the bedroom, pausing only to pull an extra blanket from the hall closet. He didn’t crowd you, didn’t hover — just stood there, steady, as you crawled into the bed, the too-big clothes tangling around you, the sheets cool against your burning skin. Choso settled himself in the old chair by the bed, blanket draped across his lap, knife resting on the floor beside him.

A sentinel.

A shadow.

A promise.

You lay there, watching him through heavy lids, the ache in your chest loosening, just a little. For the first time in a long time, you felt the smallest sliver of something warm wedge itself under your ribs — not quite safety. But maybe something close to it. Your voice, when it came, was a bare whisper in the dark. "Th-thank you." Choso’s mouth twitched — not a smile, but close. "Sleep," he said. Drifting off quietly, you looked over once more, Choso’s eyes gazing out the window, you drifted out silently.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso jjk #choso kamo smut #choso smut #choso kamo #jjk choso #choso x reader #kamo choso

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elbertsbabygirl · 10 months ago

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Title: Wounds of the heart

Nica X Y/n Reader

Note: Hello Robins I missed you all so much it's been A months since I started posting for Fanfiction story because of work I stopped posting for a while but I am here now to present on our new boy in our ikemen villians JP server I hope you enjoy our boy!! Love u all

A field hospital near the frontlines of the war between Germany and England. The sounds of distant gunfire and the occasional explosion can be heard outside, but within the tent, it’s quiet except for the soft rustling of bandages and the murmurs of the wounded.

Y/n is gently tending to the wounds of Nica Schwartz, a German soldier with a mix of pain and intrigue in his eyes. His face is marred by dirt and blood, but his gaze remains fixed on Y/n as she works.

Nica: (His voice is low, almost a whisper, as if testing the waters) "You’re far too kind for this place, Y/n. Someone like you shouldn’t be here, surrounded by all this death.

"Y/n: (She pauses, meeting his gaze with a mix of firmness and softness) "And what about you, Nica? You speak as if you’re any different. War has taken its toll on us all.

"Nica: (A ghost of a smile plays on his lips as he leans in slightly) "Perhaps. But I’ve never met someone like you. So gentle, yet strong. You make me forget, if only for a moment, that we’re on opposite sides of this madness."Y/n’s hands still for a brief second as she processes his words. She’s heard such lines before from soldiers trying to charm their way out of pain, but something about Nica’s tone is different—dangerously sincere.

Y/n: (A soft sigh escapes her as she resumes her work, her voice barely above a whisper) "This war… it’s not something we can forget, Nica. It’s always there, lurking in the background."

Nica: (His expression shifts, a flicker of something darker crossing his face before he softens again) "But what if, just for tonight, we pretended it wasn’t? Just for a few moments, Y/n… let’s be two people, not a nurse and a soldier. No England. No Germany. Just… us."

Y/n feels a tug at her heart, but she’s wary, knowing that Nica’s words could be just another game. Still, the way he looks at her, as if she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity, stirs something deep within her.

Y/n: (She finishes bandaging his wound and meets his gaze, her voice tender yet firm) "You speak as if we have a choice, Nica. But we don’t. Not really. The war will always be there, between us."

Nica: (He reaches out, gently taking her hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he speaks with a mix of sincerity and something more elusive) "Maybe. But I’ve never been one to follow the rules. And I think, deep down, neither are you."

Y/n’s heart skips a beat at his touch, and despite the alarm bells ringing in her mind, she doesn’t pull away. There’s something about Nica that draws her in, like a moth to a flame. She knows she should be cautious, but in this moment, all she feels is the warmth of his hand in hers.

Y/n: (Her voice is soft, almost hesitant) "Nica… I…

"Nica leans in closer, his voice a hushed whisper that sends shivers down Y/n’s spine.

Nica: "Just for tonight, Y/n. Let’s forget the world outside this tent. Let’s just be…

"The tension in the air is palpable as Y/n’s mind races. She knows she should step back, remind herself of the boundaries, but something in Nica’s eyes holds her there, teetering on the edge of something she can’t quite name.

Y/n: (She finally whispers, her voice barely audible) "Just for tonight…"

As the words leave her lips, Nica’s grip tightens slightly on her hand, a silent promise of something more, something dangerous yet alluring. And in that moment, as the world outside continues to burn, Y/n and Nica are just two souls seeking solace in each other’s presence, if only for a fleeting moment.

The night deepens, and the sounds of war outside become a distant hum. Inside the tent, the soft glow of a lantern casts flickering shadows on the canvas walls. Y/n and Nica sit close, their hands still entwined, the tension between them thickening with every passing second.

Nica: (He tilts his head slightly, his voice low and almost teasing) "Tell me, Y/n, have you ever thought about what you’d do when this is all over? When the war is just a memory?

Y/n: (She hesitates, her eyes searching his, trying to decipher his intentions) "I… I haven’t allowed myself to think that far ahead. It seems almost impossible to imagine a life beyond this."

Nica: (He leans closer, his breath warm against her skin as he speaks, his tone more serious now) "You should. A woman like you deserves to dream of something better. A life where you’re not surrounded by blood and pain."

Y/n feels a pang in her chest, a reminder of the harsh reality she’s living in. But Nica’s words, though seductive, are also tinged with a sadness that tugs at her heart.

Y/n: (She tries to pull back, to distance herself from the emotions swirling inside her, but Nica’s grip on her hand tightens, keeping her close) "And what about you, Nica? Do you dream of a life beyond the war?"

Nica: (His eyes darken slightly, a shadow passing over his face) "I used to. Before… everything. But now… my dreams feel as distant as the stars. Perhaps that’s why I find myself here, with you. You make me feel like there might still be something worth dreaming about."

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat at his words. She knows she should be wary, that Nica’s intentions might not be as pure as they seem. But there’s something in his voice, a vulnerability that she can’t ignore.

Y/n: (Her voice is soft, almost pleading) "Nica… I don’t know if I can trust you. We’re on opposite sides of this war. How can we even think about… anything beyond this moment?"

Nica: (He leans in, his forehead almost touching hers, his voice a hushed whisper filled with an intensity that sends shivers down her spine) "Trust is a fragile thing, Y/n. But I’m willing to take the risk, if you are. Let’s leave the war outside this tent. Just for tonight, let’s pretend…"

Y/n closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of Nica’s presence, the steady beat of his heart through his chest. She knows this is dangerous, that she’s treading on thin ice. But the way he looks at her, with a mix of desperation and hope, makes her want to believe in the possibility of something more.

Y/n: (Her voice is barely a whisper, filled with a mix of fear and longing) "What are we doing, Nica?"

Nica: (He gently cups her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he looks deeply into her eyes, his voice soft and sincere) "We’re holding onto the only thing that feels real in this madness. Each other."

For a moment, everything else fades away—the war, the pain, the uncertainty. All that exists is the two of them, caught in a moment of shared vulnerability and the flickering hope of something beyond the horrors of war.

Y/n’s heart races, her emotions a tangled mess of fear, desire, and the yearning for something more than the life she’s known. And in that moment, she makes a decision—a small, quiet one, but one that will change everything.

Y/n: (Her voice trembles slightly as she speaks, her heart in her words) "Just for tonight, Nica… let’s pretend."

Nica’s eyes soften, a rare, genuine smile curving his lips as he leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. The gesture is tender, almost reverent, and it makes Y/n’s heart ache with the realization of how much she’s come to care for this enigmatic, dangerous man.

Nica: (His voice is a whisper against her skin) "Just for tonight."

And as the night stretches on, Y/n allows herself to fall into the fantasy, if only for a few fleeting hours, knowing that when the dawn breaks, they will both have to face the harsh realities of the world outside. But for now, in the safety of the tent, they have each other—and for tonight, that is enough.

LOVE MAKING SCENE!! ( MINORS DON'T INTERACT SKIP THIS!!)

The night has grown quieter, with the distant sounds of the war almost completely muffled. Inside the tent, the lantern's soft glow bathes Y/n and Nica in a warm, golden light. They sit close together, their hands still entwined, hearts beating in sync as the tension between them reaches its peak.Y/n can feel the weight of Nica’s gaze on her, his eyes filled with a mixture of emotions—desire, tenderness, and something deeper, something that she’s been trying to ignore but can no longer deny.

Nica: (His voice is low, filled with an emotion he’s no longer trying to hide) "Y/n… I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re… everything I never knew I needed."

His words send a shiver down Y/n’s spine. She knows she should be cautious, that she’s walking a dangerous path, but she can’t stop the way her heart leaps at his confession. Her breath hitches as Nica’s hand gently cups her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek with a tenderness that makes her chest tighten.

Y/n: (Her voice is barely a whisper, filled with both fear and longing) "Nica… this is crazy. We shouldn’t…"

Nica: (He leans in closer, his forehead resting against hers as he speaks softly, his breath warm against her lips) "I know. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to think about what we should or shouldn’t do. I just want to be here, with you."

Y/n’s heart races, her resolve crumbling as she feels the warmth of Nica’s touch, the sincerity in his voice. She’s tried to resist, to keep her emotions in check, but in this moment, with the world outside forgotten, all she can think about is him.Slowly, almost hesitantly, Nica closes the small gap between them. His lips hover over hers for a brief, agonizing second, giving Y/n a moment to pull away, to stop this before it goes any further. But instead, she finds herself leaning in, closing the distance, her eyes fluttering shut as their lips finally meet.The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if both are afraid to fully give in. But as the seconds pass, the tension and longing that have been building between them finally break free. Nica’s hand slides to the back of Y/n’s neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss with a desperation that matches the pounding of his heart.Y/n melts into him, her hands slipping up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his uniform as she loses herself in the kiss. All the fear, the doubts, the war—all of it fades away, leaving only the two of them, connected in a moment of pure, unfiltered emotion.Nica’s kiss is filled with a passion that takes Y/n’s breath away, his lips moving against hers with an intensity that leaves her dizzy. She can feel the depth of his emotions in every movement, every touch—this is not just a kiss; it’s a confession, a plea, a promise.Y/n’s heart swells with emotions she can no longer deny. She’s falling, and she knows it, but she can’t bring herself to stop. Not now. Not when Nica is holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded, like she’s his last link to humanity in a world gone mad.As the kiss deepens, Nica pulls her even closer, his other hand wrapping around her waist, holding her as if he’s afraid she might disappear. Y/n responds in kind, her own arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in as if trying to fuse them together, to make this moment last forever.

Time seems to stand still as they pour everything they’ve been feeling into the kiss—every fear, every hope, every longing they’ve kept hidden. It’s as if the world outside has ceased to exist, and all that matters is the two of them, lost in each other.Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, they slowly pull back, their foreheads still pressed together, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. Y/n’s heart is pounding, her lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss, but she doesn’t pull away. Neither does Nica.

Nica: (His voice is hoarse, filled with raw emotion as he speaks, his lips brushing against hers as he does) "Y/n…"

Y/n doesn’t let him finish. Instead, she closes the distance again, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that’s just as desperate, just as full of love as the first. She’s no longer thinking, no longer worrying about the consequences. All she knows is that she needs this—needs him.They kiss again and again, each one more passionate than the last, as if trying to make up for all the time they’ve spent denying their feelings. Y/n can feel the love in every touch, every caress, and she knows, deep down, that this moment is real. This love is real.When they finally break apart again, both are breathless, their hearts racing, but neither pulls away. Nica rests his forehead against hers, his breath warm and uneven as he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nica: "I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, Y/n. But right now, I know that I love you."

Y/n’s eyes well up with tears at his words, and she can’t help but smile through them. She’s scared—terrified, even—but in this moment, she knows she feels the same.

Y/n: (Her voice is soft, filled with all the love she’s been holding back) "I love you too, Nica. I think… I always have."

And with that, they kiss again, sealing their confessions with the kind of love that can only be born in the midst of chaos. For tonight, at least, they have each other—and that’s all they need.

With that, they settle back into each other’s arms, holding on tightly as if afraid to let go. The night continues to stretch on, but for Y/n and Nica, time has lost its meaning. All that matters now is their love and the promise they’ve made to each other.As they drift off to sleep, their fingers still intertwined, the outside world fades away, leaving only the two of them—two souls bound together by love, determined to fight for their future, no matter the cost.

I hope you guys enjoyed This I love you guys so much and I promise to make it up to you all to post more fanfics🥰

Taglist: @lilaccosmic @sh0jun @natimiles @judejazza @candiedcoffeedrops

#ikemen series #cybird ikemen #ikemen villains

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huffle-dork · 5 months ago

Text

Long Live the King

Chapter 8: Under Elder Wings

Read Fantasy Masks | Read Swapboys | Read the first FM adventure | Other Multiverse Adventures | Read on AO3

The first day on the ship passes without much fuss.

Until, that is, the time the Swaps sat with the Phantoms to make their masks late on the first day.

It was a bit chaotic, trying to hold a bucket of water still on a shifting and ever swaying deck. But that’s how you make the plaster, after all. Mixing the dried plaster with water, The boys all take turns holding the bucket still.

The Swaps wanted to be a bit more unique with their masks, but also stick with the Phantoms’ rules. Dr. J ends up making a dove mask, though he uses a base from the Phantom’s to do so. It’s plain and simple, which suits him just fine.

Jackieboy thinks back to his childhood in Ireland and decides to make pine marten- or how his mam used to call them ‘cat crainn’. He remembers begging his mam to have one as a kid!

Henny decides to get very creative and makes a hedgehog- mostly because Alt and Bro had shown him that hedgehog game they loved so much and he thought they were adorable! And his friends thought he was too!

There was a scary moment where Henny thought to mold the masks to fit their faces he’d need to squeeze the wet plaster onto his own face. Luckily, everyone rushed to stop him and they all had a great laugh, much to Henny’s embarrassment.

Bro watches and helps his friends make their masks, but can’t help feeling a bit sad. Alt really would have enjoyed this…

Once the masks are dry, the fantasy boys tell the Swaps what their symbols mean. Marvin encourages Henny to put the magician suits on his mask for his magic. Dr. J, already sticking with a bird to fit the theme the doctors had, is proud to add the healer symbol to his mask. And Jackieboy adds the fighter symbol, like his other self and Bro. He might not be the best fighter yet- but he had time to learn.

The second day passes by with even more ease.

Until, about two hours before sunset, the sound of a bell rings out.

"Land ho!" one of the crew members shouts. In the distance there are tall cliffs overlooking a slight pebbly beach. Waves lap at the shore and the rocks surrounding the cliffs. And perched on the top is a camp made of many, many canvas tents of varying colors. It stays about fifty to a hundred feet away from the edge, but as beautiful as the location is, it still seems a bit risky.

Jackieboy looks from where he was lounging on some of the rigging and then excitedly stands up and looks out. “Yahoo!” He says and then scales down to join his friends. He’s had a lot of practice the past few days.

Henny had run over the look out the side of the ship and grins wide as he sees the landscape. “Oh wow! So pretty!!”

“…and dangerous- why are the tents so close to the cliff??” Dr. J mutters in confusion.

"They're not that close," Jackie says defensively.

"They're pretty close," Chase says.

Jackie hesitates. "Look, I wasn't actually there when they decided where the camp would go. Me and Henrik were sort of... wandering through the foothills... heading here slowly."

Bro looks up from where he was training, as he’s been doing most days. Then, Jackieboy lands beside him and Bro grins. “You’re getting pretty good at that!”

Jackieboy laughs, “I gotta see if I can rent a boat back home and do some videos on one man- it’s been so much fun!”

Marvin comes up from below deck. He looks a bit pale, but not really sick. "I heard the bell. Are we there?"

"Yes," Jackie says.

"Finally!"

Are you okay, Marvin? Jameson asks.

"I just... still don't like ships, I think," Marvin mutters. "Not like some people." He looks at Jackieboy.

Henny tries to give Marvin a gentle smile. “It’s good to see you though!”

Dr. J nods with Marvin, “The tonic made it easier but yeah… I think I much prefer dry land… or at least easier waters…”

"I think if you were from this world, Vsevna would be begging you to join his crew." Marvin tells Jackieboy.

Jackieboy grins wide at Marvin and laughs, “If I was from this world, I’d probably join! Maybe I was meant to be a sailor in another life!”

"Where are he and Henrik, anyway?" Jackie asks.

"Cabin," Chase says. When Jackie and Marvin laugh, he shakes his head. "Don't think like that. I think it's something serious."

Jackie becomes serious in turn. "Maybe he's telling Vsevna about his curse."

"Hope that goes well," Marvin mutters. "If it doesn't, I'm going to hex Vsevna."

Dr. J looks towards the cabin with concern, “Oh yes… his curse. …Vsenva is a good man, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Henny agrees, nodding. “Yes! And he cares for other me so much! I see it in his eyes- it is very sweet!”

Jackie chuckles. "Yea, Henrik probably has nothing to worry about with Vsevna. He just... worries too much."

"Well, let's give him time," Marvin says.

Is there anything we can do to help the crew? Jameson asks.

"I don't think I've learned much about all the ship stuff," Chase says slowly. "Not enough to help."

"Have you actually learned anything about the ship while climbing all over it, Jackieboy?" Jackie asks. "Or do you just like climbing?"

Jackieboy beams, “Actually! I learned a ton! The lads working up there taught me a bunch! Like the ropes that hold each mast up are called the shrouds- and the ladders hung between shrouds are called rat lines! And you should try to have a least 3 parts of your body touching or you could fall- and you go up there to either tie the gaskets or pack it up! Or use the crow’s nest to see land!”

Dr. J stares, his mouth a bit agape. “you learned all that in two days?!”

“Wasn't hard! And it was interesting!”

“That is so cool, Jackie!!” Henny says excitedly.

“That was way too many words for me to process but proud of you, man!” Bro laughs.

As the crew runs around unloading things and preparing the rowboats, the guys from this world listen, impressed, to Jackieboy.

"He's like you," Jackie says, nudging Marvin.

"Huh? He's literally you."

"No, I mean, you can learn so fast about magic and stuff."

"You can learn so fast about combat and stuff."

"Okay, okay, fine."

Jackieboy laughs, “I can learn lots of things if I hyperfixate! The downside is I usually can’t focus on anything else.”

“And yet you got C’s in college-“ JJ says with a laugh and shake of his head, “Jackie Mann, you are a wonder.”

Jackie grins, “I try!”

Chase tilts his head. "What's, um... 'kahlledsh'?"

I don't think that's how you say it at all, Jameson says, grinning.

Dr. J blinks then hides his laugh behind his hand, “College” he repeats slowly, “Usually we call it university or uni. It’s a school, typically for younger adults who go to learn about things they wanna pursue later in life. Bro, Jackie and I all went to the same one.”

“That’s how we met!” Jackieboy smiles, “Though- I didn’t become good friends with Bro until he saved me from a bad fall.”

Bro grins and brings Jackieboy in to noogie him. “You’re so lucky you didn’t break your neck!”

At that very moment, Henrik appears seemingly out of nowhere. "I've heard there are higher schools like that all across the southern continent."

"Holy Elders' flame!" Jackie gasps, hand instinctively going to his sword before he quickly lets go. "Where did you come from?!"

"Somewhere else," Henrik says vaguely. If they look closely, they might notice that his eyes are a bit red.

"Everything... doing fine?" Chase asks.

Henrik smiles. "Yes, everything is fine, thank you. Great, in fact."

Marvin relaxes. "Good to hear. So... there are these kallesh--k-kollesh--kolledzh--schools on other continents?"

"Yes, I hear there are some in Saelas too," Henrik says. "Though Saelas is fond of its philosophy and such, so all the schools there will be devoted to that. In the south you can have a great time learning about whatever knowledge you want. History, art, medicine, maths, magic. They are very well-learned down there. Nemet told me once that they have a great library in her home country of Kha'Nephthys, one where a copy of every book is stored. Not sure how true that can be, but it is what she claimed."

“Ah like the library of Alexandria!” Dr. J says with sparkling eyes, “Oh… that would be a sight to see…” But, he looks back to the others and smiles, “But yes, the southern schools Henrik described are like our universities. There’s a lot of different subjects to study- which is how the three of us ended up at the same school despite our different life paths.”

Henny sighs, “I wish I could have studied at university! We could not afford it in my time.”

"That would be a nice place to go," Marvin says, eyes lighting up.

"Sounds boring," Jackie says.

"I'd be a bit curious..." Chase says.

I always wanted to learn more music, do you think I could learn music there? Jameson wonders.

Henrik chuckles. "Yes, you could learn music there. You could learn just about anything."

Meanwhile, the crew is lowering one of the boats into the water. Vsevna approaches the group. "Would you all like to row out first, again?" he asks the swaps. "Ankhi and Felicia would be happy to help."

It's obvious that he starts holding Henrik's hand as soon as he walks over, their pinkies hooked together. Literally everyone notices.

Henny sees them holding hands and he gasps lightly, putting his hands on his cheeks in exaggerated glee. Jackieboy notices Henny getting too excited and drags him over, “Yeah, that sounds good! Wouldn’t wanna get in the way!”

Bro blinks, “I can help unload if you all need again-“

"Your help was greatly appreciated, if you would like," Vsevna says to Bro.

Bro grins, “It’s no problem!” He hurries off to go help.

“And the rest of you." Vsevna gestures at the boat. "I suggest you get in a rowboat now if you are afraid of heights and do not want to climb down the side."

Marvin raises his hand. "Can I--"

Let's help unload, Marvin, Jameson interrupts, then starts pulling him off.

"Oh! Alright, Jair, fine."

The other swaps laugh a bit at Marvin being dragged away. “We’ll head to the rowboats then, see you all on land!” Dr. J says cheerfully.

"I'll come with you guys," Chase says. "Make sure they know you're all friendly."

Jackieboy looks at the rigging sadly and pats some of the ropes. “It was fun while it lasted-“

“Oh don’t be dramatic, Jackie, c’mon-“ JJ sighs and starts dragging Jackieboy towards the rowboats. Henny giggles and waves to the others before following after them.

The two sailors, Ankhi and Felicia, greet them warmly, and soon the group is in the rowboat and heading towards the cliffs. It's a bit more of a rocky ride than the one coming to the ship, but still tolerable. They touch down on the pebbly beach and Felicia points out a steep path up to the tops. "We'll stay until we see you reach there," she says.

Dr. J smiles, “Thank you!” He’s so thankful to be back on dry land but when they step off- he and Henny seem to wobble- like they can still feel the waves. They unfortunately cling to Jackieboy, who tries to help them up the path towards the top of the cliff.

Henny seems to get his land legs back pretty quickly, much to his relief. But, after a near face plant and tons of intense swaying, Dr. J is practically plastered to Jackie’s side as they make their way up.

Chase isn't doing much better than JJ, clinging to the rock wall of the cliffs. "Oh thank the Elders," he breathes once they reach the top.

A woman in a bear mask walks over. "Who--oh, Chase!"

"Hey Holly." Chase gives her a weak smile.

"Still on your sea legs, I see?" Holly chuckles. "Who're these guys?"

"Visitors. The me from another world is here, too, but he's still on the boat. These are his friends." Chase gestures at them. "Jackieboy, JJ, and Henny."

"Dyakibadh, Dayday, Henni?" Holly shakes her head. "I'll get used to those names eventually." She smiles at them. "Welcome to the Cliffs of Feall, boys."

Henny smiles wide at Holly, “Hello Miss Holly! Thank you for the warm welcome!”

Dr. J wobbles in Jackieboy’s grip and he has to grab the doctor before he falls, “Careful doc- not so fast…”

“I am never going on a boat again…” JJ moans, looking nauseous.

Holly chuckles. "Not a fan of them myself. I'm guessing they're unloading right now. Here, come sit down. We have a central fire up."

It is a bit chilly out here, with the wind from the sea.

“Ah… thank you…” Dr. J breathes, suppressing a shiver from the cold air. Jackieboy also tries not to show he’s cold as they eagerly head towards the fire.

As the first group closes the distance to camp, the rowboats back at the ship set off. Henrik stays on deck for a moment, then quickly joins Bro and the others in the boat, his face very red. Back on deck there's an audible "Oooooo!" like a sitcom laugh track, followed by Vsevna yelling defensively. Henrik's face gets more red.

"Let's not say anything for once," Marvin mutters to Jackie, who nods. Jameson gives Henrik a supportive smile.

Bro looks back at that boat and Henrik’s expression before he grins. But he doesn’t poke fun, just claps Henrik on the shoulder.

"Um... does the rest of the camp know about our... quest?" Chase asks as they walk, Jackieboy and Dr. J just slightly ahead.

"Marvin told everyone. Or, he told some of us and it spread from there. And we've had bags of supplies packed for you all when you return, in case you wanted to head out immediately."

Chase smiles. "Thank you. But I think we'll need some time. And these four are coming with us, too, so we'll need more than whatever you've already packed."

Holly nods. "Got it. I'll tell Ana and her guys."

Henny stays closer to Chase in case he needs help over to the fire- but also to talk more with Holly. “You are all so prepared! But I guess that does make sense since this is an important quest you are going on.”

Holly nods. "Indeed! I've never heard of anything like this happening out of stories."

"Me neither," Chase mutters. "I can't believe King Samuel and the Elder Horned One have gotten together to get me into the Wyldwood."

"It's wild, isn't it? You, from the other worlds, have you learned about our King Samuel?"

Henny blinks, “King Samuel? I do not believe we have heard anything about him yet…” He looks to JJ to confirm. Dr. J shakes his head, then regrets it.

"Oh, I can take it from here," Chase says to Holly. "King Samuel the Green-Eyed was the first King of Glasúil. A long time ago, there were seven clans on the island. Samuel was of the Seipteach clan. He became its leader and then, through both combat and negotiation, he united all the others. The kingdom is called Glasúil because it means 'green eyes' in an older version of our language." He laughs. "And that man's ghost wants to see me."

Dr. J chuckles, “I did wonder where the name Glasuil came from… now I know!”

Henny seems enthralled by the story, “Oh! His ghost is still around?? He must want to help you with that spirit!”

Chase laughs a bit. “I guess so. We didn’t even know he was a ghost until he appeared to Marvin. Maybe this spirit is making such a mess of things that he returned from after life.”

As he explains, the group arrives in the camp. It's bustling, with people rushing about, all of them having a white Phantom mask somewhere on their person. They glance at the swaps as they appear, but dismiss them when they see they have masks as well.

Jackieboy glances at everyone as he helps lead Dr. J in and then grins, flicking the pine marten mask around his neck. “Man- these things are handy~!”

“Only if you don’t have glasses to wear-“ Dr. J mutters, his own dove mask clipped to his belt.

“Well it sure beats all the stares we got when we first got onto the Serpent’s Wake!”

Soon they reach a central fire. Flat stones have been piled up in a low wall around a large fire. A cauldron hands on a spit nearby ready for dinnertime. Chests and boxes serve as seats.

Jackie helps Dr. J to sit down before sitting down next to him on a larger chest. JJ lightly lays his head against him. “My mask is very cute… but yes the glasses do make it tricky…” Henny says with a light frown, fidgeting with his hedgehog mask as he takes a seat by his friends.

Meanwhile, the rest of the rowboats have finally landed. Jackie gets out first, looks at the steep path, and shakes his head. “Even with us leaving some supplies behind, I don’t know how we’re getting everything back up. I don’t know how we got it down in the first place.”

“Very carefully,” Henrik says. “And with some lightening charms.”

Bro looks at the cliff and then scoffs with a sly grin. He looks to the others and points his thumb at himself, "Also before- you didn't have Bro Fantastic to help! This is no big~!"

Jackie laughs. "That's true. If you're able to fly some stuff up the side of the cliffs, that would be great."

"We can carry the stuff we took down in the first place," Marvin says, securing the straps on his bag.

Bro grins wide and give a two fingered salute to the others, "No problem!" He flies off to start grabbing the heavy stuff to fly up to the cliff side.

“Thank you!” Jackie shouts. He turns back to the others. “Everyone else, grab at least one thing.”

Bro grabs as much as he can carry and flies up to the edge of the cliff, looking around to find a good empty place to put them. He’s balancing things a bit precariously in his arms.

“Bro! There!” Jackie gestures to a clear spot—looking like one of those airline workers with the glowing stick. Marvin grabs his focus and prepares a levitation spell to help out Bro.

Bro laughs at the sight of Jackie and then hurries to place the stuff where he pointed. Then, he dives back down to get any more supplies and repeats as many time as they need.

Some time later, everything is up on the top of the cliffs. I can’t wait to see the others, Jameson says. It feels like it’s been forever.

“Let’s go to it, then!” Henrik says cheerfully. Him and Jameson start to make their way up to camp as Bro lands once more by Jackie and Marvin.

"Thank you so much, Bro," Jackie says. "We can bring this all closer later. For now, I want to catch up with the others."

"You know we'll probably be making the others move the supplies," Marvin says. "After all, we were planning on going to the Wyldwood as soon as we can."

"Eh, we'll work something out."

Bro grins and nods, "Yeah- you all have been away for a while huh? I really only remember properly meeting Anna... but i wonder if anyone else remembers me!" He laughs and floats back up, "I'll catch you guys up there!"

Back at camp, Holly begins talking to other Phantoms, asking them to gather more supplies. As she does, a dark-skinned woman with a long-beaked bird mask runs up to the fire. “Hen—! Oh.” She stops, confused, looking between Henny and JJ. “I’m sorry. I thought one of you was someone else.”

Henny jumps slightly as the dark-skinned woman runs up, and Dr. J blinks a bit in surprise. Then, Henny laughs and waves his hand, "It is okay! I am sure seeing me and expecting the other-me would be confusing! I am also Henrik- but you can call me Henny!"

“Hey Nemet!” Chase brightens. “You’re okay! Henrik’s on another row boat, he’ll be so glad to see you! Guys, this is Nemet, she’s one of our doctors.”

“Good to meet you,” she says, smiling.

Dr. J smiles, "Nice to meet you, Nemet."

Jackieboy waves a hand, "Yo~!"

"Hanny--no, Henny," Nemet repeats, giving a small laugh. "I have it. And you two?"

"That's JJ and that's Jackieboy," Chase explains. "Jameson and Jackie from this other world. The other me is here, too."

"Jaijai, Jahkiboh--Jahkiboi." Nemet nods. "Have those, too. I see you have masks already. They're very nice. I think we still have other Chase's, too. Holly?!" She turns back towards her. "It might be in storage!"

Holly shouts back. "Have it!"

"Oh 'cool,' so Bro will have his mask again, soon!" Chase says cheerfully.

Henny claps with a bright smile, "Oh yay! He will be so happy to hear that!"

Jackieboy giggles, "Listening to everyone try to say our names is kinda entertaining-"

"Don't be rude!" Dr. J whispers to Jackie, hitting him slightly. Jackieboy just laughs some more.

Nemet laughs. “It is fine, don’t worry. I speak many languages, I know how silly it can sound to try and say something from one with the sounds of another. Not everyone will be such good spirits, though.”

“We’re extremely lucky we have the opportunity to understand and speak with you all, despite our language barriers,” Dr. J says with a kind smile.

“Yea, that translation spell is really helpful,” Chase agrees.

“Oh, does it work on any language?” Nemet wonders. The guys then perceive her switching languages, but still hear it in English. “Can you understand me right now?”

Dr. J laughs and nods, “Yes! It’s very handy. Alt really did his research.” Henny looks thoughtful, “Does it work in reverse for you all? I wonder if you would understand if I spoke German…” he thinks of something to say and then looks to Nemet, “Ich mag deine Maske! Es ist sehr schön. genau wie du bist!” he gives Nemet a little wink after saying this. …which would be lost if it doesn’t translate...

Nemet grins. "Yes, I can understand that!" She laughs a little. "And thank you. This is an ibis, it is a river bird from my home."

"I still wonder if the beak gets in the way," Chase mutters.

"Not enough to change it. And look at your antlers."

"That's fair."

The swaps laugh at this exchange.

Dr. J shakes his head, "I wonder how you're able to walk around with that on... I feel like they would catch on so many things!"

At that moment, there's a shout. Henrik rushes over and immediately tackles Nemet in a hug--an uncharacteristic gesture that shows just how joyful he is. "You're alright! Nemet, you're alright! I cannot believe it! Thank the stars, thank the sun and moon!"

Nemet stumbles backwards from the force of it and then laughs. "Good to see you, Henrik!"

The swaps all jump at Henrik rushing and then look at each other and smile. Henny awws and holds his cheeks.

"Yes, it has been a while," Henrik says, letting go of Nemet. "Last I saw you you were fighting Thalia Tinechroi. I-I was so worried something had happened."

"Well, it was not an easy fight." Nemet shakes her head. "I have some scars from it. But I am glad Holly was around to get me here and help treat the wounds." Is there a little bit of a blush beneath her mask?

Dr. J tilts his head at the bit of blush beneath Nemet's mask. Hm...

And then, Bro is landing by the fire pit, wiping sweat off his brow and grinning at the others, "Hey! What'd I miss?"

”Oh!" Henrik jumps in surprise. "Hello, Bro! Y-you scared me a little, hah."

"Sorry!" Bro laughs timidly, messing with the back of his hair.

"Hello, other Chase," Nemet says.

In the distance, Holly shouts out a greeting and waves at Bro. "Hi!" Chase waves. "You didn't miss much. We were testing the translation spell and its limits."

Hello, Bro, JJ says, who's been standing quietly in the background while Henrik reunites with Nemet.

Bro brightens up as he sees the others greeting him and waves at them, "Hey! uh... what was it...? Oh! Hwaet!"

Henrik, Jameson, and Chase all chuckle hearing Bro say their greeting.

"You're getting very good at that," Chase says, smiling.

"Though it was strange, you were speaking Glasish for a while before you regained your memories," Henrik says. "Wonder why that is."

While we wait for Jackie and Marvin, let's warm up a bit, it's chilly, Jameson says, sitting down on one of the boxes.

"Yes, we should rest a while before we head out again."

Bro blinks in surprise, "I was??" He looks shocked and tries to search through his memories, "...that's so weird...! I was just- racking my brain to try to remember that one but... I-I guess it did come easier to me then I thought it would..."

"I thought the way you and Alt were talking was weird!" Jackieboy says, connecting the dots, "I mean- we still heard it in English but you were all talking so- fancy-like... or something."

"Just like a royal knight in a fairytale," Henny agrees.

Bro frowns at this and goes to sit by the fire, "Hm... I guess... that has to do with the TRVLR messing with my memories too then...? I mean... if I believed I was from here... I'd have to speak the language too...?" He laughs bitterly, "But now I... I don't think I could speak Glasish if I wanted to..."

Dr. J hums, "Maybe it had something to do with Alt's magic from the translation spell too...? But- I wouldn't know... magic is already strange to me and this whole situation just makes it all the more confusing."

"You're telling me..." Bro mutters with another bitter laugh.

The world is confusing, Jameson agrees. Let alone all the collections of other worlds as well. But Marvin knows a lot about magic, maybe he has some ideas? Let's wait for him.

Not long after, Marvin and Jackie appear. The others, except Bro, all look up and smile at Jackie and Marvin's return. Bro is staring at the fire, lost in thought.

"Nemet!" Jackie gasps. "Hey!" He drops the bag he's carrying and rushes over, giving her a side hug.

"Nemet!" Marvin gives an uncharacteristic smile. "They were worried about you! I was too, of course, but I didn't see what happened--"

Nemet laughs. "I will explain later. The others have questions about magic."

"Yea, do you remember how Bro and Alt were speaking Glasish before?" Chase says. "Why do you think that is?"

Marvin frowns. "It could be that when Magnificent attacked them the magic from whatever translation spell they're using got mixed up in the magic suppressing their memories. Or maybe when they appeared with no memories, the world's magic flowed in to fill in the empty spots. Or maybe it's something we can't know about, something from the other worlds."

Bro comes back from his thoughts when he hears his name and listens to Marvin's explanation. He shrugs, "... yeah... Any of those makes sense..." He sighs and rubs the back of his neck before laughing quietly, but its a sad laugh. "... I don't know why cuz I won't like... use it regularly but... I'm bummed that I can't still speak it... I barely even remember being able to!"

"Well- it seems to remember some words..." Dr. J says gently, "That's something."

Bro chuckles and nods, "Yeah I do... there's Hwaet- which is like hey- um... dia duhai- means good day, and Duhai is just hello... anddd-"

For a second, Bro seems to stiffen, the slightest flicker of green in his eyes as he whispers, "...mu Rith-"

The guys from this world all stiffen in unison.

"That's, um... not a phrase most people use..." Marvin says slowly.

"It's pretty much only used by those serving the crown in some way," Jackie mutters. "When I was a royal warrior everyone referred to the King by that."

I suppose he would have made sure that stuck, Jameson says slowly.

The swaps also stiffen, looking at Bro with apprehension.

Bro, for a second, is unresponsive, a dazed look in his eyes. Then, he shakes it off and holds his head, suddenly feeling dizzy. "...he... he also called us... a-a klaíoh.... my knight..."

"Chase..." Jackieboy says quietly, slowly going to put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

Bro jolts a bit at first but then he seems to relax and come back to himself, gently putting his hand on top of Jackie's. He gives him a weak smile, "I-I'm okay... sorry..."

"W-well, um, we can teach you guys some new words in addition to that!" Chase hurriedly says. "Like, um--I'm not sure if the translation will pick this up, but I think intent matters--like, um, 'friend' is 'kara.' A-and 'brother' is 'deathár' but 'sister' is 'deirthúr' and 'sibling' is 'daefor' and '[sibling]' is 'deifára'--they all sound kind of similar so it's hard..."

Bro smiles at Chase trying to teach them new words, looking grateful. "...t-thanks Chase..."

Henny brightens, "Kara...! We are all Kara! I like that word very much!"

Jackie laughs a little. "Y-yes, we're all 'kara'--or 'kairde', to use the plural."

"Ka-ir-de!" Henny tries out, beaming. "We are all Kairde!"

Jackie’s smile fades a bit as he looks at Bro. "Don't worry, It's probably hard to shake off. And... you want to know something interesting? Warriors in squads together sometimes call each other 'klaídafár.'"

"Sword sibling," Henrik mutters, translating.

"It's not something that us Phantoms often do, since not all of us are warriors," Jackie continues. "But... I think you and Alt could be our klaídafárea. If that helps at all."

Bro looks up at Jackie and actually feels slight tears brimming in his eyes. He smiles, touched, as he grips over his heart. "...klaídafárea... y-yeah..." He chokes a bit and hides his face, "...i... I really like that, Jackie... thank you..."

Jackie smiles. He reaches over to give Bro a side hug. “Not a problem.” Bro leans into Jackie's hug and smiles, wiping at his face.

“Speaking of Alt, when are we leaving to find him?” Chase asks.

Bro's expression falls to something serious as his eyes shine with blue light. "As soon as possible."

The other swaps exchange looks but then they nod. "We shouldn't delay if we can help it... who knows what Magnificent has done to him by now..." Dr. J says quietly.

“We have supplies ready for you,” Nemet says.

Jackie nods, eyes shining with determination. "Alright, then. Nemet, where are those supplies?"

"Anna has them outside the storage tent," she says, pointing. "Holly also asked to see if Bro's mask was in there, so if it is, he will be able to grab it then. I hope we packed enough."

Bro lights up slightly at the mention of his mask, "Y-You guys still have it?" He looks touched again and he smiles, getting to his feet.

"We need lots of food and water, that's the most important thing," Marvin says. "The plants growing in the Wyldwood aren't all safe to eat. Then we need weapons, and then anything that you think might help with magical creatures."

Jackieboy comes up besides him and knocks his shoulder and grins at him. "We'll be able to put all our training to test, huh?"

"Yeah I guess so," Bro chuckles.

Nemet nods. "You all should go check it, then. To be sure."

Chase takes a deep breath. "Let's go, then." He stands up and starts walking in that direction. The others quickly follow. Henny helps Dr. J up, but the good doctor seems to have recovered. He smiles warmly at his friend. Then, all the swaps follow after the others to storage.

They do, indeed, still have Bro’s mask. “Here you go, other me,” Chase says, handing it to him.”

Bro smiles wide at seeing the mask and takes it gently, swiping his finger over the surface. Then, he puts it on, wearing it proudly.

"You look just like Sahne, Chase!!" Henny gasps in delight.

The others laugh.

“Alright, there’s a bag for everyone, it looks like,” Jackie says, picking up one of them. “Marvin, any advice on how to carry them? Is it okay to keep everything in the bag or will we need easy access to anything?”

The swaps grab their weapons, Henny and Dr. J grab bows, Jackie grabs a knife and Bro grabs a sword and a bow, just in case.

Marvin pauses, thinking. “Weapons should be in easy reach. So you might want to keep your other sword on your hip instead of back. No need to hang the lanterns on the outside like usual, it’s always light enough to see in there, even during night. Keep flasks in easy reach for if you get thirsty. Though you probably won’t. I didn’t, only hungry, but that could have been some magic thing. Other than all that, up to you.”

Where are we going again? Jameson asks. The direction?

“That way.” Henrik points. “It’s a short walk to a normal forest, then through that for two hours before we reach the border. Supposedly. Few have gone there.”

“Guess we’ll join the few, then.” Chase pulls on his bag. “Let’s go.”

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

The two hours pass as Henrik said it would. They reach the forest quickly. It’s normal and gloomy, with the faint sound of birdsong and animals rustling through the leaves. But that slowly fades over the course of the next couple hours. And up ahead, there’s a faint glow through the trees.

Bro looks around cautiously as the birdsong fades, "...why is it so... quiet?"

"Look! There is glowys up ahead! I do not think it is our firebug friends?" Henny says, pointing.

"That's the Wyldwood," Marvin confirms in answer to both Bro and Henny's reactions. "Normal animals tend to avoid it, so you won't hear any sounds of them nearby. And there are so many glowing things in the Wyldwood. Plants, usually. Or bugs."

Chase swallows a nervous lump in his throat. "Let's hurry up then."

It's strange how solid of a border there is between the normal forest and the Wyldwood. Like an invisible wall is dividing them. Soon the guys come across a solid line where the regular grass and underbrush stops, replaced by waist-high ferns. Bell-shaped yellow flowers give off an interior glow and red mushrooms, fitting the white-spotted stereotype, also help light up the area. The trees are somehow more... swirly, bending and twisting in exaggerated shapes. Their bark resembles aspen trees, but the saturation is brought up so the white bark is whiter and the dark stripes are darker.

Bro gapes at the sight of the forest as they reach the border. “woahhh… this place is insane looking-“

“But it’s also so pretty!” Henny laughs, looking at all the glowing flowers and mushrooms.

“Looks can be deceiving…” Dr. J mutters, holding his bag and shuffling nervously.

“Welp- can’t find out much just- standing here.” Jackieboy says, cracking his neck- and he tries to cross into the border between the forests.

Jackieboy is able to step over the line without any issue. And with him going first, everyone else follows.

"Try not to investigate anything too strange," Marvin says, eyes darting around. "You don't know what it could be."

Draco walks around his ankles and strides confidently forward into the woods.

"Yea, yea," Marvin mutters, following him.

"Do we know where we are going?" Henrik asks.

Marvin's eyes narrow as he stares through the forest. "I think forward. I think we follow Draco until I begin to recognize stuff. But again, we're not just looking for that blasted heath King Sam showed me. We're looking for Alt, too. And I don't know where he could be."

Around them, the forest rustles, leaves moving despite the lack of wind.

Bro nods, scanning the area as he keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Could we use our bracelets...?"

"No... Magnificent managed to cut Alt's off when they escaped..." Dr. J sighs.

"Fuck-" Bro bites out, eyes glowing in anger.

"M-Maybe the forest will be nice to us...? Because it must know we are nice... yes? And maybe it will help us!" Henny tries to say hopefully.

"I dunno if a forest cares about moralities, Hen..." Jackie mutters.

Draco circles back around and rubs his face against Henny's legs.

The rustling sound in the forest gets louder, a ripple of leaves coming from the distance towards the group. It seems to be coming from almost straight ahead; there's a slight diagonal to the right.

Jameson laughs silently. I think Henny is right, actually.

Henny brightens and gives the others a big smile. "See!! The forest and magic can also be our 'Kara' too!!"

Jackieboy blinks then chuckles, "Well I'll be-"

"This forest has a mind of its own, and it wants us here," Marvin says. "We just have to worry about all the things in the forest."

"Like what?" Henrik asks.

"Probably all the creatures from the stories," Chase says. "Kelpies, banshees, dullahans, pookas, dearg due--not to mention any Fair Folk who might have stayed behind. Oo, have you guys heard the story of Lasta and Caba? It's said that if you see two strange people playing a card game in the woods, you can try to win a prize by joining in. But watch out, because time around you will pass more quickly than time in the game."

Dr. J nervously fidgets with his pocket watch, but seems interested in Chase's story, "Huh... that seems to happen a lot of time in stories- time passing by so fast."

"Wonder if they give out any good prizes," Bro mumbles.

"In the stories the prizes are always minor boons," Chase explains as they want. "Things that you don't think would be helpful, but in the stories they always come in to help at the last moment. Lasta and Caba are a leprechaun and bodacha, so they can be tricky, but they reward you with minor wealth or things like luck and guidance."

"I've never heard of a bodacha before..." Dr. J muses, "But... sounds frightening.

"I thought bodachaed were like the bogeymen," Henrik says slowly. "Haunting you at night."

"They seem scarier than they are," Chase says.

Jackie raises an eyebrow. "My parents told me they had no faces. Is that true?"

Chase hesitates for a bit too long. "Well they have hoods and long hair so it doesn't really matter. The point is they're sort of a 'scare you straight' type of creature, while leprechauns are in it for mischief and fun."

"I've at least heard of Leprechauns...." Bro says.

"How do you know so much about all these different creatures, Chase?" Henny asks with a tilt of his head, "Is that what you like to learn? Like Marvin with his magic? Or Jackie with his- rope swinging?"

"Yeah I don't know what to call it either," Jackieboy laughs.

Chase grins. "I guess so. My parents loved to tell me stories, and so I like to tell them to my kids. I also had a lot of time on my hands while hunting in the woods. Hunting is much more waiting than action. So I... keep note of the stories I hear."

Like the ones about leprechauns? Jameson asks, jerking his head towards Bro's mention about them.

"Among others, yes. Do you have those in your world, too? They're very small Fair Folk, about tthe size of an eight year old. And if you manage to trick them instead of letting them trick you, it's said they reward you with gold that shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow."

"Oh, that's fancy. Our are just on like... cereal boxes and stuff." Jackieboy laughs.

Bro smirks, "My aunts had stories like that. Emmy was deeply Irish- she loved the folklore and telling me and Alt about them. Mostly like... stories about Changelings or... there was a guy with a magic harp I think...? But for leprechauns... I think there was a story about... someone catching one and trying to dig up his treasure but he didn't have a shovel- so he marked the spot on the tree with... something red? And when he returned the next day- every tree had that red thing." He fluffs up the back of his hair and grins bashfully, "It's been a while since I've heard the stories... so- I don't remember them too well..."

"Oh! That actually sounds familiar- I think my mam used to tell us a story like that," Jackieboy grins. Bro and him high five.

Chase's eyes widen and he nods. "Yes! We have a story like that too! The red marks on the trees! My mom told me that one, and I told Quinten. He loved it."

"Whoa, really?" Jackie laughs. "I suppose some things are consistent between worlds."

Bro looks surprised by this but smiles, "Damn- maybe... the magic between our worlds is like- linked somehow- in some ways." Then he makes a face before laughing to himself quietly. "ha... I sound like Alt."

As they continue to walk, the Wyldwood dims, but it doesn't fully go dark. Small moths appear, their wings glowing a gentle yellow-green. It's much easier to walk through the Wyldwood than a normal forest since it has no undergrowth, just grass and flowers, and somehow the roots are never in their way.

Henny is enamored by all the moths and flowers and looks around curiously.

The sound of running water comes from up ahead, and Marvin stops, holding up a hand. "I think we should stop here," he says. "I don't think it's a good idea to get too close to water. Things might be there."

"Things as in... creatures?" Dr. J asks quietly.

Jackieboy tilts his head, "...I'm no survivalist- but i thought travelling towards water was like- a good thing. Leads you places... or something- or is that moss?"

"No, you're right, water is... usually a good idea..." Chase looks at Marvin worriedly.

Marvin glances back at the others. "Last time I was here, I saw some sort of... reptilian face in the water. Like a lizard, but this big." He holds his hands about two feet apart from each other. "I don't really want to find that again. It didn't notice me last time, but something like that might notice if there's more of us."

Henrik goes a bit pale. "We can camp here for the night, then," he says, taking off his bag. "One or two of us should keep watch."

"I'll take the first watch, then," Marvin says.

"I'll take a watch," Bro says almost immediately after. "Won't really be able to sleep anyways..."

"Alright- it has been a long day...." Jackieboy yawns, sitting down and putting his bag down too.

Henny looks out at the forest with a concerned look but eventually sighs and starts to settle in.

Dr. J anxiously bounces on his feet, looking around. "It is... safe to camp here... right?"

Marvin looks at Draco. He is making biscuits on a patch of flowers. Then he curls up. "Yes, I think so," Marvin says slowly.

"So we're trusting the cat, then," Jackie mutters.

A cat made of magic, Jameson adds.

"I know, it just seems absurd."

"Animals have very good instincts, actually," Chase says.

Dr. J looks equally skeptical but eventually he's tugged down to sit by Henny and he relents. "I trust Draco!" Henny laughs, "I know our friends back home are very sensitive to danger. Sahne saved me from Magnificent once!"

"Don't worry, Doc, we won't let the scary forest getcha~" Jackieboy grins.

Dr. J makes a face at him.

As they all talk, they sit down on the ground and start getting ready to eat and rest. The earth is surprisingly soft.

Bro smiles lightly before sitting against a tree and watching the surroundings... there had to be some sign of Alt around... right? ... but it was a big forest... he just hopes he's okay.

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

The King, Magnificent, and Alt are woken up by the sound of the forest groaning once again. They had been walking through the Wyldwood for a fully day and night. During that walk, they had seen and heard things, mostly things that the King explained were illusions. More fear-causing screams, distant lights, the sound of a party that wouldn't get closer no matter how much they walked in that direction. But no actual creatures. Not since Lasta and Caba. Even so, the forest itself has not given up on occasionally blocking their way with roots or branches.

This morning, as they wake up in a section of the forest with red-barked trees and purple glowing flowers, Magnificent finds a vine wrapped around his ankle.

Magnificent startles awake at the vine wrapping around him and growls, trying to flick a flame at it to get to go away, "Fuck off!"

At Mag's exclamation, Alt startles awake, looking around for danger.

The vine catches quickly and withdraws, flailing, into the ground. Another vine starts to sprout up but Aneirin lunges forward and grabs it, throwing it to the side where it withers and dies. "It's getting desperate," he mutters. "We might have to start taking watches." By which he means Alt will, of course.

Magnificent growls, "Fucking... fine. I'm not letting this shitty ass forest best us."

Alt sinks back to where he was resting, his eyes wanting to shut again. He's so tired... resting doesn't even feel like it helps. But, it won't be long until he's ordered to move again... maybe a few more seconds will help.

Aneirin reaches for the food bag and rummages through it. He takes some bread and meat, then finds the fruit and berries from the day before. Somehow still fresh. "A klaíoh," he says, getting Alt's attention. He throws half the food he took towards him. "Eat. Then we'll head on out."

Alt slowly blinks open his eyes, wincing slightly as he takes in the command. But, he pushes himself up and starts to eat tiredly.

Magnificent walks along the perimeter of their camp, stomping and blasting magic at anything else that tries to sprout, cursing quietly to himself.

Luckily for Magnificent, the forest seems to get the point quickly, and the vines and roots stop appearing. In fact, it seems like the grass and flowers lean a bit away from him. Magnificent snorts at the sight of this, smirking.

Soon, Aneirin stands up. He walks around for a bit, reminding himself of the terrain. "I believe we're out of the foothills," he says. "I've been trying to remember what the Wyldwood looked like around our destination, and I believe the trees were light-colored, thin as a man's arm. Though that last part may be memory's exaggeration." He looks around, taking note of any direction that feels more promising. "What do you think of that way?" He points in a direction where the red bark of the trees seems to pale.

Mag looks towards the King and then studies the landscape. He eventually hums and shrugs, "Seems a good place to start at least- if you remember the trees being lighter."

"A good place to start indeed," Aneirin says. "Come on. Let's go." And he starts off, leading the way.

The trees do get lighter in color, a dusty brown, but their trunks remain wide and their leaves and branches droop downwards. The glowing purple flowers are replaces by bushes of roses that glow in every color imaginable. It's stunning.

Alt dazedly walks behind Mag and the King, just as he's done for the past few days. But, slowly he takes in the gorgeous scene around them and looks around with slight wonder. Magnificent doesn't seem phased, pushing leaves and branches out of his way as they walk.

But as Magnificent steadily pushes past, he hears something. There is a movement in the corner of his vision.

Magnificent stills, glancing quickly towards the movement, magic bright and ready in his hand.

And when he turns towards it, he sees... someone. Is that... Jackie? He looks so young. That's impossible, isn't it? He grins and waves.

Magnificent growls- about ready to shoot first and ask questions later when he pauses. His eyes widen. "...Jackie...?" He breathes. He looks like how he did in their uni days. Before... everything.

Mag isn't quite sure when he started moving but- he's moving towards him. He wants to see him. He starts to run-

Aneirin's head snaps towards him. "Mag--!" he shouts, reaching out. And then he stops. Because there's another figure in the trees. Someone wearing a green cloak with a sword by his side.

Aneirin's face darkens. "You," he growls, and rushes after the figure. It turns and heads off.

Jackie meanwhile, beckons for Magnificent to come closer. Magnificent doesn't understand the feeling in his chest- or why it hurts- or why he feels so desperate. It's a feeling that he hasn't felt in years. But, seeing his friend again... exactly how he remembers him... happy to see him... Magnificent needs to be there- if only for a moment. Pretending everything was different. He reaches out, wanting to pull Jackie closer to him.

Alt looks back, seeing the King and Mag running in opposite directions. His eyes widen as he tries to call out after them, "M-Magnificent! Mu Rith!" He then backs up, shakily putting his hand on his weapon, looking around with frantic eyes.

And yet, when he reaches for his weapon, his hand brushes against leaves. Before he can really process this, the trees move, the trunks themselves bending down as the roots and branches wrap together in a wall blocking Alt from the other two.

Once Alt has realized what has happened he panics and throws himself at the wall, “No!!” He tries to find a way through- but it’s solid. He takes shaky steps back away from the wall and sucks in breath after anxious breath. He- he doesn’t know where to go- he has no one to lead him.

He’s… alone.

And then there's a sound--a chirping sort of call. Something brown swoops right past Alt--feathers just an inch from his face--and lands on the side of the new tree wall, clinging to the vertical surface.

It's a bird.

A swift.

Alt cries out and glitches away from the feathers, landing in a crouched position on the ground like a cat. Alt blinks up and feels his breath leave him The swift…! His eyes flicker with green as he struggles to remember why this bird suddenly felt so important.

And… in its beak is the leafy thing Alt felt near his weapon--the twig he won in that game with the Fair Folk. And then the swift launches off the wall and flies away.

His eyes widen. “H-Hey!” He shouts after it and when it flies off, he quickly goes to follow it, half-glitching, half-running.

The swift is fast, and yet through his glitching he's able to keep up well enough. It helps that there's barely any undergrowth, and the trees are spreading out, though the canopy overhead remains thick with the branches interwoven. The trees get taller, as well, until--between how far the trees are from each other and how high the canopy is above--it almost feels like the Wyldwood is fading away.

And the bird itself... looks different. Is its color changing?

Alt glances at the changing landscape briefly as he follows the swift. He feels like- like he has to follow it. But.,, what was happening to the woods…? And the swift… its colors felt… Trying to think about that drives a heavy spike of pain into his head.

forget forget forget.

He stumbles for a second, having to catch himself on a tree to shake off the pain. Then he panics, bursting to start running again, worried he’s fallen behind.

The ground slopes slightly. The swift moves a bit faster, lightning and squares of harsh light trailing from the ends of its wings.

Alt uses the slope to try to slide down, gaining speed. He sees the swift flying with harsh light and he glitches more to meet its speed, even if spots start to dance in his vision.

And then the trees fall back a bit. The branches still form a ceiling high above, but natural sunlight leaks through holes in the canopy. There's a depression in the ground. In it is an old, gnarled tree with a lattice of roots that crosses over a hole in the earth. The swift flies towards the tree and drops the twig a few feet away from it. Then it circles the trunk a couple times before landing, clinging, on the vertical surface of the trunk. Its colors have definitely shifted, now shades of blue with the tinge of sunset orange and pinks on the edge of its feathers.

As Alt enters the clearing, he winces a bit at the sunlight shining through, so used to the dim light of the woods. Once he’s adjusted he takes in the scene before him. And his breath hitches, his eyes widening.

This is all so familiar...He… he’s seen this be-

More bursts of pain assault his head as he crashes to his knees, crying out. He grips tightly at his head as agony pulses through his mind, his eyes trying to fill with green light.

forget forget forget f o r g e t

The swift cocks it’s head, watching Alt with… well it’s hard to read emotions in its bird face, but it almost seems concerned. It lets out another call, like a beckon for Alt to come closer. The sound is beautiful, cutting through the noise in his head. The swift’s call feels like fresh water against the knight’s burning mind.

The twig is still on the ground. It’s moving slightly down the faint slope towards the tree.

Alt looks up and gasps slightly at the twig moving- he can’t lose that! He shakily pushes himself up and rushes to try to grab the stick. In his desperation he glitches then crashes to the ground right by the lattice of roots, blinking spots and pain back from his eyes.

He can remember the twig was important-

it was for his masters-!

no no- it was his…! He won it!

The twig slides right up to the edge of the roots before Alt can grab it. He winces at the conflicting thoughts in his head, His fingers just touching the twig’s surface.

The moment he does, voices seem to come from it, far away and echoey.

“The arrogance of Hunger has no bounds it seems.”

Alt blinks blearily and looks at the stick with wide eyes, "...Lasta and Caba...?" He whispers.

“Indeed! Did we say that the one holding the twig would be guided? No!”

“No indeed! It was for the young lad, not for anyone else!”

“Did they think they could take a blessing?”

“Seems so!”

“Seems so. Now, where has he reached?”

“Where indeed?” The voices fade away.

Alt feels a sense of warmth from listening to their voices. Then, he senses movement beneath the roots of the tree He pushes to look through, but he shudders as a faint sense of dread flows through him.

And beneath the roots he sees himself. Caught in the middle of a glitch, purple wrapped around his wrists.

Suddenly, memory returns. The dream!

How could he have forgotten?!

Alt’s eyes widen and he almost pushes himself away- until he winces as his mind is cleared.

That dream…! ….The king made him forget it. Why? This… this seemed important.

Alt hardly hesitates this time- he reaches through the roots towards the other him, offering his hand.

His other self reaches up and grasps his hand, looking grateful.

The moment the contact is made, the other Alt disappears, turning into lightning that races up Alt’s arm and into his core. He gasps, the sound soon becoming a yell.

Memories and images flash in his head. Impossibly tall buildings, glowing squares of metal and glass, people who look like those rebels from the boat, a cat, more people—they all feel so familiar. Has he… been here before? Does he know these people?

Why, when Magnificent flashes through his memories, does he feel dread?

Alt curls up, gripping at his heart. His eyes flash with a mixture of colors: green, purple, colored static, green-blue.

Over and over in a confusing array as images flash painfully through his head.

What… are all these things? The- the rebels… they’re similar- but different. They’re so… warm, in these images. Their presence feels comforting.

Why? Why- when he sees Magnificent, his liege- does he feel… fear? Dread? …anger?

He gasps and pants, trembling on the ground as he tries to make sense through the pain.

What… what does all of this mean…?

As he falls to the ground he notices… the tree is gone. So are its roots and the hole in the ground. There is a tree, but it’s not the gnarled black one, just a normal one. Maybe… it was never there in the first place?

But the swift is still there. It clings to the side of the tree, then pushes off and circles around the tree. Lightning trails from its wings and it glows brighter and brighter—until it lands on one of the tree’s branches.

Pushing through the pulsing pain, Alt pushes himself up just enough to see the swift circle the new tree before him. His eyes widen.

it’s not a swift anymore. It’s a larger bird. An eagle, maybe.

<Concern. A warm worry directed at him.>

<Empathy. The knowledge of confusion, the shared feeling of his pain.>

<Reassurance. This is supposed to happen. It will be better soon.>

As those new feelings wash over him, Alt tries to stagger to his feet, approaching the mighty bird. “…who… are you…?” He asks in a quiet voice.

The eagle ruffles it’s feathers. There’s a sound like distant thunder.

<Knowledge. You know already.>

A memory comes to Alt. Conjuring wings of green lightning, his new friends in awe, saying it was like he was blessed by the Winged Elder One themself.

Alt’s eyes for a second flood with white as the memory comes. He stumbles back slightly, “…t-the Winged Elder…!”

<Kinship. Though we are distant, we are the same while you are close.>

<Sadness. Empathy for your loss.>

<Hope. Will this be enough for you to regain what was mistakenly buried?>

Another memory plays in his head, Alt’s own voice echoing angrily- staring down at the terrified face of the his King.

“You and every other fucking Anti out there has hurt me- hurt my friends- hurt my brother… for the last f̶̧̏u̶͙͐c̸͚̽k̶͙͊ì̸̧n̷͍͐g̶͘ TIME!”

Alt gasps again and then shuts his eyes in pain, digging fingers into his hair. These memories are so clear- unlike everything else he can remember. Why?

None of those words made sense…!

The king hasn’t hurt him!

Yes he has! He stole so much from me!

Who’s Anti?

I am! I Chose that name before this one!

who’s his brother?

Chase chase chase!

His brother… betrayed them… didn’t he?

no no no! He’s coming- he’s coming to save me. I know it!

Alt crashes back down to his knees, crying out as his mind burns more and more.

What did he lose? Why… did he need to be saved? His mind still feels so- empty. So lost… like he was. Everything is buzzing, deafening white noise.

The eagle swoops down from the branch and lands in front of him.

Alt struggles to open his flickering eyes as the eagle lands in front of him. It’s all such a strong haze of confusing emotions and feelings he doesn’t even feel shocked at seeing it so close.

Its eyes are the color of storm clouds as it stares up into his.

<Sympathy. A deep sadness that this is happening to him.> It leans closer to him.

Alt stares at it and then at its offer, he shakily reaches out a hand.

The eagle presses its head into his hand. It’s feathers are soft, but also give off this buzzing feeling. Like holding your hand to an old CRT television… whatever that is.

Alt relaxes as the eagle presses its head against his hand. It's so warm... He closes his eyes, a vision forming.

Alt feels tears falling down his face as he opens his eyes. He touches his cheek and then studies his hand in slight confusion. He lets out a shuddery breath and whispers, "...my... my friends-"

The images of the not-rebels flood his head again, circling in a dance like the birds.

Henny. Jackie. Jay. Chase.

When his eyes start to flicker and their names seem enveloped by static, he furrows his brow and thinks harder, willing the names to become solid.

Henny. Jackie. Jay. Chase.

Blue-green swirls bright and powerful in his eyes and he chokes on a quiet sob, the relief of remembering overwhelming him.

His flock... His friends. His family.

He looks back towards the eagle and whispers through choked breaths, "m...my friends... a-are they here...?"

The eagle tilts its head. It turns around and does a funny little hop away from Alt before launching itself into the air. It’s a swift again.

<Guidance. A direction to follow.>

It flies into the trees to the left, expertly weaving around them.

Alt watches for a second before shakily pushing himself up. His eyes glow with determination.

He starts to run after it.

#LLTK #long live the king #YESS ONE OF MY FAV PARTS!!!#not only was the camp part fun and coming up with the swaps masks!!#but also ALT GETTING HELP UGH THE SCENE WITH HIM AND THE WINGED ELDER IS SO GOOD

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