#clove x faith

[abyss-of-mine]

Unhinged with ocs #8

Joseph lay on the bed with his torso and hips twisted opposite directions and Carly thrusting into him rapidly, watching him grip at the covers and bite his lip that he risked making it bleed. She shoved the wider end of the silicone member and heard him moan lustfully at it stretching him out more. He made a mess on the covers, but the harsh pounding didn't stop, silently screaming with mouth wide open at the pillow. She removed her hand from his chest and grabbed his jaw, making him look at her properly. He moaned her name, earning himself a sharp thrust and her a scream of desire.

Carly covered her mouth with the back of her hand and gently rubbed herself on Joseph's face, panting softly at the feeling of his tongue running against her folds. He teased the sensitive spot, swirling at he felt her growing more wet. Her cheeks flushed, biting the knuckles as her hips sped up, panting more heavier. His tongue moved in between the folds and played with the opening before sticking himself in. She gasped, quickly trembling at the skilled slithering inside her, and spilled down his chin. His tongue had her gripping on the headboard and shaking from pleasure, rubbing herself greedily on his face. He grabbed her legs and flipped on the bed, pinning the limbs on her chest and devouring her effortlessly. He drank every drop she gave him.

Hunter held April's hips and shoved his member inside her entrance, aggressively pumping his length. His hand reached around to her front and rubbed the sensitive spot a stop of her folds. She buried her face in the pillow, whimpering at his sharp thrusts and deep pushes within her. She moaned against the fabric, spilling into the covers, and had her hair pulled back, his other hand on her chest. He massaged the bare nipple and licked the sweat rolling down her neck, pleasure rising in tension. Her back curled against him, his fingers pressing hard on her folds and his length fully hitting every soft spot. She climaxed on him, but he wasn't finished, earning her more than one orgasm.

Clove pressed his hand on the wall, mouth hung open and legs struggling to keep him standing. Faith moved her mouth on his member, rolling her tongue on the base and swirling on the tip. He trembled and commanded his hips to not buck into her mouth, but his desire to do so overwhelmed. She popped him out and held the solid object in her palm, then stroke the base while her tongue worked on the tip. He moaned her name and leaned his head back, shaking in pleasure. She drank his release, licking off any extra, and then stood up. She teased him, laughing at his flustered state before her body was lifted and slammed on the wall. She gasped and moaned at the aggressive pounding inside her entrance, grabbing onto him as he attacked her neck.

Mary lowered herself on the silicone member stuck to the floor of the shower and gasped gently at it inside her. The shower head sprayed her as she pushed her body and back down, repeating the rhythm. She softly moaned and touched her breasts, closing her eyes to imagine Annalise doing it. She pumped herself harder, letting her hands wander along her body, moaning Annalise's name. She bit her lip when she was reaching the end and pressed her hands against the wall, riding the member like her life depended on it. Her moans grew louder and called out for her partner, climaxing in a big relief.

Joseph licked and slithered his tongue inside Carly, listening to the pleasure moans of her echoing in the bedchamber. He rubbed his thumb in between her folds when she finished, liking the feeling of her, and stood up to untie his pants, dropping to the floor. He rubbed his hard member to make it slick and grabbed her hips to push his length within the woman. His pace was slow and precise, finding the sweet spots and watching her squirm, gently burying himself deeper with every push. She took his length without issue, fitting perfectly like he was made for her. His pace sped up, pumping her with more quickly and harder, twitching inside her when she moaned his name. He leaned his head back and breathed in at the pleasure overtaking his body, thrusting his hips needy. She sat up and brought him into her arms, moaning and whimpering in his ear, feeling him hold her back and thrust more roughly. She gritted her teeth, squeezing him close to her, and moaned uncontrollably. Climax hit them and released all over the side of the bed, panting heavily at the excitement.

Zack aggressively thrusted into Monica, listening to her scream out in pleasure and moan uncontrollably at him hammering against at sweet spots. Her body was twisted and bare while he stood over her and gripped her hips, shoving his full length inside her entrance. She screamed into the pillow and climaxed again, but he kept going, reaching a hand next to the pillow and scrunching up his face at how good he felt, releasing in her entrance and spilling out.

[soluversworld]

ACCEPT HIM?- REN/REDACTED X G.READER

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Words: 9548

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: 

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[REDACTED]...?

This one-shot is inspired from Chae Yul, Sian, The secret alliance stuff! Please check it out! This is a gift for his birthday!

Trigger Warnings:

Obsession & Stalking

Identity & Self-Hatred

Psychological Horror & Manipulation

Physical Restraint

Mental Breakdown & Trauma

Loss of Agency & Power Imbalance

Dark/Surreal Imagery

You spat.

The rats. The wretched, sacred rats. God’s vermin. Love incarnate. They fester in the walls, whisper in the dark. Their teeth are scripture, their hunger divine. They rot you from the inside out. FIRST YOUR MATTRESS, NOW YOUR BOOTS. You will give and give until there is nothing left. A sacrifice, unwilling but ordained.

They move in silence, except when they don’t. A chorus of claws, a hymn of gnashing teeth. They spread sickness like gospel, like prophecy fulfilled. Holy infection. Gnawing devotion. The plague of faith with pink tails and black eyes.

You will scratch. You will cough. You will kneel.

You’re done. Done with the walls that breathe, the floorboards that scratch back, the whispers in the vents. Done with the stink of decay seeping into your sheets, into your hair, into your skin. The rats can have it. The mattress. The boots. The whole fucking place.

You’re leaving.

Because of Ren. One kind man. Your boyfriend. Seven days, and somehow, you managed to talk it out. To say it. You liked Ren. You really did. Soft hands, soft voice, soft everything. What surprised you was how eager he was—with that. With you. The moment you said you liked him, it was over. He latched on, sticky-sweet, clinging like you might disappear if he let go.

You didn’t mind.

The hallway smelled like dust and something old, something settled. You wanted to say goodbye. Just a quick knock on Violet’s door, a small wave, maybe a half-smile if you were feeling generous. You didn’t even like her that much—she was just there, always outside her apartment smoking cloves, watching the world through heavy-lidded eyes like she already knew how everything would end. But she was nice enough. She was someone who existed in the same space you did, which had to count for something.

You shifted the box in your arms, fingers curling against the cardboard, and turned toward her door.

Then—

“Angel, are you okay?”

Ren.

You startled, nearly dropping the box, because you hadn’t heard him approach. He was just there, suddenly, like he had been waiting for the exact moment you thought of leaving him alone. Wide blue eyes peeking out from under the rim of a froggy hat—soft green, button eyes, covering every inch of his fluffy pink hair. Every inch. Not a single curl in sight.

You giggled. You couldn’t help it.

He tilted his head, smiling at the sound. But something nagged at the back of your mind. He never covered his hair. Ren was all about touch—he liked when you played with it, when you ran your fingers through it, when you tugged just a little and watched his lashes flutter. He liked being seen. But now it was hidden, every strand tucked away beneath thick fabric, like it was never there at all.

Before you could ask, he noticed the box in your arms and made a small noise. “I’ll carry that.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

For a second—just a second—his lips curled, something smug flashing in his eyes before he laughed and ran.

“Who reaches first?!”

And like that, your thoughts scattered. You gasped, gripping the box tighter as he took off down the hallway, his laughter bouncing off the walls.

“Ren—!”

But you were already running after him, giggling as you tried to catch up, feet pounding against the floor. The weight of the box slowed you down, but Ren wasn’t even trying to win, just looking back at you with that too-wide smile, steps just fast enough to keep you chasing. He liked when you chased.

You didn’t realize you had forgotten to knock on Violet’s door. Didn’t realize you hadn’t said goodbye at all.

Didn’t realize that, maybe, Ren had planned it that way.

Outside, the air was cool against your skin, the last traces of evening pressing soft against the horizon. The world was quiet out here, the hum of streetlights blending into the distant chatter of a city that never fully slept. Ren slowed to a stop near the moving truck, turning to face you with a victorious grin, still cradling your box like a prize.

“You lose,” he teased, rocking on his heels. “That means I get a kiss, right?”

You rolled your eyes, breathless from running. “That’s not how that works.”

Ren pouted, but his eyes were still smiling. He tilted his head, the froggy hat slipping just slightly forward. “I carried your box. You should reward me.”

“You stole my box.”

“Carried.”

“Stole.”

He gasped, dramatic, clutching at his chest. “Angel, I would never. You wound me.”

You laughed, reaching for the box, but he shifted it out of your reach with ease, holding it high over his head. You huffed, stepping closer, and he took a step back, grin widening.

“What’s with the hat?” you asked, changing tactics. You squinted at him, stepping in just a little more. Close enough to touch. “You never wear hats.”

His smile didn’t falter, but something in him stilled for just a moment, just a breath. “I wanted to be cute for you.”

“You’re always cute.”

He blinked. Then laughed—soft, warm, delighted, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. The box lowered slightly. “Angel.”

“Ren.”

The space between you buzzed. He tilted his head again, letting you see just the faintest flush dusting his cheeks, exaggerated by the green of the froggy hat.

“…Do you like it?”

You hummed, reaching up to tug at the rim just a little. “I like you.”

His breath hitched. And then he melted, shoulders loosening, eyes softening into something devoted. Obsessed.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Your chest squeezed. “It’s been seven days.”

“So?”

You had no answer. And maybe that was an answer in itself.

You lost.

Ren beat you to the entrance of his building with that same smug grin he always got when he pulled ahead. He didn't gloat, but you could feel it radiating off him, warm and sticky like honey in the sun. And you? You just huffed, breathless, grinning like an idiot as you caught up, half-wondering how he had the energy to sprint and look so unbothered about it.

Then he swiped his electronic key card.

WOAH.

Yeah, okay, you still said it. Loud, too. Like the first time. Like you hadn’t already visited this place, hadn’t already gawked at the sheer absurd richness of it. But come on—he had a whole damned foyer. In an apartment.

Ren laughed as the doors slid open with a soft, expensive-sounding click. “You really like saying that, huh?”

You shot him a look. “Well, sorry, not all of us live in a place where the elevator doesn’t creak like it’s about to collapse.”

“I’d save you if it did.”

His voice was light, teasing, but you didn’t doubt he actually meant it. And you? You just sighed, pretending to roll your eyes as you stepped inside.

Still ridiculous. Still overwhelming. Still unbelievably nice.

It smelled expensive in here, like something clean but not sterile, like whatever subtle scent they pumped through luxury hotels. The lighting was soft, the floors heated. Your shoes felt wrong stepping onto them, like you were dirtying something meant to stay untouched.

But Ren was already ahead of you, dropping your box by the entrance like it was nothing, then reaching into a small cubby near the wall. “Here,” he said, holding something out to you. A pair of house slippers, still neatly wrapped in plastic.

You blinked. “You… bought me shoes?”

Ren hesitated, his usual confidence dimming just a little. His fingers twitched on the plastic wrapping, and then, for once, he actually looked shy.

“You’re staying, so…” He cleared his throat, shoving them into your hands. “It’d be rude to make you walk around barefoot.”

What the hell.

What the hell.

It was still so insane to you. Not the apartment, not the foyer, not the money. Ren. Ren being this nice. Ren being so nice. To you. You had only known him for seven days and he was already like this, already so attentive, already ready for you, like he had been preparing for this from the start. It was a little weird. A little eccentric.

But you? You were an idiot. A dumb, lucky idiot.

So you took the slippers, sat down, and pulled them on. Bless this man.

Ren watched, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place, then exhaled, like he had just won some kind of internal debate. “Oh,” he said, suddenly fidgeting again. “And, uh. About that.”

You looked up.

Ren rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the side. “I, um. I gave you your own room. For now.”

For now.

You blinked again, slower this time.

“I just—” He hesitated, then smiled, small and careful. “I don’t want to overstep anything. Y’know, since we’re still figuring things out.”

…What the hell.

You stared at him, at this boy who had just beaten you in a race to his stupidly fancy apartment, who had already bought you house slippers, who had set up an entire room for you just so you wouldn’t feel pressured, and you just—

You didn’t know what to say.

So you did the next best thing: you thanked him. Earnestly.

Ren beamed. That stupid, boyish, sticky-sweet smile that made your stomach turn weird.

And then, finally, finally, you asked what had been itching in the back of your mind since he first popped up out of nowhere.

“…Why are you wearing that hat?”

Ren blinked. “Huh?”

You pointed. “The frog hat. It covers your entire head. I can’t see your hair.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, too quickly, he blurted, “I, uh. I kinda messed it up.”

You tilted your head. “Messed what up?”

“My hair.” He scratched his cheek, looking away. “Ordered the wrong batch of dye…” His voice dropped, muttering something too low for you to hear.

You squinted. “What?”

But Ren was already stepping away, already shifting the conversation like a well-practiced trick. “Anyway!” He clapped his hands. “You should change. The bathroom’s down the hall.”

You frowned, suspicious, but he only smiled.

Too easy. Too slick.

Ren sniffled. Just a little. A soft, barely-there sound, like he was trying not to make a big deal out of it, but you noticed. You always noticed.

“You okay?” you asked, eyeing him as he rubbed at his nose.

“Oh—yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively, his voice a little stuffy. “Just a little sick. Nothing serious.”

You frowned. “You should rest.”

Ren brightened, suddenly perking up way too much for someone who had just admitted they were sick. “Oh, but before that—” He rocked on his heels, looking almost nervous now. “I, uh. I wanted to tell you something.”

“…Okay?”

His fingers twitched at his sides. Then he cleared his throat, standing up just a little straighter, as if that would help get the words out properly.

“So, um.” He took a breath. “I already paid your rent.”

Silence.

You blinked.

“What.”

“For the whole year!” he added quickly. His hands shot up in some kind of panicked gesture, as if to soften the insanity of what he had just said. “I just—I thought it’d make things easier for you, and—”

“What.”

He stammered. Actually stammered. “It’s—it’s fine! You don’t have to pay me back or anything, I—”

“Ren.”

“I just—I want you to be comfortable! That’s all!” He was so frantic, so eager, so stupidly bright-eyed about it, like an overexcited puppy who didn’t quite realize he had just knocked over the whole table.

You just stared.

He paid your rent. For the entire year.

“What the hell,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

Ren flinched, and the sight of it broke you. He didn’t want you to be upset. He didn’t want you to think of it as a bad thing, didn’t want you to feel like a burden or anything other than happy. You could see it in the way he was fidgeting, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, his whole body practically vibrating with nervous energy.

It was too much.

And you? You almost cried.

You weren’t even sure what hit you first. The sheer weight of it, the overwhelming kindness, the way he was so eager to give, to do this for you, to take on something that wasn’t his responsibility just because he wanted to.

Ren made a tiny, startled noise when you stepped forward. He barely had time to react before you crashed into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, pressing your face into his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then, suddenly, he almost jumped, body jerking before he practically melted into you, hugging you so tight, so fiercely, like he had been waiting for this.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumbled, voice thick. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He buried his face against your shoulder, voice muffled but earnest. “I wanted to, Angel.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deep. You didn’t deserve him. You really, really didn’t deserve him. He was too nice. Too nice. It almost hurt how nice he was.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, his face way too close, his arms still tight around you, warm and solid and real.

You kissed his cheek.

Ren froze.

A tiny, sharp inhale. A complete full-body reaction.

You smiled, pressing your forehead against his, barely able to see with how blurred your vision had gotten. “Thank you for coming into my life.”

He looked love-struck.

Actually, physically struck by love.

His lips parted, his pupils huge, his face so red it almost matched his usual hair color—except, well. You still couldn’t see his hair. Stupid froggy hat.

For a moment, you thought he might cry too.

Instead, he suddenly pulled back. Too fast. Too clumsy.

“I—I should—” He turned, stepping away only to trip over absolutely nothing.

“Ren!” You reached out instinctively.

He stumbled but caught himself against the wall, laughing—embarrassed, giddy, too many emotions packed into one person. “I’m okay! I’m okay.”

You frowned. “Be careful.”

He exhaled hard, shaking his head, still smiling like an idiot. Then, finally, he looked back at you, softer now. “Go sleep, Angel.”

You couldn’t quite place it, but something in his tone had shifted, as if there were a thousand unsaid things he was trying to hold back. You smiled, ready to retreat into your room for the night, the events of the day still swirling around in your mind like a fever dream.

Then, as you were about to close the door, he appeared again, holding your clothing box in his hands. He looked… almost nervous. His cheeks were tinged with pink, and there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he handed the box over to you.

“I—I almost forgot,” Ren said, his voice thick, like he was trying to control something. Something deep inside. He didn’t look directly at you at first, his gaze flitting to the floor, to the side—anywhere but your face.

"Thank you, Ren," you said, still feeling a sense of warmth bubble up from the way he had cared for you, for everything he’d done. It felt… unreal, the way he had been so giving, so gentle. But then, Ren shifted again, stepping just a little too close. His breath caught, and you could feel his presence grow around you, suffocating in its quiet intensity.

“Angel…” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, almost like he was afraid to even say your name. He moved your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, sending an electric shock through you. You froze, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his touch, but there was something more there, something heavier, something dark.

“I—” He hesitated, and you felt a weird knot form in your stomach. He wasn’t looking at you now, his eyes downcast, almost embarrassed. His hands were trembling, the clothing box in his arms like it weighed nothing compared to what was running through his mind. “Angel, I—I just need to ask you something.”

You blinked, your own heart racing now. “What is it?”

Ren swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you… do you love me?” His voice cracked as he spoke, the words torn between desperation and something else—something you couldn’t quite identify. He looked at you finally, eyes wide with need, with raw, unfiltered emotion. “Do you love me like this?”

You stared at him, confusion furrowing your brow. “Like this?”

He was visibly shaking now, his fingers tightening around the box. His face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes were clouded with a deep longing. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t pull himself back. "Like this. Just... me. The way I am. All of me.” He winced, as if the words were hard to get out, as if he had to rip them from his own chest. “I—I just want to know. If I’m perfect for you… in your eyes.”

There was a moment where time seemed to stretch, where everything felt suspended in the air between you two. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of something warm and protective, something that ached deep in your chest at how much Ren wanted this—wanted you to say it, wanted to hear you tell him that he was good enough.

You opened your mouth, but words failed for a moment. The emotional weight in the room was too much, too overwhelming for you to properly process all at once.

And then, with a deep breath, you spoke. “I love you, Ren.”

His eyes widened, and then his face—his beautiful face—was overcome with something so fragile and pure, it made you feel weak in the knees. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he suddenly pulled you into a tight, almost frantic hug. You could feel his heart beating hard against yours, his breath coming in uneven, desperate gasps.

“I love you, Angel,” he repeated into your hair, voice barely intelligible as he hugged you tighter, like he was trying to hold you in place, like he was afraid if he let go, you might slip away. He was crying, though you could barely tell through the small, stifled sobs. “I love you so much. I—I didn’t think you’d—” He cut himself off, his emotions overwhelming him, making him speechless.

You felt your own eyes well up, the overwhelming sense of affection filling you up until it hurt. “Ren, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

But you could feel his shaking, his entire body trembling with emotion. His hands clutched at you desperately, and he whispered, almost like a prayer, “Please, don’t leave me. Please… I can’t be without you. You’re everything. You’re everything.”

The desperation in his voice made your heart ache for him.

Ren pulled back slightly, his hands still on your shoulders, his eyes locked onto yours, that same intensity still burning. He smiled softly, though there was a hint of something frantic, like he was still trying to hold it all together. “I’m glad,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I’m glad you love me.”

He suddenly straightened, his posture almost rigid as he turned away, almost like he had just caught himself in something, a bit of control returning to his shoulders. “I’ll get the rest of your stuff,” he said quickly, trying to brush it off.

But you stopped him. “It’s fine, Ren. I’ve got it.”

“No, no. I—I want to,” he insisted, eyes shining with that same intensity. He gripped your hand in his, the small moment of affection making your stomach flip. “I’ll get it, Angel. Wait here.”

You nodded, but as he hurried down the hall, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.

You entered your room, setting the clothing box on the bed. As you closed the door, you felt the faintest sense of unease gnaw at you, though it wasn’t something you could easily name.

Ren stood still in front of the mirror, his hand trembling as it pressed against his face, hiding the soft, self-loathing smile that spread across his lips. He was so close—so close to everything he wanted. To you. To having you. And now you were here. With him. You chose him.

You chose him.

In the quiet of the moment, his fingers traced the outline of his face, almost lovingly, as if to reassure himself that the person staring back at him in the mirror was truly who he had become.

The other REDACTED—the one who had never been enough—the one who was so weak, so pathetic—he was gone. Gone like the skin of an old, discarded self that no longer mattered. That person didn't deserve you. That failure didn’t deserve a single thought from you.

The new Ren, though? The one standing before you, the one you called by name, the one who held your heart in his palm with trembling fingers? That Ren was the one you loved.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the thought wrap around him like a warm blanket, soothing the gnawing, twisted feeling in his chest. No more pretending. No more hiding. He had transformed for you—because you needed him. You needed him to be strong. To be worthy of you. So, he became Ren.

A tiny laugh escaped his lips, soft but dangerous, like a secret only he would ever know. He could feel it. The ache in his chest, the way his heart swelled when he thought of you. The way he almost lost control at the thought of you being with anyone else. But that was all gone now.

He had you.

And you—oh, you would never leave him. Not now. Not after everything he had done. Everything he had become.

His fingers curled tighter around his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if trying to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to drown him. He was weak again, but this time, it wasn’t from lack of effort. No. This time, it was because he had finally given in—given in to the need to own you, to make sure that no one could touch you. No one could have you but him.

But then his thoughts twisted again.

He hated himself.

He hated REDACTED.

The one who had never been good enough for anyone, especially you. The one who never understood why anyone would care about him, the one who couldn’t even keep his hair the right color. That REDACTED was worthless. A failure. And in the pit of his stomach, he still felt that gnawing self-hatred, the reminder of who he used to be.

He didn't deserve you.

He clutched the fabric of his clothes—his carefully chosen attire—and thought about the effort it took to craft this persona, this perfect version of himself. You wouldn’t love him if he was weak. You wouldn’t look at him the way you did now if you saw the truth beneath the mask. So he gave you Ren. This Ren. The strong, kind, loving Ren that you needed.

And somehow, it was enough for you. Enough that you would choose him.

The old REDACTED—the ugly, broken REDACTED—had no place in your life. That REDACTED would have only destroyed everything. But now, this new Ren—the one you needed, the one you loved—he would make sure you never left. He would make sure you belonged to him.

He lowered his hands, his reflection staring back at him, the soft pink hair still hidden beneath the frog hat, his body still just as delicate as ever. But beneath that surface was the raw, trembling devotion that would never let you slip away.

“You’re mine, Angel,” he whispered to the reflection, as if trying to remind himself of his purpose, his new self. “You are mine.”

And then the realization hit him: this was it. This was the moment.

There was no going back.

Ren gripped the edges of the counter, the dark, obsessive smile stretching across his face once more. He had crossed the line, and there was no one left to stop him. He had you now. And nothing would take you from him.

You leaned back against the cool, smooth surface of the couch, eyes staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of you as you spoke into the phone. Your voice was a quiet mix of frustration and fear, too many things you weren’t sure how to articulate.

“Yeah, Elenor... I’m still staying with Ren,” you sighed, your words coming out almost too tired. “I mean, I like him. I’ve always liked him... It’s just... it’s like he’s... always been there. So kind, so nice to me.” Your throat tightened slightly at the thought. “He does everything for me. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s like he’s... trying to make up for something.”

The weight of the last few days sat heavy on your shoulders. Ren’s soft smile, his gentleness, the way he watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked. It all made your stomach twist in both comfort and confusion. And it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something that made you feel like you were on the edge of a truth you couldn't reach—yet couldn't avoid.

"But..." you continued, almost whispering, your words faltering. "I think I’ve taken too much of him. He’s always doing things for me, always... offering his space, his time. It’s like, I don’t even know how to repay him, you know? And I don't even know if I should be taking all of it. It feels wrong sometimes."

The thought of too much—of overstaying your welcome in his space, in his life—felt suffocating. You had been around him for a week now, and it was intense. More than you could have imagined.

Elenor’s voice came through the phone, a soft but persistent murmur of concern. "Y/N, you're not a burden. If you feel comfortable, then stay. But... what's really bothering you?"

Your heart skipped, and you exhaled sharply. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, a wave of worry crashing over you as you thought of that other thing—the stalker. The person who had been creeping around, sending odd messages, showing up in places they shouldn’t be. It had been escalating, and it terrified you more than you wanted to admit.

“It’s just... Ren,” you said, barely believing it yourself as the words left your lips. “I mean, he told me he would keep me safe from them. That one word... ‘safe’... He makes me feel like I trust him more than anyone else. And I... I do. I trust him. I trust him more than I should.”

Your voice dropped off at the end, an unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach. That wasn’t what bothered you. What bothered you was the thought that maybe you shouldn’t trust him as much as you did. You had no real reason not to... but still, something gnawed at you. It felt like there was something more—something you weren’t seeing.

You stood, pacing slightly as the phone sat in your hand. “But… Elenor, it’s like... why do I feel like I’ve known him longer? Like I’ve been through this with him before? Maybe I’m just being dramatic, or it’s just a dream. But I can't shake the feeling... that I know him—no, that he knows me in a way no one else does. It’s... it’s so hard to explain.” You stopped in your tracks, staring out the window with your breath caught in your throat.

You knew it didn’t make sense. You trusted Ren. You really did. He was so kind, so patient, but something about the situation felt off. You could feel it crawling beneath your skin, just waiting for you to acknowledge it.

"God, Elenor," you muttered, "Why am I even thinking this way? He’s just trying to protect me... and I’m sitting here, suspecting him? What is wrong with me?"

The guilt twisted in your chest.

You hung up the phone, feeling the weight of everything press down on you. The stalker. Ren’s kindness. Your growing trust in him. It was all tangled up in your mind, making it hard to think clearly. You wanted to feel safe. You wanted to believe in him completely. But there was that other feeling. That whisper in the back of your head, telling you there was something you hadn’t seen yet.

And as much as you tried to push it away, it was growing louder.

But you couldn't… You couldn’t doubt him. Not now. Not when he’d done everything to keep you safe, to make you feel welcome.

But still…

Why did it feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control?

You decided to sleep..

The world around you felt heavy, like swimming through something thick and suffocating. You weren’t sure when you had fallen asleep, but here you were—somewhere that felt both distant and too close at the same time.

You heard it first.

A voice. Soft. Gentle. A whisper floating through the void like a lullaby.

"Angel…"

Your heart squeezed. That name.

"Angel… where are you?"

You turned, eyes darting through the darkness, searching. Footsteps echoed, and you realized—you were running.

But why?

With every step, something felt off. Your body—smaller. Your legs shorter. The oversized sleeves of your favorite purple hoodie brushed against your hands, just like it used to when you were little. And then, through the haze of memories that weren’t quite memories, you saw him.

A boy.

His hair was black, not Ren’s familiar soft pink, and his blue eyes shimmered under the dim, dreamlike light. He stood there, small and hesitant, clutching something in his hands. He looked familiar—too familiar—but the name in your head didn’t quite fit.

Wasn’t this… REDACTED?

No.

No, it wasn’t.

Your breath hitched as you moved closer, feeling a weight settle deep in your chest.

“Angel…” The boy—who wasn’t Ren—spoke shyly, his voice so small, so fragile. “I-I… I have something for you.”

He lifted his hands.

A ring.

Tiny, gold, glinting even in the strange darkness. Not fancy, not expensive—just a simple little band. But he held it like it was the most important thing in the world.

"For tuu…" he mumbled, his voice laced with nervous excitement.

Something in your heart twisted. This moment. You knew this moment.

You reached out, almost touching his hands, when—

"Hey, what are you doing?"

A new voice.

Your head snapped to the side, and suddenly you weren’t alone with him anymore.

Another child. Taller. Leon.

His face was shadowed, unreadable, but you could feel his presence, his overprotectiveness. Even in the dream, even as a child, he stood between you and the boy like a wall.

He didn’t like this.

You knew before it even happened.

And then—he shoved him.

The tiny ring slipped from the boy’s hands, hitting the ground with a soft clink. His dark eyes widened in panic as he scrambled to grab it, but before he could—

Leon kicked it away.

“Stop bothering them,” Leon’s voice was sharp, almost possessive. “They don’t need weirdos like you.”

The boy froze.

Your chest tightened painfully, something screaming inside of you that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.

The boy stared at the lost ring, at Leon, then at you.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.

Instead, he bent down, picked up the ring with trembling hands, and held it against his chest.

Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear—

“…Okay.”

A whisper.

“…I’ll try again.”

His small voice cracked.

His shoulders shook.

And then—he was crying.

It shattered something deep inside of you.

You saw your childhood self hesitate, stepping toward him, but Leon pulled you back.

“Let’s go,” Leon muttered. “You don’t need to waste time on him.”

Your small hands twitched at your sides.

Your child self looked back.

One last time.

At the boy holding the ring like it was all he had.

At the pain in his eyes.

At his tears.

And then—darkness.

Everything twisted.

Reality snapped and distorted like a glitching screen, and suddenly, it wasn’t just the past anymore.

Suddenly—

You were falling.

Falling straight into those dark, familiar eyes.

A deep, obsessive gaze.

And then—

Hands grabbed you.

Clutching. Pulling.

"Angel."

His voice.

"Stay with me."

You couldn't breathe.

"Angel."

You saw his face.

The boy was older now. No longer a child.

No longer soft.

His black hair, his dark, blue eyes.

"You promised."

Promised what?!

You tried to pull away, tried to run—

"Don’t leave me again."

And then—

A SMILE.

Wide. Twisted.

Obsessed.

The dark eyes swallowed you whole.

And then—

You screamed.

You woke up.

Gasping. Drenched in sweat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

The room was dark, too quiet, too unfamiliar.

Ren’s apartment.

You were safe.

Right?

Your hands clutched the sheets, your breath shaking. The dream—the memory?—was already slipping away, but that feeling, that fear, still clung to your skin.

That boy.

That name.

Why couldn’t you remember his name?

But you knew—you knew.

This wasn’t just a dream.

It was something more.

Something you had forgotten.

Something you had lost.

And yet…

You turned, staring at the bedroom door.

Your breath was still uneven, the remnants of that dream gripping at your chest like unseen hands. You needed air. You needed… Ren.

Slipping out of bed, your feet hit the cool floor, grounding you back into reality. This was Ren’s apartment. It was safe. You were safe.

Right?

You cracked open the door, peering into the dimly lit hallway. The apartment was silent, but something in the air felt off. Heavy. Like it was watching you.

Ren’s room.

That’s where you needed to go.

Step by step, you moved, the floor quiet beneath you. His door was just slightly ajar, enough that the soft glow of a nightlight seeped out. But when you pushed it open—

Empty.

Ren wasn’t here.

The neatly made bed, the folded blankets, the plush frog sitting perfectly centered on the pillows—everything was untouched. It looked like he hadn’t even been here tonight.

Your stomach twisted.

Where was he?

And then—

You heard it.

A noise. Faint, muffled, but unmistakable.

A voice.

Ren’s voice.

But he wasn’t speaking.

He was panting.

Short, shaky breaths, almost strained. Like he was struggling. Like he was—

Your body tensed as you followed the sound down the hall.

To the one place he told you not to go.

The room at the very end.

You swallowed hard.

He had said it was just old stuff.

Things he didn’t want to look at.

Things that didn’t matter anymore.

And yet…

You stood in front of the door.

The sounds were clearer now, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, like he was working himself into something feverish. It was almost desperate.

Your hand hovered over the handle, but—

A password lock.

The glowing numbers blinked at you, blocking you from whatever lay beyond.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

Forget it.

Just go back to bed.

Trust Ren.

Trust him.

But…

Your fingers twitched.

Curiosity curled around your ribs like an eager whisper.

Why was he in there?

Why not in his own bed?

Why lock the door?

And why… why did the way he sounded make something in your gut churn with uncertainty?

You didn’t understand.

Your hands were clammy, your heart pounding so hard you swore it would wake Ren—wherever he was.

The keypad blinked at you, waiting.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the numbers. You tried something random—some goddess’s name, something mystical, something obscure. Nothing.

You exhaled, gripping your wrist, willing yourself to be rational.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But the dream still lingered like static in your skull, the boy’s eyes, the lost ring, the way Ren had always felt so… familiar.

You licked your lips, staring at the keypad, and then—

You typed in your birthday.

Just as a joke. Just to see.

You didn’t even know why.

It wasn’t like you’d ever told him.

Right?

And then—

Click.

The lock flashed green.

The door unlocked.

Your blood went cold.

No.

That wasn’t—

That wasn’t possible.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just stood there. Frozen.

Because this was wrong.

This was so wrong.

You never told him.

You would have remembered telling him, right?

The thought sent a sick shiver down your spine.

How did Ren know your birthday?

You stepped back, every part of you screaming to turn around, go back to bed, pretend you never did this.

And yet—

The door, now slightly ajar, called to you like a mouth just barely parted.

A dark, waiting secret.

And from inside—

The sound of Ren’s breath, sharp, shaking, desperate.

You had a choice.

Walk away.

Or step inside.

Your breath was shallow as you stepped inside the dimly lit room, your fingers trembling as they pushed open the door just enough to let you slip in. The air was thick, oppressive, and something about it felt suffocating. Like you weren’t supposed to be here. Like the walls themselves were whispering turn back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took another step forward, your foot making the faintest creak against the floorboards. And then you saw them.

The pictures.

Lining the left-hand side of the room, pinned with precision, hundreds of them.

At first, they looked like ordinary photos—old, slightly yellowed at the edges. But the more you looked, the more your stomach twisted.

They were all of you.

You recognized some—pictures taken from your social media, old selfies, candid shots where you were mid-laugh or deep in thought. But others—

Your fingers clenched. Your breath hitched.

These were different.

A shot of you as a child, no older than five, in a park with a bright purple hoodie. A blurry image of you in middle school, sitting at your desk, eyes down, utterly unaware of the camera. You didn’t remember anyone taking these.

And worse—

They weren’t just old.

Some of them were before you even met Ren.

Your blood ran cold.

Your hand twitched at your side, fingers flexing, as if trying to ground yourself in reality. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe—maybe these weren’t what they seemed.

Maybe it was just a coincidence—

You turned, needing something—anything—to contradict the horror sinking into your bones.

But then you saw the right-hand side.

More pictures. More of you.

And these weren’t just old. They were recent.

You sleeping in your bed.

You sitting at a café, headphones in, oblivious to the camera.

You inside your own house, looking out the window, unaware you were being watched.

Your stomach churned. Your heart pounded, cold sweat forming at the back of your neck.

How?

You took a step back, swallowing thickly.

And then—

A sound.

Slow, ragged breathing.

It was coming from the farthest corner of the room.

Your head snapped toward the sound, your whole body frozen in place. And there, sitting hunched on the floor, shrouded in shadow—

A boy.

His back was facing you, his shoulders trembling slightly with every breath he took. His black hair fell in messy strands over his face, over his hands, over the bent curve of his form. It was long—longer than Ren’s. But the more you stared, the more a realization crept up your spine, slow and paralyzing.

The same eyes.

The same voice—when he had panted behind this door.

You felt your lips part before you even realized you were speaking.

“…[REDACTED]?”

The moment the name left your mouth, the boy flinched.

A violent, shuddering jolt, like you had struck him with a knife.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head.

And then—

You saw his face.

It was Ren. But it wasn’t.

The same eyes. The same face. But his pink hair—gone. In its place was jet black, stark against his pale skin, and his expression—

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t Ren.

It was raw. Wild. Desperate.

“Angel…” he whispered, voice hoarse, thick with something you couldn’t name. His wide, glistening eyes locked onto yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His lips parted, but no more words came out—only small, broken sounds, like something inside him was fracturing, shattering before your very eyes.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

It was him.

The boy from your dream.

The boy who called you Angel.

The boy who once held out a ring for you, years ago, only to be crushed by another’s cruelty.

The boy who never stopped chasing you.

“N-No… no no no no…” he whimpered, shaking his head violently, hands grasping at his hair as if trying to pull himself apart. “Not yet. Not yet, Angel, it wasn’t—It was supposed to be perfect.”

You took a step back, your entire body trembling. Ren never stuttered. Never lost control. But this—this was not the Ren you knew.

And then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed.

He sobbed.

Not soft, not quiet—loud, broken, shaking cries. His hands clawed at his face, his breath ragged and uneven. His shoulders shook as he gasped for air, like he was trying to breathe you in.

“It was going so well…” he choked out, curling into himself. “You stayed, you were happy, you—you loved me. You loved me, Angel. It was supposed to be okay, it was supposed to be—”

His voice cracked. His hands gripped his arms, nails digging deep, too deep.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

A shiver ran through your spine, your feet frozen in place.

You tried to understand. Tried to process.

Ren—no, not Ren.

[REDACTED] had always been there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The sweet, gentle Ren you knew—the one who kissed your forehead, who held your hand, who laughed with you—that was him, too.

But it wasn’t.

Because this was Ren.

A boy who had shed his old self like dead skin.

A boy who had erased every trace of the past that Angel—his Angel—might not have loved.

And now, you had seen it.

Now, you knew.

His wide, tear-streaked eyes found yours again, and in that moment, the madness swirling inside them was as clear as a mirror.

He smiled.

Soft. Devoted.

His lips curled, his entire body trembling with emotion, and then—

He crawled toward you.

“Angel…” he whispered, voice quivering, thick with tears. His fingers reached for your ankle, barely brushing against the fabric of your pants. “Please… don’t run.”

You stumbled backward, your breath hitching as your vision blurred at the edges. Panic clawed at your throat. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Your body screamed at you to run, but your legs barely moved—jelly beneath you, wobbling as you reached for the door.

Your fingers fumbled with the handle. You wrenched it open. A burst of cold air, freedom, just a step away—

A force yanked you back, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. You gasped, air cut short as an arm wrapped tight around your middle, pulling you flush against a trembling chest. His breath was hot, uneven, panting against the shell of your ear. The scent of him—familiar yet foreign—invaded your senses. His grip was suffocating, his presence engulfing, an inescapable cage.

Your phone clattered to the ground. No chance of calling for help.

His hand pressed over your mouth as you tried to scream. His whole body shook against you, but whether it was from anger or desperation, you didn’t know. You struggled, nails digging into his skin, but it only made him hold tighter.

"Don’t," he whispered, his voice cracked, raw with something unreadable. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his entire body tensed like a string about to snap. "Angel, don’t—don’t run from me."

You thrashed. You elbowed his ribs, stomped on his foot, anything to break free. His grip loosened just enough for you to twist away, for you to stumble toward the window, toward anything, anywhere but here. But he was faster.

A tangle of limbs, the sensation of falling. The impact knocked the air from your lungs as you hit the floor, a sharp pain shooting up your spine.

And then—

His weight pressed down on you, his knees caging you in.

His hands trembled as they found your wrists, pinning them above your head.

He was shaking. His breath hitched like he was trying not to sob.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You refused to look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever expression he was wearing—

"Look at me," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You refused.

"Please." His voice cracked.

Slowly, hesitantly, your eyes opened.

His face was streaked with tears. His lips trembled, his expression raw, vulnerable, broken. And there, around his neck, a chain hung, glinting under the dim light.

A ring.

A ring you had seen before.

Your stomach twisted.

His hand curled around yours, and your breath hitched when you felt something cold against your finger.

Another ring.

It looked like a wedding band.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything else.

His fingers, scarred, burned, holding onto yours so tightly it hurt. His tattooed neck, the ink forming a heart, your name embedded in his skin like a permanent scar.

His lips trembled as he whispered, "You were always mine. From the start."

You felt your world tilt, reality fracturing at the edges.

And then, finally—

You screamed.

Around his neck, dangling from a delicate chain, was the same ring from your dream. The ring that little boy—no, REDACTED—had once offered you, the ring he had picked up from the dirt after Leon had tossed it away.

"I kept it," he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?"

His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.

"But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay."

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat, but he wasn’t done. His entire body trembled, a shuddering breath escaping him before his hands dropped to his sides, clenching into fists. His eyes darkened, an unhinged, broken sort of despair creeping into them as his lips parted. His entire frame shook.

"LOOK AT ME!" he suddenly screamed, his voice breaking apart, desperate, raw, aching.

You flinched, but he wasn’t stopping. His breath hitched, and then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed—loud, uncontrollable, a pitiful noise that clawed through the space between you.

"I ruined it! I—I ruined everything!" He collapsed against you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his body wracked with silent cries. "No, no, no… It was perfect, it was all going to be perfect, I just needed more time! More time to fix it, more time to be him! But you—You had to come here! You had to—!"

His hands gripped your arms like a vice, as if he were terrified you’d disappear the moment he let go.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered, his voice raw, his words frantic. "I—I was supposed to be like Haruko. I was supposed to be good for you. Someone you could love. But I can’t—I can’t be him all the time! I can’t—"

He hiccupped between words, his fingers curling tighter. "I tried, Angel. I tried so hard. But it wasn’t enough, was it? You still found out. You still see me as that… thing."

His nails dug deeper into your skin, and you winced.

"But I had to do it," he continued, his voice turning frantic, desperate. "Because you—" He swallowed hard, his breath shaky. "You never loved me before. You never even looked at me."

A trembling hand reached up, tracing the line of your jaw, down to your collarbone, resting against your hammering pulse.

"But you love Ren, don't you?" His grip tightened. "You love the one I made for you."

Your mind was screaming. Your body was screaming. And yet, your voice refused to come out.

"Say it," he pleaded. "Say you love me. Say you won’t leave. Please, Angel—just say it."

Tears streamed down his face, raw emotion cracking through every fiber of his being. His chest heaved with every shaky breath, his heart pounding so loudly that you swore it echoed against your ribs.

"I need you," he whimpered. "I need you more than you could ever know."

kept it," he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?"

His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.

"But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay."

His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade of Ren trembling at the edges. His breathing hitched as his grip on you tightened, not with force, but with a desperation so palpable it left you breathless.

"Angel, do you know what it’s like? To be invisible to the one person who mattered? To watch from the shadows, to shape yourself into something they might finally see?" His voice rose, frantic. "You see me now, don’t you? You’re looking at me now. You know who I am. Not just Ren, not just some stranger you met in a library—ME. The real me. The one who has always, always loved you."

His expression twisted, the manic gleam in his eyes sharp enough to slice through you. His breath came in uneven gasps, hands shaking as he clutched onto you like a lifeline.

"It was supposed to be perfect!" he shouted suddenly, the sheer anguish in his voice sending chills down your spine. "I did everything right! I became someone you could love! Haruko, Ren, whatever you wanted—I gave it to you! So why… why do you l look so scared?"

Tears welled in his eyes, though whether they were of frustration or heartbreak, you couldn’t tell. His whole body trembled, his forehead pressing against yours.

"Angel," he whispered, voice a broken plea. "Tell me it wasn’t all for nothing. Tell me you love me. Like this. As I am."

His fingers curled around the ring on his necklace, the metal cold against your skin. And in that moment, you realized—you weren’t looking at Ren anymore. The mask had finally, irrevocably cracked.

You were looking at REDACTED.

Ren's breathing was ragged, uneven. His fingers trembled as they curled into fists, then released, then clenched again. His shoulders shook, his entire body wracked with something dark and ugly that he couldn't contain any longer.

"Look at me!" he sobbed, voice breaking apart like glass shattering on concrete. "Please… just look at me, Angel. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I ruined it… I'm sorry I'm like this!"

His face was twisted in anguish, an expression so raw it cut deeper than any knife ever could. His tears fell onto your skin, hot and desperate, as he gripped onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

But you couldn't move.

Something cold and thick was creeping up your legs, winding around your ankles like tendrils of ink. It climbed, higher and higher, latching onto your waist, then your arms. Panic overtook you as you gasped, thrashing wildly, but the more you struggled, the faster it spread.

"S-Stop! Stop it!" you shrieked, clawing at the darkness consuming you. "This can't be happening!"

Ren's arms tightened around you, but it wasn't a comforting embrace. It was desperate. It was suffocating. His breath hitched as he felt you shuddering in his hold, your sobs turning into choked screams.

His praise became a fevered mantra, his lips moving against your temple as he whispered worship, obsession, madness.

"You're light. You're everything, you're perfect. I'm nothing without you. I'm nothing!"

The ink coiled around your throat. Fingers. Hands. Clutching, grasping, squeezing. It seeped into your mouth, into your lungs, and you gagged as the taste of rust and rot filled you from the inside out.

Your screams were muffled.

Memories—they came flooding back, crashing over you like a tidal wave.

A boy, small and quiet, his black hair hanging over his wide, fearful eyes.

A ring, tiny and glinting, held out to you with shaking fingers.

"Angel, it's for you…"

A rough shove, a cry of protest. Leon's voice, sharp and cruel.

"Get lost, freak!"

The ring, tumbling through the air, swallowed by the grass, lost.

And the boy—

[REDACTED].

He had picked it up.

He had picked himself up.

He had tried again.

But not as himself.

Ren collapsed inward, a hollow shell of the person he had tried to become. His hands trembled, gripping at his own arms as if trying to claw himself out of his own skin. "I didn't deserve you," he whispered, the words cracked and broken. "I never did. I never could. I'm filth. I'm nothing compared to you, Angel. You're— you're light. And I— I was never meant to touch you."

But he had touched you. His entire being had wrapped around yours like a parasitic vine, feeding off the glow that you barely recognized in yourself. And now, it was suffocating you. The air grew thick, tangible as black ink seeped into your skin, curling up your arms like coiling veins of tar. Your body twisted, recoiling, but it didn't stop. It climbed higher, reaching your chest, your throat, your mouth—

You couldn't breathe.

Hands. It felt like hands. Hands grabbing your limbs, your face, your throat, prying your lips apart. The ink curled inside you like a living entity, pulling, pulling, pulling. Your screams gurgled in your throat, strangled by the suffocating black.

"STOP!!! NOOO!!!" You writhed, thrashing against it, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The hands held firm, yanking you down, burying you in a nightmare made flesh. You sobbed, fists slamming against Ren’s chest, clawing at him in sheer desperation.

Ren held onto you, his grip firm, but it wasn't controlling. It wasn't possessive. It was desperate. "Angel—" he choked, voice cracking as his forehead pressed to yours, his tears mixing with your own. "Please, don’t— I didn't want this, I never wanted this—"

But you didn’t hear him. You couldn't. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just his voice— it was another. A voice from a long, long time ago, buried deep beneath years of missing memories. A boy’s voice, timid and small.

"Angel, this is for you."

A ring, held out in tiny, shaking hands.

The child’s black hair was unevenly cut, his eyes the same dark abyss you now feared. Your younger self reached out, almost hesitantly—

Until Leon’s hands appeared, shoving him back. The ring tumbled to the ground, lost in the dirt.

"Get lost, Don't bother them."

You gasped, your whole body convulsing as reality lurched back into place.

Ren— [REDACTED]— clung to you, his whole body trembling as if he were barely holding himself together. You stared at him, your vision blurred with tears, your breath coming in ragged, choking gasps.

"WHY DID LEON THROW THAT RING AWAY?!" The words ripped out of you, raw and furious and agonized. "WHY DID YOU BECOME LIKE THIS?! WHY?!"

His eyes widened, lips parting, but no words came out. Only a silent, broken sob.

Memories slammed into you like a wrecking ball, each one hitting harder than the last. The boy from your dreams— he wasn’t just some shadowy figure from the past. He was real. He had always been real.

And he had always been right there, waiting. Watching. Loving you in the only way he knew how—

Even if it ruined him.

Even if it ruined you.

You screamed again, but this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was grief. It was rage. It was heartbreak, the overwhelming weight of it all crushing down on you like an avalanche. Your body convulsed, your nails digging into the floor, into your own arms, as if trying to rip your own skin open just to make it stop.

Ren— or whatever was left of him— cradled you against him, rocking slightly as tears streamed down his face. "I ruined everything," he murmured, his voice fractured. "I—I wanted to be perfect for you. I wanted to be someone you could love. But I was never enough, was I?"

You sobbed into his chest, your body shaking uncontrollably. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, to run. But something in you cracked at his words, something deep and ugly and tangled with guilt. Because you had known him. Because once, a long time ago, you had been friends.

And now, both of you were broken beyond repair.

The ink around you dissipated, but its presence lingered, staining everything it touched.

Including you.

Including him.

He ruined everything.

No.

You ruined him.

He was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be someone else, someone whole, someone untouched by obsession and pain and a love so twisted it devoured everything in its path.

And yet here he was.

Crying.

Crying for you, for himself, for the past that could never be undone.

You screamed, throat raw, body trembling as you pushed against him, nails digging into his arms, shoving with every ounce of strength you had left. "GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!!" The words left you like a desperate exorcism, like if you said them enough, you could banish him, the ink, the past, everything that led to this moment. But nothing changed. He was still there. Still looking at you with that broken, pleading gaze. Still holding you as if letting go meant losing himself entirely.

"I’m sorry… I’m sorry…!" You sobbed, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders. The ink, the memories, the suffocating weight of it all crushed down on you until the world blurred, until your head spun and your breath stuttered—until there was nothing but blackness.

When you woke up, your body ached. The room was eerily silent, save for the faint rhythm of breathing beside you. You turned your head, heart seizing at the sight of him—[REDACTED]—asleep, curled up just inches away. His fingers were loosely laced with yours, gripping even in unconsciousness, as if even in sleep, he was terrified of losing you again.

You stiffened, breath caught in your throat. He looked… so different like this. Not the monster you had screamed at. Not the obsessive shadow that had haunted you. Just… him. His face, usually sharp with desperation and unchecked emotion, was peaceful now. Vulnerable. His long lashes cast shadows over his pale skin, and his lips—so often trembling with unspoken words—were parted slightly, his breath warm against your wrist.

A choked noise slipped past your lips before you even realized it. You had ruined him, hadn’t you? You had left him behind, and he had chased you into madness. If you had just looked back—if you had just seen him, really seen him—maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to carve out a new identity just to be near you again.

Your eyes drifted to his chest, to the thin silver chain around his neck. There it was. The ring. The one he had once held out to you with trembling hands, the one Leon had tossed away like it meant nothing.

You hesitated only a moment before reaching out. Your fingers curled around the ring, carefully sliding it from the chain. The metal was cool against your skin as you turned it over, inspecting the worn edges, the faint imprint of time. And then, without thinking, without knowing why, you slid it onto your own ring finger.

It fit.

Tears welled up again, burning hot trails down your cheeks as you laid back down, curling up beside him. Not on the bed. Not in the safety of the blankets. But here. On the cold floor, next to the boy you had abandoned.

You didn’t care anymore.

You had ruined him.

You wanted to fix him.

And maybe, just maybe… you could tell him what you should have said all those years ago.

He didn’t need to be Ren.

[REDACTED] was enough.

...........

[buriedbehindtheshed]

Fixing a Broken Wing. Kaz Brekker x GN!reader

Word count: 1419 Warnings: Minor injury description. A/N: Thought I'd start posting here as well as Ao3! Hope y'all like it. We need more gn fics. No pronouns or y/n are used for the reader! There aren't many physical descriptions either!

The frigid air was harsh on the looming city of Ketterdam. Nightfall broke on the horizon, and the tapping of a cane echoed from an open window. The usual ruckus of the Barrel was dimmed by the racing thoughts of a singular slimy bastard: Kaz Brekker.

You were an investment of his–A sly one from the Menagerie. Your silent nature and singing blades kept you labeled as an honorary Crow. You were sent on a venture for Heleen, but you were supposed to meet back with Kaz at dawn. Since dawn, Kaz had waited.

And waited. 

And waited.

An unfamiliar prickle ghosted the back of Kaz's neck as hours flew by without a whisper of you. You were never late–not for him. The corner of his lip curled into a humorless smirk. Was he so blind to have faith in Heleen to consider keeping you safe?

With impeccable timing, a soft thump came from inside his bedroom. The thumping was followed by a low croak; Kaz could've sworn you were just a large toad. You harnessed the rest of your strength to push yourself up, just enough to slump against the wall.

Kaz paced towards the bedroom, his familiar hobbled steps echoing on the wooden floors. "You're late. You better have a damned good reason for falling behind. I'd like my investments close at hand," His familiar rasp grumbled. As he approached the room, he let his eyes fixate on you. His eyes were like flint as he observed your physical state, his gaze flickering over all of your wounds with expert precision. Your tale had been a messy one, it seemed.

Silently, Kaz stalked toward you, kneeling to your level. He pressed the silver crow's skull of his cane to your chin, tilting your head lightly, cataloging each wound with a veteran's eye. Slashes, bruises, wounds - all painted a sordid story across your flesh. "Heleen?" He asked, nearly deadly silent.

You parted your cracked, bloodied lips to speak, but nothing came out. Your throat was rough and raw. You simply nodded, swallowing thickly as your eyes threatened to close. Luckily, Kaz's cane supported your chin. If your head began to lull, he would use it to angle it back up.

Kaz scowled. No one would hurt one of his own. He always made sure of it. "You survived. That's all that matters." Reaching into an inner pocket, he plucked a small vial from it. He held it to your cracked lips, his voice leaving no room for denial. "Drink. It will help your throat." And perhaps loosen your tongue enough for you to share more. Heleen could wait; his prized weapon came first.

You took in a shaky breath, parting your lips and tilting your head up. You drank the amber-tinted liquid, your face contorting into disgust as it hit your tongue. "Saints, boss, what the hell is that?" You groan, still holding the liquid in your mouth.

A ghost of amusement flickered in Kaz's eyes to see your disgusted reaction, fleeting as quickly as it came. "Effective medicine tastes of punishment," Kaz replied flatly in his salt-bitten rasp. "Consider it penance for troubling me with putting you back together. Now swallow." He uncorked a waterskin from his belt to wash away the bitter taste of ginger and cloves. He held it to your lips, tilting your chin up with his cane. His cold gaze studied your face with keen precision, filing each of your hurts.

Your heart pangs with guilt at Kaz's words. You swallowed the liquid begrudgingly. It stung your throat momentarily before a cooling sensation washed over the tender flesh. You made fleeting eye contact with him, and you swear you felt your stomach twist. "I went to meet with a client near the harbor... I think the old witch wanted to be rid of me," You hissed through bloodied teeth. "I should've known it was trouble. I could hear the rustling of Kruge." You met Kaz's eye again, and as he took a sharp breath in to speak, you blurt out: "Please don't send me back."

He listened to your story in chilling silence. Heleen was a traitorous worm in Kaz’s eyes. Ice ran through his veins as you murmured your broken tale, freezing over some long-forgotten well of mercy. When you finished, he opened his mouth to speak but froze when you interrupted him with a shaky plea. "You won't be," He whispered. The ghost of the broken boy gazed out at you through Kaz's eyes, understanding the unspoken between you two. "I wouldn't send you back if my life depended on it." 

Kaz rose in one fluid motion, looming over you like the vengeful raven his reputation had painted. His cane slipped from beneath your chin, causing your head to drop slightly. He stalked over to the small sink across the room and filled a ceramic bowl with water. Gloved hands darted around, grabbing various rags and containers. He moved back to you slowly and silently, gingerly placing the items on the floor beside you. Then, he slipped off his coat and neatly laid it down on the railing of his bed frame. He knelt once more, quick hands soaking the rag.

The silence between the two of you was deafening. Kaz’s slow, shaking breaths would slice through it occasionally, putting your mind at ease. He wrung out the excess water from the cloth and, with a trembling hand, he pressed it to a wound on your forehead. His care for your well-being seemed to trump his fears about getting too close to you. You grunt quietly as he cleans your injuries, but he makes no attempt to be any gentler. 

He put the cloth back in the water and rinsed out the crimson substance that’d once coated it. You couldn’t help but notice his encased fingertips never broke the water’s surface in the bowl – A trick he must’ve learned all these years. His dark hair fell over his forehead as he angled his head down to clean off the rag. 

He drew a handkerchief from his vest pocket and lifted a small earthenware jar from the floor. In a swift motion, he unscrewed the top and set it on the ground before dipping the cloth into the contents – a soothing salve developed from hard-won experience to ease battered flesh. With a sharp breath, he leaned a bit closer, smearing the substance into your wound.

It stung … and stunk. Your nose scrunches as the scent burns your nostrils. “What is it with you and foul medicine?” You manage to grumble before he silences you with an icy glare through his eyelashes. 

“Would you rather be infected?” Replied Kaz, arching an eyebrow at you.

“No.” You stare back at him.

“Figured,” He whispered, the corner of his lip tugging into what most would consider a lesser frown, and to you, a smile. “You’re no use to me damaged.”

Kaz’s hands soon lowered as he finished coating your wounds in the substance. He leaned back immediately and scanned over your face once more. He took in a slow breath before he stood once more. “I will leave these with you to work on any other areas my eyes can’t touch,” He murmured. “I will leave you the room.”

Your eyes follow his form as he stands and runs a hand through his hair. His dark eyes flicker over you with a softer expression now—something underlying. “Very well,” You murmur.

As he turns to exit the room, he pauses and calls your name.

You turn to meet his gaze once more. “Yes?”

“The Crows will carry your name as they do mine,” He rasped. “No force in this world will send you back against your will. You have my word.”

You felt your stomach twist at his words. Your chest was swelling with warmth, or perhaps you were bleeding internally. Your wall was breaking. It was dangerous. 

“Thank you, Kaz.” His name rolled off your tongue so easily like honey dripping onto warm bread. You rarely used Kaz’s name – You always opted for ‘boss’ or ‘Brekker.’ At this moment, however, Kaz deserved to be Kaz.

Kaz’s upper lip twitched slightly as you spoke his name. He felt his breath catch in his throat, hearing the way it so easily slipped from your mouth. He tightened his hand around the silver crow handle of his cane. “Rest,” He murmured before he made his swift exit, leaving you alone in the warm lamplight of his bedroom.

[tethered-heartstrings]

Fanfiction Masterlist!

Total fics: 33

Total word count: 336k

Updated: October 3rd, 2024

(under the cut for length!)

newest fics have asterisks **

A Little Gold Goes a Long Way, 168k

Will Graham struggles with heroin addiction. His unending seek for peace sends him into Hannibal's arms. Can Will and Hannibal reach tranquility, or will their violent nature tear them to pieces?

Vilkatas, 18k (werewolf Hannibal)

Will finds another stray on the side of the road, but it quickly becomes more than simply adding him to the pack. The lines between man and beast and monster become blurred.

The Pulse That Sustains You, 18k (MCD, but trust me)

One of them dies, and the survivor has to cope.

What the Wind Carries, 4k

Hannibal has a nightmare about Mischa and he smokes to cope

First of Many, 2.2k

Hannibal and Will share their first kiss

**A Sacrifice, a Hunger, 6.5k

Hannibal loses Mischa, and he resorts to desperate measures to bring her back. (Hannibal x Fullmetal Alchemist) insp. by this post

Smut/NSFW:

Fever, 3k

Will is sick and begs Hannibal to take care of him

Bound, 2.7k

Will Graham is tied to a chair and Hannibal sates his hunger.

Breathe, 2.5k

Will gives Hannibal a very enthusiastic blowjob

Appetite, 3.8k

Will is needy and bratty and demands Hannibal stop cooking him dinner to sate him

To Be Seen, 5.8k

Will goes to Hannibal in distress and gets relief he didn't expect

In the Depths of the Other, 23k

After the fall, Will struggles with his feelings for Hannibal and a lifetime of telling him that a love like this could, should, never be.

Let Your Tongue Taste Salvation, 27k

Father Hannibal Lecter has his faith tested and torn when a troubled stranger walks into his church seeking reprieve.

Through My Eyes, 10k

Hannibal wants Will too see himself as Hannibal sees him, and the favor is returned.

The Blood on My Lips is Yours, 7.6k

Will and Hannibal get into a fight and fuck after

Revved Up, 4.8k

Hannibal watches Will fix the car and gets turned on

Overture, 7.1k

Hannibal takes Will to the opera and shenanigans ensue

Instinct, 5.3k

Hannibal gives Will an anatomy lesson and teaches him what he and his mouth were built for (fingers in mouth)

Smoking Ficlet Series (Complete!)

(based off this post)

My Exception, 1.6k

Will is the only person Hannibal lets smoke in the house

Third Store in a Storm, 1.6k

Hannibal preferentially smokes clove cigarettes for the symbolism, and Will readily indulges him

A Flame For Trembling Hands, 1.1k

Will loses time and finds himself at Hannibal's office. His nerves get the better of him and Hannibal lends a hand.

Surprise Inside, <1k

Hannibal gets mad when Will repeatedly leaves cigarettes in his pockets on laundry day until Will leaves Hannibal a little surprise

A Shared Flame, <1k

In the hustle of fixing up their new house in the quiet countryside, Will misplaces his lighter and has to rely on Hannibal to help him

By Candlelight, 1.1k

Will and Hannibal share a cigarette in the bath, admiring each other and cherishing the body beside them

Circle of Indulgences, <1k

Will and Hannibal share the classic cigarette after sex

Pearlescence, 1.1k

Hannibal gives Will a gift for his birthday

As Autumn Creeps, 1k

Will performs smoke tricks to distract the psychiatrist in Hannibal from prying into what's bothering him

Stunning Performance, <1k

Will relishes in watching Hannibal kill someone, a work of art in motion, while smoking a cigarette, and then rewards Hannibal by lighting his own cigarette for him

Nourish a Habit, <1k

Once lift after the fall settles down, Hannibal adopts a new hobby of growing and curing his own tobacco to sate his and Will's indulgences

Blowing Smoke, 1.6k

Will and Hannibal get stranded during a storm and decide to wrestle each other for the last cigarette

First Frolic of Spring, <1k

Will and Hannibal sit on the porch and smoke together as they watch the dogs enjoy running around in their yard for the first time since winter original HHB post

art a friend made of HHB <3

Practice and Patience, <1k

Hannibal teaches Will how to play the theremin

Guiding Light of Ember, 2k

Will has a nightmare about their dive from the cliff into the sea and smokes to cope while Hannibal soothes his fears and trembling hands

tips are greatly appreciated <3

[bravo4iscool]

torn apart chapter 8 (index)

(cato hadley x fem!(plus-size!)reader)

Your hand trembles when you and your father come to a hold in front of Cato. You felt the eyes of the whole Capitol on you. He extends his hand and you watch in a trance as your father places your hand in Cato’s.

Then he turns to you and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before leaving to get to his seat. Cato looks at you, a faint smile on his face. He had to. Your wedding was shown all over the Capitol. He had to act as if he was stupidly in love with you. 

But he wasn’t. The only girl he ever loved was dead. Killed by the Capitol. Killed by—

“Cato,” your quiet voice drags him out of his thoughts. You stand opposite of him, his hand clutching yours. There’s a smile on your face but everyone could see that it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Cato has never seen you smile genuinely, he now realizes. 

His eyes find yours and he gives your hand a slight squeeze of comfort. Then he guides you up the few stairs towards the government official that would marry you. 

He can’t help but see Clove in front of him. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but sometimes when he didn’t pay enough attention he thought she was still with him, beside him. But she wasn’t. 

The official smiles at you and Cato as he hands you both your vows. You didn’t write them. Your mother made sure to do that. Whatever it said on those cards, you've never read it but you needed to act as if you wrote those words yourself. You take a look at the written words, skimming over the sentences. Then you look up at Cato.

The official clears his throat, a big smile on his face. “ We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest relationships–the union between man and woman and this blessing we call marriage. As you both are joined together in this marriage, I ask you both to search your hearts for the wisdom of this covenant, which has from ancient times been expressed with those ideas that come from the heart.” You can hear a round of aww's and coos from the crowd. 

He looks at you first, then at Cato. “The promises you are about to make to each other are ones of irrevocable love, fidelity, cooperation, and understanding through life and all of life’s difficult challenges.” The grin on his face is starting to freak you out. “Marriage is a commitment to life—to the best that two people can find and bring out in each other. It offers opportunities for sharing and growth no other relationship can equal, a physical and emotional joining that is promised for a lifetime.” 

The official nods at you and Cato and you take a deep breath. It was time for your vows. 

Your voice is soft as you start speaking, “I love you with my whole heart and with a passion that can't be expressed in words, only in kisses, glances, and years of adventures by your side.” You take a deep breath. “I promise to be your honest, faithful, and loving wife for the rest of my days. I pledge to honor you, love you, and cherish you as my husband today and every day that's to come.” Your vision starts to blur as tears gather in your eyes. They weren’t happy tears though. “Today I say, "I do" but to me that means, "I will." I will take your hand and stand by your side in the good and the bad. I dedicate myself to your happiness, success, and smile.” You blink a few times before you force a smile. “I will love you forever.”

What a beautiful lie , Cato thinks to himself when you finish your vows. He can see your mother cry from the corner of his eye and he wants to huff. That woman certainly knew how to put on a show. Then he focuses his attention back to you. You look so beautiful in your dress, tears threatening to fall from your face. You didn’t deserve this.

He can faintly hear the official talking to him and he glances down at his vows. Then he clears his throat. “Today, I promise to be your navigator and protector in all of life's adventures. I promise to be your best friend and your husband.” Best friend… Maybe he could do that. That didn’t sound too hard. “I promise myself to you completely. Your love gives me hope. Your smile gives me joy. You make me a better man.” You've barely been together for four weeks. You have never seen him at his worst. He was a hopeless man. “When I am with you, everything else fades to the background. You flood my senses with joy.” He avoided you as best as he could. Whenever he was with you he saw Clove. You were the one that faded into the background. “You are my life, my greatest gift.” His greatest gift would've been Clove with him right now… “I'm so lucky to call you my loving wife.” Another beautiful lie… 

Your hands are sweaty as you place them in Cato’s, the official wrapping a white ribbon around your joined hands. He has a big smile on his face as he starts talking, “Your two lives are now joined in one unbroken circle. Wherever you go, may you always return to one another in your togetherness.” You’re sure you can hear your mother sob. “May you two find in each other the love for which all men and women long for. May you grow in understanding and compassion.” Your grip around Cato’s hands tightens. “Before I pronounce you husband and wife, I want you to take a few seconds to look into each other’s eyes. Think about the happiness you’re feeling…at this moment.” There was no happiness. Neither from you nor Cato. “Let those feelings sink deep into your hearts. I hope this moment and these feelings will stick with you all the days of your lives.” The look in Cato’s eyes is unreadable as always. But you knew he wasn’t happy, nor was he feeling–even a tiny bit–of love. 

You focus on the voice of the official again, “And with that, by the power vested in me by our admirable President Snow, I now pronounce you husband and wife! Cato, you may kiss your Bride! ” 

The wedding hall erupts in applause and cheers as Cato slowly pulls you closer, planting his lips on yours. It was a short kiss, nothing major but you felt something inside you shift. And you didn’t like that. 

(previous chapter | next chapter | index)

[yeyinde]

Hi! Hope you're doing well. I just have to say that you're my favorite writer and a huge inspiration to me. Everything you write, even the small little snippets, just make me so happy.

Are you by chance still doing the WIP snippets? Cause I go feral for Jacob Seed, and when I saw you had a WIP for him I can honestly say I almost fell out of my chair.

Hiya! This is so sweet!! Thank you so much 🖤😭

Jacob Seed is one of those characters who I'd very much like to chisel open. He's so intriguing. His ideologies are so unfounded but his conviction and his reasons for them are what I find really appealing.

This is quite a deviation from what I normally do—third person, technically no reader-insert (I kindaaaaa made an OC? Oops) a bit darker (dragging me back to my slasher roots), and pulls a lot from a pseudo-religious upbringing. It is really fun to write, in theory, but is one of those fics that is mentally taxing in the sense that every piece is part of a bigger picture. Despite that, though, I could probably talk about this fic more than any others because of all the weird influences it draws from—Siken (it was originally gonna be titled war of the foxes but I felt that was a little too on the nose so I changed it to wishbone which is even more on the nose), bible mythology (in particular, the warring interpretations of Abaddon, iyjyk but also??? Abaddon and Michael, though???? 👀), and um. Cult shenanigans.

Here is a little bit about it!

He's in her head now, a sickness polluting her grey matter until it's shaded the same colour as the burning auburn around his wicked mouth. The one that splits wide, and croons about her failures, her destiny, until the rasping slur of his words are skeined tight around her gyri. Festering like a cancer she can't clove. One that sounds more like a truism each time she hears it.

Jacob has his finger on the trigger of a loaded gun with the barrel pressed tight to her cerebellum. A tool, he said. One without a master. Until now. Until him.

She can't fight him. Can't get rid of him. 

She wonders if she ever even tried.

And for some Rook x Jacob (kinda sorta but in a weird and twisted way):

Jacob doesn't give an inch even with the barrel of her Whitetailer pointed at his heart. A beat, then, where the world around her seems to shiver at the smirk he sends her way, his own hand fixed, deadly and calm, on the butt of his garish rifle. Red. 

(Of course. Of course.)

He stands on his tower, a castle of rock in the middle of the Whitetail Mountains, surrounded by unfathomable wilderness, and the broken remnants of his wolf beacons, his fallen men. His Judges. 

They lay by her feet, discarded offerings to the man who vultured her sense of self, her agency, until the person she was before all of this was lost, collateral to a war she never agreed to. She feels it sometimes, the putrefying remains of idealism and hope clawing at her skull until the tissue shreds and bleeds. Feels it like a second degree burn, a scab she can't stop picking at, and then pushes it back into its sarcophagus. It's an effigial prison in which she's both a warden and cellmate. 

It rears, now, as her patent yellow boots sink into the ribcage of a man torn to shreds by her bullets, her fists, mourning the loss of who it once was—a person of empathy and compassion. Someone who would have recoiled at the sight of viscera staining her laces, bone crunching under the soles of her feet. 

But it's gone. All she feels is annoyance. Disgust. 

They rendered it out of her. All of them pulling and tugging until bits of herself ripped apart, left behind in their regions, in their hands. Faith holds her belief. John, her compassion. Joseph, her fear. And Jacob—

Well. 

She tries not to think about what she lost in his cages. The gaping hole where her humanity once sat is heavier now that it's empty. 

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. 

Everything has been culminating to this point. To this moment. She feels the weight of it, the truth, in her bones. Unlike John, unlike Faith, only one of them will walk away from this still breathing. Her fingers tense. A proxysm. 

She finds, as the sky fades back to an endless blue and the mournful call of a loon breaks through the coppice, that she isn't entirely sure she wants it to be her. 

"Everything, all of it, has been leading up to this moment," he calls down to her, answering the unspoken assertions that bounce around the bruised fibres of her head. Hunt. Kill. Sacrifice. She gets it. She hates that she does. Hates him, she thinks, even more for making her see, for turning her into his executioner so easily. "So, Deputy, what will you do?"

If it were Faith, there'd be something about the path. About choices. About submission and surrender. Giving up agency and self in the single-minded pursuit of devotion to the Father. John, maybe a taunt. A sotto voce about atonement and true self. Of life admit the torture. A baptism in pain. 

But Jacob is neither of them. 

"Are you gonna kill me, angel?" 

She thinks about it. Really does. Lets it grind down into her synapses as she imagines a world without him. A place in Hope County where they celebrate his death and burn his body on an altar, unwilling to let the cult take him back until he's charred bones and ashes. Sure, then, that he's gone. Forever. Always. No more. 

Jacob will burn. 

She thinks about it, and she shudders. 

It feels anticlimactic despite the effort he put into setting it all up. Moving beacons and men and cages and wolves. Tracking her down through the forest until she led them to the Wolf's Den, and put a bullet in the head of the only man who made her feel some sense of footing amid a crumbling world. A place that wasn't quite home but it was something. Purpose, maybe. 

It stands in sharp contrast to the dogfight between them. Jacob and his soldiers. A commander playing a game of war from the comfort of his sanctuary. They're gone, now, and she hates that she isn't, too. That no matter what she does, how open she leaves herself, he still lets her sneak up the side of his perch until she's crouched behind a log, until she can hear the weight of his footfalls as he searches for her across the blood smeared landscape. 

It's a fallacy. He knows where she is despite the engineered confusion in his tone. What was that? He asks. Come out and fight me, Deputy. You know I'll find you—

The red dot follows her, always just a few inches from where she's hiding. A farce. She hates it. Hates that he isn't really fighting her. A marksman, he said (hoorah), but the only bruises he gave her are in her mind. Mental scars. Stupid. She hates him. Despises him. 

(Hates herself even more.)

It feels like muscle memory when she peers over the ledge, her bloodied knuckles leaving smears of her fingerprints behind. He's there. Waiting. 

Killing Eli, killing phantoms. Killing men. Killing him. It all congeals in her marrow. Effortless. Easy. She's killed him so many times already that she's sure, now, she could close her eyes and find her mark. 

Over and over again, he turned to a nebula of dust when she jumped on his back, wrapping nimble fingers around his neck. Mocking words haunting her as he dissolved into the aether. The Father will protect me. You need me. Don't fight it. Just let go. You've served your purpose. Let's say you get out of this. What's next? You go back to running errands for a teenager and a housewife? You are nothin' without Eli. 

"Come out, come out wherever you are, honey," his crooning taunt makes her hackles raise. A part of her hindbrain prickles with unease. Jacob brings a certain terror out of those dormant depths—an atavistic fear coils around her jugular. "Let's finish this." 

She wants to end him. To kill and maim and bend and break until nothing is left but bones and tissue. She wants to ruin him. Wants him to ruin her. To end this conflict at the top of a precipice she never wanted to climb. 

She says nothing—not to him, to them—but scuffs her feet against the gravel for no reason other than to make him look. He whips around, hand steady on his rifle. 

"Finally done hiding, Deputy?" 

The red dot hasn't left her vicinity since she prowled after him, unleashing hell and gunfire on the men—his Chosen, his best—that tried to keep her away from him. Hiding, she thinks, and wonders if those words are a projection. 

The Whitetailer—the only anchor she's had since she found it laying behind in an abandoned cabin—hums under her fingers. Pulses with the blood rushing through her veins. It's always been heavy. An SA50 isn't easy to carry across a landscape she mostly ventured on foot (as the near constant ache between her shoulders can attest to), but it feels both heavier and lighter than before. Another contradiction of many since she walked out of the Den and into a world on fire. Since she slit his throat and watched him turn into cosmic dust. 

It's steady, though. Unwavering. There's a gash on her arm from one of his Chosen. A bullet in her thigh. The unhealed wounds—bliss bullets and arrows—twinge with pain when she tenses her muscles, breathes in deep. Her broken ribs scream. She feels like more like a throbbing contusion than she does an actual person, still caught in the tendrils of her conditioning where his voice echoes in her head, the last notes of a song that turned her world into ashes. Only youuu… he'd crooned.

Only you. 

Only ever you. 

She gets it now. 

Or, she wishes that were true. It isn't. It isn't because maybe she's known all along. Since the bunker. Since Pratt. One, two, three. One, two, three. And then he's got you. Since she blinked into cognisance surrounded by the fallen bodies of the militia who didn't survive the training, who had bullet wounds that matched the shots she took in Jacob's trial. 

Since she went back to the Grand View and walked through the rows of cages in the parking lot. 

She gets it. 

She knows what she has to do. 

Her grip doesn't falter when she aims up. Up. His stomach. His lungs. His heart. 

"You can't. You're done. You've served your purpose, and now it's time to accept your place, Deputy. Where you belong." 

She thinks of Tammy. Of Wheaty. There's nothing left for her. Not anymore. 

Nothing except—

She wonders if there's a flash of panic in his cerulean eyes. A brief flicker of fear. But all she sees is contempt. 

"If I die, you'll be lost forever—"

She pulls the trigger. 

[cushfuddled]

It's the culture now, I'm afraid. A lot of this behavior stems from a moral panic over fanfic's capacity for normalization—i.e., the paranoia that reading "bad" fiction will erode your ethics/common sense and drive you to do bad things. This new practice (where writers fill their notes with apologies and beg readers to heed the tags) makes a lot more sense when you look at it as a preemptive defense strategy.

...Or, maybe less a strategy than a shibboleth to signal one's moral piety.

In this paranoid culture, creators are taught to anticipate accusations of harm and normalization, a la "this fanfic harmed me and normalizes x y and z."

"I do not condone the acts portrayed in this story" and "please heed the tags for your own safety" are the cloves of garlic you hang in a doorway to keep out bad spirits. These phrases are meant to invoke a pardon from bad-faith readers on the basis that you mean no harm. It reminds me of the desperate "I do not own this series or the characters!" notes from the 00's, where the disclaimer provided no actual protection but created the security theater necessary to sustain creativity. It's sad to see us all so afraid of each other now, rather than copyright giants.

Getting this off my chest:

Back from a small fanfic hiatus, and I am absolutely flabbergasted by all of the fic authors now practically begging their readers to READ THE TAGS.

I’ve been seeing this warning written in summaries, in author’s notes, highlighted in all caps in the actual tags. I’ve read so many apologies written by authors in the comments in response to people chastising the author for writing what they wanted to write, for what they tagged correctly — for what essentially comes down to nothing more than having had other people actively ignore their tags or read despite them.

And there seems to be this bizarre, somehow largely accepted idea that it is the creators job and responsibility to beseech their readers to ‘use caution’ and to ‘stay safe’, to ‘be mindful of their health’…

I am beyond confused here.

Since when??? did exercising the most basic form of common sense and acknowledging one’s personal yeas and nays, likes and limitations, become some other random stranger’s burden rather than one’s own? And especially a random person who tagged their work correctly??? Does no one remember how to harness their own powers of discernment and self-regulation???

This little jaunt back onto ao3 has been unlike any that I’ve ever experienced before. What. Happened?????? Who is this new, apparently severely emotionally unstable and obstinately tags-reading resistant audience everyone has come to focus on?

It all feels so out of touch. The basic concept of ao3 is for the reader to seek out what they want, not what they don’t want. And to actually read. But there seems to have been an extremely strong shift away from reading. On ao3. A site built specifically for reading and writing. (And other fandom artistic pursuits, but not my focus, atm; though I’m sure whatever this is has crept steadily into all spaces there.)

Plummeting reading comprehension must be somewhat to blame; the popularity of fanfic amongst younger and wider audiences, as well. But… young people have always been there, as far as my own experiences go, and it was never like this. It’s as if too many readers don’t know how to make good or even practical decisions for themselves anymore, that they’ve lost the skill of choosing, and now believe that they must consume everything that passes before them; — that they have, for some reason, adopted the belief that any turmoil or dislike or discomfort felt within themselves is harm purposely being done to them by the author.

Idk. Idk, idk, idk. It’s just such a bummer to see how much nervousness and distress has entered the community. Authors notes and comments used to be hilarious fun, or a peek into someone else’s real-life world, used to be casual and full of personality, whereas nowadays, there seems to be an underlying hesitancy and distrust, a sort of growing divide between writers and readers, groups which, until recently, very much were not mutually exclusive.

--

Idiots have been around forever. The more you cater to them, the more entitled they get. It's best to shut that shit down fast and use no warnings that indicate a willingness to entertain stupid complaints.

[ltwilliammowett]

Talking gravestones

This special type of gravestone is only found in northern Germany and especially on the islands of Föhr, with 265 examples, and Amrum with 152 examples. They were given the name "speaking stones" or "narrative stones" due to the fact that they usually only have a picture in the head area and an inscription in High German underneath that tells of the family and professional life, as well as special events in the life and honorary offices of the deceased.

A Whaler tomb, Föhr (x)

These elaborate stones were made at the end of the 17th century, and in the 18th century in particular, agriculture on the rather infertile North Frisian Islands was unable to feed the growing population, so many of the male inhabitants hired themselves out on whaling ships.

These are two very special stones, left is the stone of Harck Olufs in Amrum. He was born on 19.7.1708 in Süddorf. He went to sea at the age of 12. In 1724 he was captured by pirates and sold as a slave to the Bey of Constantine in Algiers. He began as a footman, converted to Islam in the meantime and later even became commander-in-chief of the cavalry. In the uniform of an Ottoman general, he returned to Amrum in 1736 after being freed by his master a year earlier. In order to be able to marry his love Antje Lorenzen, he had himself confirmed. The relationship produced four girls and a boy. Harck Olufs died unexpectedly on 13.10.1754 at the age of 46. His wife and children returned from church and found him dead in his armchair. The right one is the the stone of Matthias Petersen who was born 1632 and died 1706. His stone is written in Latin and reports that he was very knowledgeable in sailing to Greenland, where he caught 373 whales with unbelievable success, so that from then on he was called "The Lucky One" with everyone's approval. A carved whale and Fortuna, the goddess of luck, can be seen. (x) (x)

Initially, the inhabitants took roughly worked erratic blocks of granite that were specific to the place and provided them with inscriptions. Whaling brought the men great prosperity and later sandstone was imported. In the 17th century, gravestones lying on the ground predominated. In addition, there were smaller red sandstone tiles, often with a small drilled hole and attached to a piece of wood or whale bone. Since the 18th century, upright stones, so-called stelae, were used, which have the typical elements of speaking stones.

On the right side a stone with an octant and in the middle one with a ship, Süderende Cemetery, Föhr (x)

The relief decoration of the tombs is in the Baroque and Rococo style. It is often fantastically opulent, the forms do not repeat themselves. They show angels, symbols of justice, happiness, the signs of faith, hope and love, proud ships and mills. For the seafarers, ships were mostly depicted. If the sailor died on a ship, his gravestone shows a ship under full sail. A ship without sails on the grave indicates that the sailor died on land. Other motifs could also be an anchor, an octant or a whale.

Whaler tombs, Nebel, Friedhof St. Clemens, Amrum (x)

A special iconographic tradition has been preserved in the floral motif: the husband and sons of the family are listed on the gravestone on the left in tulip-like flowers, the wife and daughters on the right in the form of four-flowered, star-shaped flowers. A bent flower indicates that the person in question was already deceased at the time the gravestone was made. The frequency of this symbolism testifies to a high infant mortality rate.

A flower tree gravestone, Föhr (x)

From the middle of the 19th century onwards, this type of gravestone began to lose importance, which was also due to the fact that whaling was slowly but surely coming to an end, and with it the lack of money.

A captains grave with an anchor, Föhr (x)

At the end of the 19th century, only very few speaking stones were made, and since the 20th century none at all.

@clove-pinks​

[hctirdle]

I know I said I had faith, but I lied. Some of the recipes you've been posting don't even bother to mention there's a difference between pepper variants commonly used in Central Europe vs the U.S. while some of them are just straight up ??? I'm sure they taste fine but they are not any variation of this particular dish that I'm aware of.

Here's a tried and true chicken paprikash recipe from someone who's had some good versions and also some horrible Hungarian school cafeteria and extended family event attempts over the decades. I've been making it like this for years and imo it's pretty good and, dare I say, "authentic".

Note to vegans/vegetarians: Chicken paprikash is just chicken prepared as a paprikash, ergo trying to make this without chicken is going to be a different dish altogether. The good news is that mushroom and green/yellow wax bean paprikash are actual existing dishes. Just make the paprikash base, adjust cooking time with your main ingredient in mind, and that's pretty much it. Garnish with chopped parsley.

Chicken paprikash (2 servings):

2 whole chicken legs (or 4 drumticks, or 4 chicken thighs) with skin and bones (yes, keeping the skin and bones does make a difference in taste and texture)

about 2 tablespoons of lard or sunflower oil or some other kind of unflavored oil (the bottom of your pan should be generously coated)

1 big brown onion

sweet (édesnemes or csemege) paprika (NOT smoked paprika, not chili powder)

salt

optional (but highly recommended):

1 garlic clove

1 sweet Hungarian wax pepper if you can find it (not to be confused with banana peppers; do not substitute with bell peppers, that's a whole different vibe)

1 tomato (canned is fine; you can also use a teaspoon of tomato paste, just make sure to add less salt later on if the paste is salty)

1/2 cup of sour cream

1/2 tablespoon of plain white flour (or cornstarch)

+ hot paprika if desired, you can add this at the end

+ spätzle or pasta to serve (something like penne or macaroni's perfectly fine; less traditionally you can also have it with rice or even just bread if you'd prefer)

prep:

dice pepper, onion, tomato (I really don't care tbh, but some people prefer to remove the skin of the tomato: cut a small "x" into the skin on top of the tomato, submerge in boiling hot water for about half a minute, fish it out and put it in a bowl of cold water or just run cold water over it in the sink and you should be able to peel it without much trouble)

mince garlic

if you bought whole chicken legs, cut them into thighs and drumsticks

Choose a pot that will comfortably hold your chicken pieces side by side, start heating it on medium. Give it a minute and add lard/oil. Add diced pepper if using. Sauté for a couple minutes until it's starting to get a bit of color and fragrance, then add diced onion and minced garlic with a pinch of salt. Keep stirring. You don't want to char anything, but the onions should have a nice golden color and lose most of their water content before you move on.

Transfer the pot over to a cold burner for the next step. Add 1 tablespoon of paprika and stir. We're doing it this way because paprika releases its oils best in hot oil, but it also has a nasty tendency to burn and ruin the whole dish. Add half a cup of water and the diced tomato if using. Add chicken pieces and coat them in the sauce. Salt lightly. Add just enough water so your chicken pieces are about halfway submerged.

Cover the pot and let simmer on low heat for 1 hour. Do not stir. If you're concerned about burning, gently shake the pot from side to side once in a while. We don't want the chicken pieces to fall apart. (What happens if they do? Tbh absolutely nothing, it just looks messy.) Add small amounts of water if/when necessary to keep the water at the og level.

At the hour mark, the chicken should be done. (I'll confess here that I usually just leave it unattended for the whole hour as I work on other stuff. Once you get the hang of it, this isn't a fussy dish you need to keep a close eye on.) If you want to get fancy, you can carefully move the chicken pieces to a plate and set aside. Mix the flour (or cornstarch) with the sour cream in a bowl. Ladle a bit of liquid from the pot into the sour cream mixture and mix again. Repeat until you have a nice, runny sour cream mixture with a smooth texture. Mix sour cream into the contents of your pot and cook on low for about 2 minutes. Don't let it come to a boil. Taste and add more salt if necessary. Put the chicken pieces back into the pot and you're done.

[castletown-cafe]

Castletown Café Episode 3: Spaghetti Code

Toby Fox being Toby Fox, it’s not surprising that he would take a programming term for messy source code and turn it into a consumable item. Normally, the in-game spaghetti code is said to be made of macarons and ribbons, and when fed to your party members, they talk about wearing it. It’s likely this item is just as unruly a code as the actual programming term itself, but we’ve made it more orderly for a proper meal, making this Tasque Manager approved!

A more faithful re-creation made with macarons and ribbon candy is a different recipe for another day. Today, this Spaghetti Code is what you’d expect it to be - real spaghetti, a hand-made spaghetti sauce, plant-based meatballs, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and fresh parsley to top it off with. That’s right, the source of this delicious code is in a sauce programmed entirely by hand! This sauce will be the main spotlight of today’s recipe, alongside a recipe for meatballs that I used to do back when I still ate meat, which can also be made with plant-based protein. Lastly comes the assembly of this whole dish. The result is one hearty Spaghetti Code that would be worthy of serving in our Café!

SPAGHETTI SAUCE CODE:

(Recipe inspired by Rachel Cook’s recipe for spaghetti sauce, but I built off of it and put my own spin on it. You, too, can do the same, adjusting it to your own tastes).

8 Roma tomatoes

3-5 large garlic cloves

1 small yellow onion

1/2 large red pepper OR 1 whole small red pepper

One 14.5 oz can crushed or diced tomatoes with juice

One 14.5 oz can tomato sauce

2 tablespoons tomato paste

2 tablespoons cream cheese

1/2 cup vegetable broth

1 tablespoon light brown sugar

1/4 tsp salt

1-2 bay leaves

1 or 2 tsp ground thyme

1 tblsp dried oregano

1 tblsp dried basil

1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped

Extra salt & pepper to taste

It might be a good idea to get all your spices measured and put together in a tiny bowl. This can consist of your salt, thyme, oregano, basil, and bay leaves. You can also include your brown sugar here. Your fresh parsley can and should also be chopped at this point and set aside. Having all your spices pre-measured just makes it easier when you add them later to your sauce.

Wash and dry all your Roma tomatoes. Bring a pot or large, deep saucepan halfway filled with water to boil on high heat. Carefully carve an X through the skin on the bottom of each tomato (but do not cut too deep into the fruit). Once your water is boiling, place your tomatoes into the pot for about 30 seconds or until the skin on the tomatoes have loosened. With a heat-proof slotted spoon, take out your tomatoes and place them into a bowl. Let the water in your pot cool a little before pouring it out - you’ll need your pot/saucepan again later.

Now, just peel your tomatoes. The skin should slide off easily now that they’ve been blanched. Then, you can chop them up or stick ‘em in a blender or food processor and let that do the chopping for you (Pulse mode and Chop is the preferred setting if using this method).

Wash and dry remaining produce, mince up your onion, pepper and garlic (I recommend using a garlic crusher/presser for the garlic).

Heat up a drizzle of olive oil in your pot or saucepan over medium heat and cook your onion and garlic for 30 seconds or a minute until fragrant before adding your pepper. Let cook, stirring occasionally, until onion and pepper are tender and onion is caramelized.

Add and stir in the tomato paste and cream cheese. Make sure this cream cheese and tomato paste combination coats your veggies before proceeding to step 7.

Add in chopped Roma tomatoes, canned tomatoes with juice, tomato sauce, and vegetable broth. Stir in brown sugar, salt, bay leaves, oregano, basil, chopped parsley leaves, and thyme. If half a teaspoon of salt isn’t enough for you, you can sprinkle in a little extra, also, sprinkle in some ground pepper to taste. Bring to a simmer for as long as you need (about one hour minimum).

You’ve had your sauce simmering for about an hour or longer, but wait! We’re not done yet! Remove the bay leaves and blend that all up in a blender until smooth. The puree setting is just right for the job here.

Now just let your sauce cool and stick it in the refrigerator overnight, so the flavors meld together. The sauce should taste better the next day when it’s ready for spaghetti!

A sauce in progress.

Now, for the meatballs, I just buy pre-made plant-based meatballs that are pre-seasoned and delicious, and I cook them according to the package directions. But if you’d rather have meatballs made from real meat, or would rather make your own plant-based meatballs, here’s a recipe I used to use. We rarely made our own, but I enjoyed the extra work. Keep in mind that using real meat isn’t doing the environment any favors.

Also, this goes without saying, but wash your hands thoroughly and frequently if you are working with raw meat. Wash hands immediately after touching raw meat or wear food-safe gloves and dispose of them before handling anything else, and clean and sanitize your work station wherever you’ve been working with raw meat.

MEATSBALLS.JPEG

(If you’d rather make these plant-based, substitute both ground beef and Italian sausage for 1 whole lb ground plant-based protein).

1/2 lb ground beef

1/2 lb ground Italian sausage

1 minced or crushed clove garlic

1 egg, beaten

2 tablespoons chopped parsley

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

1 cup Italian breadcrumbs or panko

3/4 cup lukewarm water

Salt & pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (180 degrees C)

Finely mince or press/crush your garlic

Mix raw beef and sausage together in a bowl (or ground plant-based protein) and add egg, cheese, parsley, salt, and pepper.

Mix in bread crumbs and slowly add water, mixing as you go.

Heat a drizzle of olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat, and brown meatballs. Remove meatballs once the outside is browned. We will finish cooking the meatballs in the oven.

Place your browned meatballs in a casserole dish and finish cooking the meatballs in the oven for another 8 to 10 minutes, or until meatballs are cooked all the way through.

Clean and sanitize your work surfaces after working with raw meat.

Whether you’ve made your own, or using pre-made meatballs, whether they’re made of real meat or plants, your next steps are the easiest: cook your pasta and heat up your sauce, which you can stick your meatballs in after they’re done.

Fill up a pot of water, add salt if you want, bring it to a rolling boil on high heat, place your spaghetti noodles in, reduce heat to medium-high, and let cook until your noodles are tender. Meanwhile, heat up your spaghetti sauce over medium heat, and if your meatballs are ready, plop ‘em into the sauce and cover it up with a lid because your sauce WILL bubble!

Grate some fresh Parmesan cheese, chop up fresh parsley, and just wait for your spaghetti to be fully cooked and your sauce to be fully warmed. Drain your spaghetti, place some noodles on a plate, and top with sauce, meatballs, cheese, and parsley. Enjoy!

[abyss-of-mine]

Don't Piss Off The Nightmare Demon

Warning: bound, teasing, edging, oral (she's receiving), orgasm denial, fingering, unprotected aggressive sex

Clove smirked down at Faith bound to the bed, gently dragging his hand down her naked body. She bit her lip as he looked at her form, letting his moist finger pushed into her entrance and moved gently. She sighed at the feeling of this, but he pushed it out and traced her waist.

He leaned down to kiss her body and nibble on the soft skin, slowly moving along her curls, ensuring his lips touches every inch of her. A fire burn in her chest, craving him more and more with every press of his lips on her body: her stomach, her arms, her legs, her chest, her waist, her hips, everything had to be touched by him.

He licked her neck and heard her sigh in desire. His hand cupped her breast to rub the nipple and pinch it. He bit her jaw, creeping his fingers along her thigh, taking in her lust for him. It was amusing.

His face was in front of hers, lips inching away from the other, itching to meet. "Clove," she whispered.

He smirked and whispered in her ear, telling her things he can do to her, making her tremble as he drags out every words he spoke. His hands caressed her, moving down her dorm to her entrance, playing with her folds and teasing her inside. She was wet, ready for him insert himself in and make love to her until they're both spent. However, that has to wait for awhile.

His finger rubbed her inside, watching her face twist in frustration, only gasping when his finger slid in. He kept this up, seeing her eyes burning into him when his finger continued to repeatedly enter and exit her in a non satisfying way.

He chuckled when she cursed him out under her breath. He thought to give her something for her troubles and leaned down to between her legs to start kneading her entrance in his mouth. She gasped loudly and blushed at him eating her, picking up her thighs to dig his tongue in.

She gripped her restraints and swallowed her moans, feeling his tongue move with such determination and want. Her body bended from him picking her lower half up and had her fully on his shoulders, seeming to know what exactly she needed. She leaned her head back to moan, calling out to him and curling up at the close release of her satisfaction.

But it didn't come. He pulled his tongue out and dropped her back on the bed, wiping his mouth with a evil smirk. She bit her lip hard at realizing he wasn't going to give her orgasm. He kissed her chest and kneaded her breast in his mouth, then licking up her frame to her neck. He massaged the area, hearing small sounds of her liking it.

"You're cruel." He silence her by kissing her.

Their lips smacked and devoured each other. His hand squeezed her chest and rubbed circles on her nipples. Her body slowly calmed down, letting him continue massaging her neck and tempt her with his words. He eventually leaned back and glanced down at her entrance, still wet from earlier, and rubbed his middle finger along her folds.

She pressed her lips together and watched, his finger touching her and making the wetness squirt before pushing it to the knuckle. She cringed and turned her head away. He slowly rocked his middle finger and stared up at her face to watch it twist from pleasure coming back.

She kept her lips seal to prevent moans spilling out. He darkly chuckled and picked up the pace, watching her struggle to not call his name. Her body cringed and refused to look at him, feeling his finger getting faster and pushing roughly into her. Her opening dripped from his movement as he decided to add his ring finger and pushed the two fingers with such force that she moaned out loudly.

He reached a hand out to keep her mouth open, listening to every sound she made. She surrendered to his hand and heatedly moaned and spilled out with no shame. Her back arched, ready to let go just for his hand leave her opening empty. She cursed at him and growled at his cruel games as he licked his fingers clean.

"If you want orgasm, tell me why I should give you one." He toyed with her.

She opened her mouth to protest how stupid his pettiness was, but he grabbed her head and force her into a invasive kiss. His tongue claimed her mouth and choked her, making her unable to think and fight against him. She felt like she was in a daze when he eventually pulled away to allow her to breathe. He chuckled darkly again, lying his body on hers and biting her neck as she quietly moaned.

She calmed down once more and kissed him as his hands traced her form and down to her legs, then left her lips bare to lift her legs and stick her calves to the restraints. She tried to move her legs, but they too were chained to the bed. Her lower half was on full display to him.

He looked at it with a evil glimmer in his eyes, toying with it and leaning down to slowly lick it. She shuttered by the feeling of him. "How badly do you want me?"

She paused at his words, believing this was another game of his, but still answered. "Badly."

"How much?"

She thought on her next words carefully. "I want you to fuck me until I can't see straight." He smirked and lowly laughed at the comment.

He unzipped and removed his clothes, his member hard and stiff as he grabbed her hips and shoved himself in. His hips were cruel with rough and heavy thrusts, pushing himself fully into her. Her words got stuck in her throat and leaned her head from the overwhelmed aggression. She peeked through her eyelids to watch him pound her like a feral animal. She loudly responded, her senses leaving her at the pleasure overtaking her.

He panted and growled at his inhuman speed, lifting her hips on his lap as he destroyed her. He moaned her name and slammed against her g-spot, hearing her scream out. He emptied himself into her and kept going, watching her roll her head back and call out his name like she was begging.

He tilted his head to moan into the air, hammering himself inside again and again, dripping and spilling out onto the bed. He growled when he looked at her body, how it bended and was positioned, her arms and calves chained to the bed while she pled to him how overwhelming he was.

He called her name and shot his seed into her. He reached and devoured her mouth in his, taking her thoughts to only think of him. She choked on his tongue and weakly fought back to create an entangled mess in their mouths. He reached his hand up to release her limbs and let them relax from the restricting chains.

They rolled around the bed, clearly lost in their vicious make out session. He sat her up and pound her on his lap, lifting her up and slamming her down hard. Her back pressed the wall and grabbed his head and shoulder while she was being nailed. He licked her chest and moaned out how intoxicating she is.

They kept going until they hit their third orgasm and collapsed on the bed. Her body laid on top of him, rubbing circles on his chest and kissing his jaw, listening to sweet sighs from him.

[zl0mudry]

Matthew Maule. A gentleman, scholar, a man of science and logic...

Well, that's who he is today or maybe he's Verden Fell, Mr. Thorn or Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac? Or Dr. Emil Corday? Hell, he might even be Dr. Alexander Sweet or Crispian Grimes! As long as he isn't D. D. Denham all should be fine.

Who he is exactly is a matter of no small amount of conjecture, but a few things are certain; he is never seen without one of his faithful feline companions, someone who claims to be him's current location is in Leavenworth, Washington, and his sense of fashion, though sharp, is a bit out of date.

Please don't use OOC information as IC information. Half the fun is the other characters not knowing. He'll tell you what he tells you.

FULL NAME: Wladislaus III Dragwlya of Wallachia

NICKNAME: The Impaler, Kaziklu Bey, Vlad Tepes

GENDER: ?

HEIGHT: 5'4

AGE: 590

ZODIAC: Capricorn

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: Romanian, German (With a spot of Bavarian), French, Italian, Latin, Hungarian, Arabic, Turkish, English.

HAIR COLOR: Iron Black

EYE COLOR: Black, no pupil

BODY TYPE: Think powerlifter

ACCENT: Transatlantic accent when speaking to strangers or acquaintances. Heavy Romanian accent when speaking to close friends or family.

VOICE: Extremely deep, hitting G1

DOMINANT HAND: Left

POSTURE: Straight, head held high, chin up, shoulders back. Noble and balanced

TATTOOS: (Unsure yet)

BIRTHMARKS: None

MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S): Signature facial hair, curled mustache. Facial scars, X on his forehead and round bullet wound from a small caliber handgun under his left eye. Hairy. Claws. Unusual teeth. THICK eyebrows.

PLACE OF BIRTH: Sighișoara, Mureș County, Romania

HOMETOWN: ?

BIRTH WEIGHT: 4 pounds

BIRTH HEIGHT. 9 inches

FIRST WORDS: Scared

SIBLINGS: Mircea II of Wallachia, Radu III the Fair, Vlad IV the Monk, Alexandria of Wallachia

PARENTS: Vlad II Dracul, Doamna Eupraxia of Moldavia

PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT: Unfortunate

OCCUPATION: International Man of One Person Activities

CURRENT RESIDENCE: His remote cabin in the mountains of Washington

CLOSE FRIENDS: Bach, Dori, Wing

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: I don't think he knows even

FINANCIAL STATUS: More than $1

DRIVER’S LICENSE: Afraid of cars

CRIMINAL RECORD: War Criminal

VICES: He is a broody chicken of a man and will adopt anything packbondable, smoking clove cigarettes, good liquor/spirits, luxury food, collecting new hobbies.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic

PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE: Switch, Dom leaning

PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE: Switch, Dom leaning

LIBIDO: Insatiable once close

TURN ONS: Sense of humor, being wanted, submissiveness, trying to turn him on

TURN OFFS: Lying, disloyalty, cheating, abuse

LOVE LANGUAGE: All of them? Mostly acts of service

RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES: Screaming goat of a man, but a doting one

Mr. Bad Guy - Freddie Mercury

I love you, Honey Bear - Father John Misty

HOBBIES TO PASS TIME: Master of The One Person Activity

MENTAL ILLNESSES: I think they are apparent and I'm not comfortable listing them all flat out. I'll name Misophonia, PTSD, and Depression

PHYSICAL ILLNESSES: Extreme far-sightedness, prone to dizziness and fainting, severe anemia, wheezing and coughing fits

LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED: A little of both

FEARS: Cars, umbrellas, sudden loud noises, mirrors, being stared at, elevators, escalators

SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL: Sometimes you feel like a nut sometimes you don't. (It comes and goes, situation dependent)

VULNERABILITIES: His temper, unable to let go, doesn't know himself, bright lights, loud noises, paranoid, can't use cars, too polite

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVII (A Tale’s End)

I would have walked away from this story (forever) a very long time ago if it weren’t for the constant and unwavering support of @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed. They have held my hand through this – through my tantrums, through my protestations that I didn’t know what I was doing, and through the times I begrudgingly admitted that I actually like the end of product. This story is dedicated to them and to their friendship. This has been a ride, and writing it has been an endurance contest. My gratitude to everyone who has read this, liked it, reblogged it, favorited it, or sent me a message. This is the end. I hope you enjoy. xx.

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables | Part XVIII: Alarms | Part XIX: Visitor | Part XX: Cuffed | Part XXI: A Woman’s Speech | Part XXII: The Harlot Queen | Part XXIII: Rarer | Part XXIV: Balmoral & London | Part XXV: The Ring | Part XXVI: Baile na Coille

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVII: A Tale’s End

Claire’s limbs were leaden, and yet she rose from the bed.

Fraser’s sleepy noises (ones she teased sounded Scottish) were missing, and his long, even breaths had risen from bed with him.

In the absence of his noises, it was quiet, too quiet.

The scent of him (sage and clove) was like a mislaid memory (an empty space where it had been tucked against her nape), and the duvet was cool when she flopped one arm over into the bedding.

She already knew that Jamie was gone.

She rose and slipped into her dressing gown before making her way down the hall. Her feed had carried her down the halls on many nights, her arms clutching their colicky bairn and tracing a path that she had hoped (usually in vain) would soothe her.

She did not bother to flick on a single light switch.

In London, the underbelly of their home was always in motion. The clamor of it all made her mind whir, her eyes rebel in the night to focus on the ceiling, and her fingers clutch to insomnia.

At Balmoral, the quiet was like another layer of skin, and the stillness went to the center of her bones.

Scotland.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their one-week honeymoon before setting off on a tour of the Commonwealth’s various holdings.

It had been in Fraser’s cabin that they spent their one-week honeymoon, her body feeling like the crescendo of a symphony under his hands and lips. Idly tracing the conch-shaped curve of his bared hip bone, Claire wondered aloud whether the walls of the cabin would keep their secrets. Turning his new wife gently onto her back (“my Queen” – a breathless, almost-whimper on his lips) and rising over her, Fraser had touched her belly and kissed the space between the clotheslines of her clavicles. Breathlessly, he asked her to commit that when they spoke, it would only be truth.

There was room for secrets, but no lies.

She had agreed, just as breathlessly, and he held her hand as he kissed down her body, glancing up her sternum before closing his mouth over her.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their first months as a family of three.

On the same bed from which she had just risen, she had given birth to an heir.

It had been the last thing on her mind.

They had been married for six months.

With Jamie’s hand crushed in hers, and his sister mopping sweat from her forehead (a bond she quietly conceded once reminded her of her own sister), their baby came into the world.

With a final push, an immense feeling of relief flooded her. She felt light, like her body was no longer being twisted in opposite directions by a molten-hot vice, as though the weight of an entire kingdom was not bearing down on her pelvis.

The relief was short lived.

Claire’s arms quaked under the effort of pulling herself fully upright. She breathed for a moment, trying to keep her inhalations even.

The part of her that was relieved was rapidly giving way to a gnawing panic.

Brows furrowing as the umbilical cord was clipped, her eyes darted from Jamie to the doctor who had attended the birth and back again.

“One final push,” the midwife who had been there throughout her labor said, stepping in as the doctor turned away.

“Ye did it,” her husband breathed, only tearing his eyes from his wife’s face to look at the silent bundle in the midwife’s hands.

“No…” Claire breathed, the weight that had been bearing down on her lower half suddenly in her chest, expanding and contracting, wheedling its way into the space between her bones and her organs. “No.”

“A nighean–” Jamie started, but she shook her head.

“Tell me it’s okay. That the baby...”

He said nothing, his hand closing over the cap of her shoulder as he craned his neck.

His breaths were short, dry, shallow.

Her voice was imploring as she snapped, “Jamie. I can’t… if the baby is… tell me that-”

And then the wailing came.

A desperate, fevered, cold yowl that sounded almost inhuman. It would not stop, and she prayed that it never would as long as it meant that their baby (mysterious, puckered, purple, blood-covered) would suck in breath after life-sustaining breath.

“The bairn…” Jamie started, immediately fading away as his voice cut.

“She’s just fine, mam,” Jenny laughed, gently moving a soft cloth over the birth-slicked baby. Claire had nodded, still feeling the nagging tug of uncertainty in her belly until she saw the bundle move from Jenny’s arms to Jamie’s.

She lowered herself back to the pillows stacked behind her back, sighing and thanking God.

Julianna Alexandra Elizabeth Faith, the heir apparent and tiniest member of the royal House of Beauchamp, was perfect – ten fingers, ten toes, button nose, cap of jet-black hair, earlobes with skin as soft as velvet, and the smallest bow of a mouth.

She barely heard the words that followed.

Blood.

The commands.

Back up.

The pleas.

She has to be okay. Ye dinna ken, she’s everything.

Their perfect daughter had torn her spectacularly, and just twenty minutes after giving birth in their bedroom, Claire was transported to the hospital, where she went into surgery for hours and stayed for six nights.

It was behind her now, left in some small hospital retrofit to make way for a postpartum queen. What remained was Balmoral – the place where she could ensconce herself in the history of her lineage as she wrote the history of her own family.

She could live here in Scotland.

As a wife.

As a mother.

As a woman, above all else.

Try as she did, she never felt that way in London.

The easiness of this place. The way that it felt like home, even though her accent was a reminder that it had not always been her home.

On this night, a little over six months after the birth of Julianna, she heard Jamie before she saw him.

His voice was low, a mix of Gaelic and English. All of his words blurred together.

As carefully as possible, she toed the door open another inch and leaned against the doorframe.

“She’s a braw one, yer mam.” He was shirtless, but shrouded in a plaid on the chaise at the center of the sitting room just outside their suite. Flames popped and crackled in the hearth, small bursts of sparks spiraling up and up as the fattest log broke in two. “Ye should’ve seen her, laborin’ wi’ ye. She’s a fearsome thing, ye ken. Ye didna make it easy on her, refusin’ to come out… she was so set on meetin’ ye.”

Claire mopped away the stinging in her eyes with the hem of her robe.

“I didna ken if I could love something as much as I love ye, mo chridhe, but seein’ ye, it’s as if a piece of my own heart, my brain, and my wame lives outside me. I felt it the moment yer mam told me that ye were in her belly. Above all, I kent I must protect ye both, and I will. Until the day I no longer draw breath.”

Claire’s own breath was coming ragged now, listening to him. She had not expected to feel so different in the aftermath of the easy pregnancy and long labor.

To feel as though her emotions were like a balloon on the end of a long string, floating high above her head at all times. As though the slightest breeze could shift them, change her entire existence.

“And someday, when ye’re no’ a bairn, we’ll share wi’ ye how ye surprised us, a leannan.”

Julianna let out the quietest coo that made Claire’s thighs and fingertips tremble. She wanted to take her baby in her arms, to have her close, to take comfort from the fact that her soft limbs were still warm, that her heavy head was held firmly in place by an increasingly-strong neck.

Out of hand, the doctor had dismissed the ebbs and flows of these moods as baby blues. Jamie, in turn, dismissed the doctor with no slight amount of outrage, demanding that someone with “the sense the good lord gave a turnip” help his wife.

That the fog was not imagined. The sense of isolation she felt, even when surrounded by people, was not a matter of someone just being around for her more. The feeling of disconnection from their baby was not a function of being Queen.

Sticking a finger into the doctor’s paunch, Jamie had hissed that the Queen (“my fucking wife”) would not be so dismissed, that if he refused to help, they would find someone who could, who would.

Jamie was a hands-on father, and she was grateful for it. Even with all of the help her status (their shared status) could bring, he made himself present. He rose with her in the night, brought her warm compresses when she shed tears over engorged breasts and cracking nipples. He changed diapers with little more protest than a wrinkled nose at the spectacular streaks of shit that would somehow paint themselves up their daughter’s spine. And he did what he could in the darker days just to be near, even if it meant holding Claire’s hand in the dark and wiping away her seemingly sourceless tears.

But the fog had started to lift, the haze in Claire’s eyes becoming less impenetrable.

Just weeks earlier, she said she was ready to ride again.

And they did.

They picnicked at night, after dark when the baby nurse had assured them she was quite alright.

He plucked roses from the garden to tuck behind her ears.

They stole kisses with her back gently pressed against trees or with his on a picnic blanket, her rounded hips cupped by his hands as she tentatively reintroduced the friction of her body to his.

And one evening a few nights later, when he had looked away for only a minute before turning back, his wife was slipping free of her blouse, her curls wild and her smile wide as she unclasped her bra.

That night, with the sounds of summer as the backdrop and the late-night-Scottish-dusk just descending into dark, they made love in the stables, their bodies joining for the first time in months. He took his time, asked her again and again if she was sure, if she was ready. When she winced, he stopped. She shook her head, then nodded with a sigh as he began to move inside of her with an almost-exquisite tenderness. They were cautious with each other, circumspect, as though either might be broken by a hurried touch or indelicate mouths. Utterly besotted by one another’s bodies and the way intimacy felt familiar, comfortable, and lived in.

At the scene in front of her, just days after their reconnection, Claire swallowed hard, silently begging her eyes to dry out. She had shed enough tears in the last six months to last a lifetime.

“Ye wanted to be in our wedding, so ye nested yerself early in yer mam’s belly, ye fierce wee thing. We’ll show ye the pictures. The day I married yer mam is the happiest day of my life... second only to the day that I met her…” At that, Julianna let out the lowest little whimper of a cry, and Jamie tut-tutted for a moment, then continued, “Her fat arse was leanin’ over the gate in the stable, and I couldna stop smiling.”

“Hey,” Claire breathed in feigned exasperation, stepping fully into the room. “My arse was not that fat, and I quite enjoyed our wedding day. Also, I’ll thank you not to teach the heir to the throne such things.”

“I kent ye were there,” Jamie said as he looked over, humming. “I have a hunter’s senses for yer presence, a nighean.”

Claire pursed her lips, rolling her eyes as she strode the rest of the way across the sitting room. Carefully, she took the bundle from his arms. “I think this wee girl’s nighttime garbling, and our resultant insomnia, are enough to dull even the most astute tracker’s senses.”

Jamie lifted the edge of his plaid, allowing Claire to slip in beneath its warm folds. She centered herself between his legs, leaning against his bare chest as she carefully slipped one bare breast through the neckline of her robe. Jamie’s hand rested loosely on her waist, his fingers flexing for just a moment as Julianna’s lips parted then closed around Claire’s nipple. Claire stiffened for a moment, then relaxed backwards into his chest. Julianna left one soft palm to rest just above Claire’s heart.

Closing her eyes, one hand cupped behind Julianna’s head and one on the baby’s soft bum, Claire whispered, “Tell me about the wedding. What would you tell her?”

“Our wedding?”

Claire opened her eyes and craned her head back just enough that he could see her roll her eyes. “Whose wedding do you think I want to hear about?”

“Jenny’s maybe?” he posited, eyes crinkling at the corners as her shoulders bounced with hardly-contained laughter.

The baby’s mouth slipped free and an impressive stream of milk sprayed her cheeks. Jamie and Claire’s laughter was cut short by the soft, threatened grumble of their bairn. It was a precursor to a cry from the suddenly quite-crabby Julianna. With the baby gently mopped up, and returned to her middle-of-the-night suckling, Jamie began to recount the wedding day. By then, Julianna had one eye half-closed, the other lazily roving around in an utterly useless attempt to focus on something as she fed.

“I didna expect ye to look the way ye did. I kent ye’d be beautiful, of course, but I thought somehow ye’d be someone else’s bride, ye ken? That ye’d be dolled up for a ceremony. A queen prepared for a royal wedding – no’ for our wedding – but there ye were. Ye were as bonnie as I’d ever seen ye… as bonnie as I thought I’d ever see ye. At least until I saw ye like this… wi’ our bairn at yer breast, and Christ, I dinna ken what I did to have such a rare woman love me.”

She felt warmth flood her cheeks, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Bloody Scot. “You looked pretty handsome yourself in that uniform that I knew you did not want to wear.”

A long hum came from him, the vibration beginning low in his chest and making her own body vibrate.

The wedding was not the ordinary royal nuptials in ways that went even further than the fact that she was carrying the heir to the throne.

The dress she wore was light, modern, and cut just right to conceal their secret. Together, they had carefully wrapped it in tissue and tucked it away at his cabin. So it wouldn’t end up in some stuffy museum with a bland placard, she explained as she rose on tiptoes to push it to the back of a closet.

They married in candlelight, with a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the gardens at Balmoral in her hand.

She wore Jamie’s ring, and for some reason she was not at all surprised when her hand did not tremble as he slid it over her knuckle and let his fingers linger on the band for a moment. Her own voice was low as she slipped a band of gold down his finger, whispering the words back to him that he had said to her.

I give you this ring, James Fraser, as a sign of our marriage and mutual trust, our love and our promise to care for one another over all others.

The papers could scoff all they wanted, muse over what a slap in the face it was to the Commonwealth she headed. To give away power, a piece of her divine right.

Nevertheless, she gave herself to him, just as he gave himself to her. She had done it long before that moment, long before the promise concluded.

This day. All of the days we have remaining.

Julianna grunted, released, and whimpered the start of a gut-wrenching, milky cry before latching on again with only the slightest encouragement. This time, both of her eyes closed and her hand fell to a tiny, balled fist above her brows.

“She has a tooth coming in,” Jamie whispered, his hand slipping up Claire’s arm and coming to rest on her shoulder.

“Trust me,” Claire murmured. “I can feel the bloody thing.”

Claire allowed her eyes to close, her attention somehow equally split between her husband’s even breathing and the gentle suckling at her breast. She felt Jamie tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her temple.

“Ye’re a braw queen, mo nighean donn, but ye’re more than that. Sae much more.”

She wet her lips and turned her head, slowly shifting the now-sleeping bundle in her arms. “Is this what you thought it would be, Fraser?” There was no tentativeness in her voice – it was as though she already knew the answer, but just wanted to hear him say it. “Your life here... with me?”

Humming, his hand skimmed down her upper arm, cupped her elbow, and then found its way to her fingers. His palm covered her hand, and his fingers brushed the narrow expanse of their baby’s lower back.

“Ye helped me come back to life, Sassenach. All that time after the war, I was dead. I didn’t ken it then, but I loved ye then. Before I met ye.”

Running a finger along Julianna’s cheek and tucking her breast back into her robe, Claire whispered, “I loved you both before I met you. You brought me to life, Fraser. I always will love you.”

Fraser shifted, his stubbled cheek against hers as he wound an arm around his queen’s waist and drew her closer.

“So long as my body lives, and yours—we are one flesh,” he whispered. The magnolias at Balmoral smelled like zested citrus and honey. The scent was in the air along with the smoke from the fire Jamie started. Julianna cooed quietly and nestled her face against Claire’s breast, her lips having gone slack. “And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire—I swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you.”

Claire closed her eyes, the feeling of his rising and falling chest against her back and that of their baby on her own chest.

This was her beginning.

The End

[hunnybadgerv]

Falling for Farah's Framejob | The Wayhaven Chronicles | Det. Bishop Vasquez x Agent Mason

Summary: Farah develops a plan and runs with it of their own accord, inviting Detective Bishop Vasquez to the warehouse to help them cook up some fun and silliness for the rest of Unit Bravo.

a/n: Reminder, Bishop is genderfluid. So, a horrible thing was heard in my own kitchen during the making of dinner and I couldn’t resist using it. Though this thing ran off with my brain. Consider yourself warned there is a lot of domestic fluff, cooking, and general silliness with a splash of pining.

Read on AO3

Falling for Farah’s Framejob

-1-

BAM!

“What the …?” Farah chirruped, her head snapping toward the detective.

Bishop raised a brow at her. It took a second for their completely serious look to give way to a tiny smirk that twitched upward. The two stared at each other, then Bishop tipped the chef’s knife under their hand enough to show the vampire the massacred clove of garlic. Farah’s brow drew together.

“You want to try?” Bishop asked with wide grin.

Farah’s eyes widened.

“Don’t go all out,” the detective warned, setting a garlic clove on the cutting board between them and set the knife down. They could just imagine Farah hitting the knife so hard the blade shattered or the clove pulverized to nothing.

Bishop talked her through where to set the blade and then Farah dropped a heavy fist atop it, which dusted them both with a fine mist of garlic. Again they looked at one another, then fell into laughter in unison.

“Think that might have been a little much,” Bishop stated.

“Guess now we’re garlic buddies,” Farah howled, bumping the detective’s shoulder with their own.

Bish laughed wildly, trying to dust some of the juicier bits off their clothes. “Good thing all the vampire stories are wrong or you’d be fucked.”

Farah froze and blinked once, then struck her best Wicked Witch of the West pose. “I’m melting.”

The detective snickered and shook their head, handling the next two cloves on their own.

“Melting,” Farah insisted, bumping the detective again with their shoulder. “What a world,” she crooned, acting like she was indeed fading away behind the counter.

“I thought you were helping me,” Bish charged, glancing back over their shoulder.

“I got you.” Farah sprang up next to them with a little hop. “Whatcha need?”

Another head shake. “Stir the rice and see if the water’s boiling yet.”

“On it.”

Bishop finished up the chopping, keeping a bit of an eye on Farah. The detective still wasn’t quite sure why they were doing this. Nate had told them that most vampires didn’t really eat, in fact he insinuated that most of them actively avoided I, which made sense with hypersensitivity and all. So, when Farah suggested that Bishop come over to the warehouse and cook with her, it was kind of a surprise.

They’d met in town and figured out a menu on the fly in the grocery store. Farah wanted to go all out, at least in the detective’s opinion. Apparently, their Southern tutor had also introduced the vampire to their hometown favorites. Bishop, however, kept the vampires’ oversensitivity in mind and planned to make sure to keep the flavors as natural and controlled as they could manage. They kind of hoped that the chocolate pièce de résistance might be the savior of the evening if the Cajun Gumbo went awry for some members of Unit Bravo—one in particular sprang almost instantly to mind.

Even with Farah’s easily distracted nature, it didn’t take the two of them long to get everything together. The rice was warming toward perfect doneness. The sauces were chilling. The flourless chocolate cakes were resting in what Bishop was sure had to be the safest hiding place. And the French bread was sliced nice and thin waiting for some the homemade garlic butter and a quick toasting in the oven. The two of them even managed to get most of the pots and pans cleaned and put back away.

As Bishop wiped down the counter, Farah cackled. The detective really wasn’t sure what they were talking about anymore, but their abs were killing them from laughing so much.

Noticing the wispy tendrils of smoke rising from the pan, Bishop nodded in Farah’s direction. “Pour that flour in there and stir it up.”

The flash of movement might have stopped the story for a second, but it picked back up as the oil sizzled with its fluffy addition.

“What’s this supposed to look like?” Farah asked.

“Wet sand,” Bishop told them, looking up to notice the intense nose wrinkle on Farah’s face.

Amber eyes blinked at them as if she was waiting for them to deliver a punchline.

“Don’t leave me hanging. What’d he say?”

Farah flashed a toothy smile and chuckled. “It just gets more wet when you lick it.”

Eyes closed in regret, Bishop’s head fell back with a shake.

“Can’t believe I’m the one that has to break it to you, but that’s how it’s supposed to work,” a low voice offered from the doorway to the hall.

Bishop’s chin dropped slowly and they swallowed at the sudden lump in their throat. Mason smirked and the detective tried not to think about the fact that he probably heard the gesture. At least they knew he couldn’t possibly hear the tingles that the sound of his voice shot down their spine. The way his keen gray eyes studied them made Bishop wonder if maybe they were wrong.

The spell broke when Mason sneered. “What the hell is that smell?” he asked Farah.

She shrugged.

“Yeah, figured this was going to go south,” Mason declared

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Bishop taunted with a sharp glare in Mason’s direction. No one criticized their cookery skills without literally eating their words.

“Whatever that is, it’s unsalvageable.”

“Bet,” Bishop shot back before Mason even finished the last syllable.

That got his attention. Mason straightened. “You’re on. Don’t think your science’ll save you now.”

“Shows what you know. That’s exactly cooking is, Agent.” Bish laughed knowingly. “Just delicious chemistry.”

“Uh, Bish,” Farah called.

The distinctly raw flour smell was venturing past toasty. Sliding up to their cooking assistant, Bish grabbed up a wooden spoon from the rest next to the stove and turned their furrowed brow and full attention to the roux. They’d made it like they usually did, forgetting that Farah wouldn’t be familiar with proper speed roux procedure. Mason’s hearty chuckle resounded off the tile surfaces with a smugness that Bish would not allow. There was no damn way they were going to lose this bet, and certainly not in the first two minutes.

Not a half a minute later, the roux was saved and another set of scrutinizing eyes manifested in the doorway. Adam’s jade gaze darted around the room like a chaperone at a high school dance. Bishop wondered if it was Farah’s remark or Mason’s that caught the unit commander’s attention and drew him toward the action as well.

“Still smells like chalk,” Mason noted. The click of his lighter being snapped open and closed repeatedly now echoed around the kitchen.

Bishop rolled their eyes then raised their hand to mimic a quaking duck with their slender fingers. “Yeah, you just keep talking. You’ll choke on every word.”

Mason chuckled at them, snapping the lighter closed and leaning forward to rest their elbows on their knees. The detective couldn’t look away if they’d wanted to. The silver finish of the lighter glinted in the low light as it twirled between Mason’s deft fingers. Their tongue darted out over their bottom lip and pulled it between their teeth. His wolfish grin and the toasty scent in the air pulled Bishop out of their trance.

Specialist Agent my ass. Troublemaker Supreme is far more accurate, Bishop thought. The roux, thankfully, was only at the strong cafe au lait stage. This time, they kept their full attention on the pan despite the fact that they could feel Mason’s keen gray eyes on them. It made their skin prickle.

“What are you making?” Adam asked.

Before Bishop even thought about answering, Farah hopped onto the counter and started detailing the planned menu. “Gumbo,” she answered in a sing-song tone.

“Chicken and sausage,” Bishop added as they stretched to reach a bowl brimming with roughly chopped vegetables.

“That’s the trinity,” Farah announced like a play by play announcer. “Green pepper, onion, and celery,” they counted each ingredient on a separate finger, “then comes the pulverized garlic.”

Neither Bishop nor Farah could recall that incident without a chuckle.

“What?” Adam asked.

Bish shook their head. “Nothing,” Farah said with a chuckle.

The veggies sizzled brightly as the detective scooped them into the pan. The chalky raw flour smell had dissipated and gone nutty and toasty. With the addition of the veg, the kitchen erupted in a lovely scent that Bishop could only describe as … green and distinctly Southern. It was one of those lovely mouthwatering scents that always made their stomach growl even if they weren’t the least bit hungry.

They were instantly aware of three pairs of eyes on them, which sparked a serious blush.

“What’s that … ?” Nate asked from the hall, rounding the corner. “Oh, Bishop. Did Farah rope you into this?”

A tiny shrug. “Not really roped.”

“Just wait,” Mason mumbled, his voice low and tantilizing. The image that sprang into Bishop’s head at the suggestion, just darkened the heat in their cheeks.

Adam shot a warning glaze across the kitchen.

Bishop was unphased, well that’s what they tried to tell themself despite the fact that they could feel their pulse beating it’s way through their jugular. It was one of the strangest things about working with vampire’s; they were far too aware of all the little things no one else could hope to notice unless they were looking really hard. And for all Bishop tried to control those little things, the effort just seemed to multiply the reaction.

Oh, right, broth, they thought grabbing the container they’d prepped for just this moment.

“Let me,” Farah said with another quick hop off the counter.

“Drizzle it. Slow,” Bishop said in a low guiding voice. They stirred tender vegetables careful not to splash any of the oil mixture out of the pan. “Stop for a sec.” After whisking the mixture smooth again, they gave Farah a nod for more. Back in their element, the detective’s full focus returned to the meal in the making.

“Surprised to find you down here,” Nate said quietly as he slipped into a chair at the table near Mason.

Adam crossed the room and stood near the window watching the night march against the retreating light of day.

“Why’s that?” Mason replied quietly over his shoulder.

“Why, indeed?” Nate asked, rhetorically as Mason’s attention returned to the human cooking for them. A little smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You get the sausage,” Bish told Farah with a pat on the shoulder as they shifted past the young vampire as if they were in the middle of some song and dance. Grabbing a nearby plate, large chunks of delicately browned meat got drowned in the dark stew. It was a hectic choreography they had worked out somehow over the last few hours. The detective pulled the spoon out of the way and leaned back when Farah dropped the chunks of meat into the boiling mixture, which splashed out violently.

Mason tensed, relaxing again as soon as Bishop giggled.

“Hold up. Don’t be scared.” The detective took Farah’s hand and turned palm down over the pot. “Just open, low over the surface and you won’t get the splatter.”

Following the suggestion, Farah grinned. “Nice. Good to know.”

“Not sure I buy that,” Bishop said with a laugh of their own.

“I don’t know. A few more lessons and I might be able to cook dinner for you.”

The entire room erupted in laughter, except for Bishop, who slid an arm over Farah’s shoulder and pulled them close. “Good, because I hate cooking alone.”

That seemed to calm some of the giggles in the room, and reinforced Farah’s grin.

“Time to cover it?” Farah asked.

“Yep,” Bishop said, giving her shoulders a squeeze. When Farah moved from their side, Bish saw it. “Oh damn.”

“What?” several voices asked at the exclamation, far too worried over such a tiny irritation.

Bish blinked over their shoulder at them all. “Forgot the wine. Should have added it after the broth.”

Farah looked almost heartbroken.

Wedging the bottle between their thighs, Bishop started the corkscrew then noticed the forlorn look. “It’ll be fine. Just might need a few extra minutes is all.”

Relief showed on Farah’s face. Bishop still wasn’t sure why this all seemed like such a big deal to their friend, but they hoped to discover an explanation at some point. The cork came free with a resounding pop, and the detective wandered toward the stove giving the cork a slow wiff. Smells perfect.

All eyes remained on them when they tipped the bottle and drew several circles around the pan. Pulling the steam toward their face and taking another long sniff, they dashed another splash of wine into the pot. Then gestured for Farah to put the lid on.

“Adam, do you only drink reds?” Bish asked.

“Depends.”

With a nod, they walked across the kitchen and stretched on their tip toes to grab a wine glass from the display that hung them upside down so that no dust gathered in the glass. Careful not to fully tip the bottle, Bishop filled the glass a little more than halfway and held it out to the eldest of them.

“It’s a dry white, not sure if that’s your style.”

Adam took the glass and swirled it softly before raising it to his nose. Then he took a tentative sip. He gave a silent shrug in what Bishop could only hope was at least a modicum of approval. Still it brought a smile to there lips when he crossed back to his spot near the window with the stem pinched between his fingers.

Looking around the kitchen, it was kind of strange. The five of them just gathered in the kitchen together while dinner simmered. Bishop couldn’t help but recall visits to their gran’s when they were little. It felt like this. Smiles and giggles and talking and cooking. Wonderful smells and conversation. Then there was Mason and the way his eye moved over them.

“Still smell like chalk?” they taunted, leaning on the counter and staring right back at Mason.

“There’s still a hint of it in the air,” he replied too quickly.

Bishop was almost certain he said it just to get under their skin, but this was one arena where the detective’s confidence shone. “Give it an hour, and see if you can still say that.”

“An hour?” Farah crowed. “A whole hour?”

Bishop chuckled. “Believe me, it’s not that bad. And good things come to those who wait,” they added, their gazing flicking toward Mason for a second before Farah’s forehead landed against their shoulder with dramatic flair. Bishop patted her back in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

-2-

“Aren’t you meant to be helping me with coffee and dessert?” Bishop asked.

Mason’s chuckle tickled against the shell of their ear. “Who says I’m not?”

He shifted subtly behind them. With his body pressed against their back, they’d already lost count of the number of scoops of coffee they’d put in the pot—thrice. The detective couldn’t resist the feel of him, however, and leaned back against the firm plane of Mason’s chest. The hand on their hip flexed as the tip of his nose traced the length of Bishop’s carotid. They could feel every calm breath teasing against their thin sensitive skin.

It was maddening.

Dropping their head to the side served as a silent request for more of his attention. They really wanted him to kiss them, at least, though given the fact that Mason had managed to keep some kind of physical contact with them all through dinner, a sharp bite might prove more satisfying.

Either way, Mason denied them and brought his lips back to their ear. “Just how strong are you planning on making that?” he asked with a gutteral chuckle that shook down Bishop’s spine.

Without a doubt, Mason had to be able to hear the way their heart pounded in their chest, but with him so damnably close, he’d feel the shiver his voice sparked through their body, too. Bishop sighed in exasperation, both at themselves and Mason, as they lifted the filter out of the coffee pot for the second time.

Leaning back, they tipped their face toward their distraction. “Could you please, I beg of you, grab me the small plates, so that I can get this pot of coffee started?”

Mason stared at them for a long moment, letting his knuckles trace the line of Bishop’s jaw. When his hand spread out over the side of their neck, he kissed them. Bishop’s pleased hum reverberated through them as Mason deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking into the detective’s mouth in a tease before delving farther. He broke it sooner than Bishop would have preferred, stepping to the side and opening one of the cabinets just as Nate rounded the corner.

The detective’s short hair would do nothing to discuss the flush burning up their neck. No, it’d be completely obvious how worked up Mason had them moments before. Bishop’s eyes flicked in Mason’s direction as he stretched his lean body toward the high shelf. Bastard, they thought with a sly smile. He seemed completely unphased, meanwhile Bish could still feel the heat blazing even hotter in their cheeks and at the tips of their ears.

“Hey, you two.”

Mason just nodded with a low grunt, while Bishop emptied the overfilled coffee filter and placed it back into the coffee maker for yet another try.

“What can I do to help?” Nate offered, earning a curious glance from Mason.

Bishop’s attention was wholly focused on the coffee, finally able to get the right number of scoops measured out. “Um,” they thought as they closed the lid of the pot and flicked the button on. “I need the sauces in the bottles on the top shelf of the ice box.”

“Gotcha. Oh, and Mason, Adam needs you upstairs.”

That got his attention. He set a few plates near Bishop and let his hand brush across their hip before striding across the kitchen. A little spark shot through them, then the detective grabbed a small saucepan out of a cabinet, and filled it with water.

“Anything to worry about?” Bishop asked, curious about what he’d said.

Nate gave them a tiny grin and shook his head. “Farah was getting impatient. I figured maybe you could use a more helpful set of hands.”

The heat rushed to Bishop’s cheeks again, as they set the pan on the stove. “Sorry,” they said in a sheepish quiet tone and bit their bottom lip.

“No need to be,” Nate said. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his elbow.

As he approached them, Bish grabbed one of the bottles and set it in the pan of water. “Thanks. But we both know I could exercise a bit more willpower.”

He chuckled at them. “True, but at the start of something it can be intense, especially with someone that prides himself on that particular trait.”

“That’s the truth,” Bishop agreed. That was the perfect word to describe Mason, they thought. They pulled a tray out of lower oven and set it on the counter. With considered care, they tapped a few of the giggly little cakes out of the ramakans they’d been baked in. Holding them carefully, Bish peeled the parchment paper off them.

“Like opening a gift,” Nate observed.

“A luxurious chocolaty one.”

“Best kind, depending on who you ask.”

Bishop chuckled. “I think so. But I didn’t want to make too many,” they explained as they set the cakes on the rack once again.

“Probably a good call.”

“Yeah, I noticed I was the only one that finished dinner.”

Nate bumped their shoulder with his elbow. “I thought it was wonderful. And the fact that you got Adam to even try it should feel like a victory in itself.”

That puffed Bishop up a little and they nodded. “And I was shocked that Mason tried it.”

“To be honest, I think that’s the first time I’ve seen him eat anything.”

Bishop didn’t say anything, couldn’t really. They weren’t sure what to make of that little revelation. Instead they grabbed the plates and set out seven of them. Popping back over to the stove, they lifted the bottle and swirled it around to distribute the heat more evenly and set it down once more.

“So, what are these?” Nate asked picking up the bottle with a reddish hue.

“Sauces,” they repeated, with a wide grin.

The vampire cast a look on them that read, smart ass.

“That’s a raspberry coulis. Just cooked them down with a bit of sugar and lemon zest and strained it to remove the seeds and fleshy bits.” Bishop winced at the turn of phrase; Nate didn’t seem distressed about it, so they let it go. “The tartness pairs beautifully with the chocolate. But it could be too intense.”

“Is that why you prepared three?”

Bish nodded, he’d figured out their plan. “A French pastry cream, very lightly sweetened. Just a nice creamy accompaniment.”

“And that?” Nate pointed at the pan in front of them.

They hissed in a breath through their teeth, still feeling a little guilty about this one. “This is a little self-indulgent favorite of mine. Bourbon caramel.”

“Oh?” Nate’s brows rose over his soft brown eyes.

Bishop smirked knowingly. “Want a taste?”

“Please.” The other bottle was set on the counter and Nate wandered over. When Bishop held their hand palm up with the index finger extended, Nate copied the action, and was rewarded with a warm strip of the sauce. He popped it into his mouth before it could ooze over the sides of his finger. The hum that rumbled in his chest drew a smile from the chef.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” they laughed, giving the bottle another swirl in the water.

Nate darted across the kitchen and back in the blink of an eye. He leaned one hand on the edge of the counter holding out a spoon, and Bishop couldn’t hold back their grin or their laughter. But they did lift the bottle once more and fill the tablespoon until the caramel started to dome.

“Vampire with a sweet tooth, huh?”

With the spoon already in his mouth, Nate could do little more than give them a crooked smile and a shrug.

Bishop snapped the dial on the stove to off and crossed back to the cakes and plates. On two, a little ocean of red filled the bottom of the plate before being topped with a perfect little chocolate confection. Two more cakes received healthy crowns of the cream. The last three plates each got a turn on the rack where Bishop drizzled them with lines of caramel, before setting the cake atop it. Then a few more thin lines fluttered over the delicate desserts.

“Maybe you should have made more,” Nate suggested, having watched the display intently.

“I did. But I figured that this might be best to start. Wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”

Nate nodded, but gave the detective an incredulous look; they couldn’t help but wonder if they wouldn’t be taking any of the cakes back home with them. “I’ll get the coffee and the cups.”

“I’ll get these.” Bishop had waited tables in high school and college and was more than capable of lining the plates up perfectly, but before they got two situated, Nate set a lovely dark wood tray on the counter near them. “Much safer.”

“Especially in this house.”

The two of them chuckled quietly as they loaded their respective trays with goodies. Bishop doubted any of the cakes, except the one plate she made for herself would get more than two bites taken out of it, if that many. They weren’t offended. On the contrary, the fact that Unit Bravo, who had no need for typical human food any longer, had tried anything they cooked made them feel proud, and a little more welcome in a way.

“Do you know why Farah did this?” Bishop asked once they’d placed the spoons and napkins on the corner of the tray.

Nate stopped near them and gave a little shake of their head. “I really don’t. But for one, I’m really glad she did.”

“Me, too,” the detective agreed. They’d have to remember to let Farah know. Maybe they’d find a really fun way to thank her.

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Blood in the Rivers: II

A/N: A shorter chapter this time, as I’ve been told putting 13.4k into a single chapter is a little overwhelming. My bad! Thank you for all the kind words for chapter one. I hope you all continue to like this story. 

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully)

Rating: M for canon typical violence, canon typical sexism, and some soft touching. Sometimes people just need to be cuddled, okay?

Word Count: 4.5k

Read Chapter One Here!

Chapter Two: The Perils of a Royal Wedding

Y/N had been correct. The Lannisters were the ones to note her absence and demand she remain within their sights. It was easy to explain her absence away, she had wanted to partake in the festivities—a wide-eyed look of innocence had them believing it. She danced with Tommen, a happy, skipping thing that had them both giggling to the annoyance of everyone around them. More wine filled her chalice and she wondered if Joffrey had even asked his wife to dance. 

Shouldn’t everyone dance at their own wedding? For now, she watched Tommen dance with his aunt Genna and plied herself with berries.

She noticed Ellaria and Oberyn settle at a table nearer the newly wedded couple and Ellaria, knowing Y/N was looking, fed Oberyn berries, pressing them into his mouth with a smirk that he mirrored as he sucked them from her fingers.

She fidgeted in her chair, a now-familiar stirring in her stomach, and drained the rest of the wine from her chalice, grateful when Tyrion quickly noticed and made sure it was refilled. But it was then that she noticed the guilty look on the dwarf’s face as he looked at her.

“Lord Tyrion, what ails you? Have I done something to offend?”

His smile was weak and he took a large gulp of his own wine. “No, my lady. You have done nothing wrong.” And, even though it was murmured into his cup, she heard him say, “and that is your curse.”

But then Loras appeared at their table again, happy and out of breath, before asking her for another dance. She accepted, throwing a glance toward Tyrion who waved her on, and let Loras lead her back toward the dancing couples. When Oberyn and Ellaria stepped to their sides and the dance was announced, she had to admire the Tyrell’s plan. The dance called for two couples, the pairings would switch frequently, alternating partners and steps, and allowed each of the participants to hold the others close. The dance had originated in Dorne a generation ago, and had once been deemed inappropriate for allowing same-sex dancing partners, but had eventually made its way into polite company. Loras seemed to know how audacious the plan was and beamed with a proud smile when she quirked an eyebrow. Ellaria laughed beside them, seeing the exchange, and Oberyn pulled her close for a kiss but his eyes were on Y/N. The music started Y/N let Loras pull her close for a few steps before they all stepped back and the four joined hands, moving about in a circle for a turn and then the couples changed. Ellaria greedily grabbed at her hands and hauled her close with sparkling eyes, leading her through the steps with ease.

“You know a Dornish dance.”

“I do. This is one of my favorites.”

Ellaria hummed as they turned, skirts twisting together in a wave of orange and yellow. “I shall teach you another.”

Heat curled in her stomach at the implication but she wanted it. Desperately. “I would be a faithful student.”

The music indicated that they rejoin hands and circle again. Loras squeezed her hand when they touched and shook his curls like he was moving them out of his eyes but really drawing her attention to the head table where Tywin and Cersei were staring at them. She squeezed his hand back in thanks and felt the smile she had been wearing die. Another turn with the four of them joined and the next partnering came and Oberyn swept her into his arms like he had done it a thousand times before, pulling her closer than the steps deemed necessary.

“Your bird is thriving,” he whispered in her ear. “Happy.”

Y/N didn’t respond aside from tightening her grip on his hand.

“But she worries for you a great deal.”

“Great reward comes with great risk. She will learn this.”

“Your life is precious. Whatever game you think you are playing, you do not know if you will win.”

He was right. The impending arrangement the Lannisters were planning was hanging over her head and she knew her place as a trusted loyalist could easily be snapped. But she had already entrusted too much with him and Dorne. 

Asking him for more would be selfish.

“I would see you safe.”

“As I would see you, my prince.”

He opened his mouth to say something else when the crescendo of the song started and they were forced to part, retreating back to their original coupling to finish the dance.

“You look troubled, my lady,” Loras whispered.

“I think I am.” The dance ended in Loras’ arms and he started to lead her back toward her table when Tywin Lannister stepped into their path. “My lord, are you enjoying the festivities?” Pressing a smile to her face was easy and she tried to not tighten her grip on Loras’ arm in an attempt for comfort. “I have never seen such splendor.”

Tywin smirked and glanced at Loras before focusing his gaze back on her. “I’m glad you’ve found some enjoyment, Lady Tully. Join me for a dance.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an offer. And when he held out his hand toward her, she knew she would have to take it.

She looked at the hand offered to her and then cast a glance at Oberyn and Ellaria, as they settled at their table. She couldn’t help it. She knew what Oberyn and all of Dorne thought of Tywin Lannister. She wouldn’t add to their betrayal or heartache. Oberyn looked ready to leap from his seat but Ellaria had set a hand over his arm and quickly schooled her features into a forced smile before giving a curt nod.

Y/N mirrored her expression and set her hand in Tywin’s as she stepped away from Loras’ side and let herself be drawn back among the other dancing couples as the music started, slow and soft. It would have been romantic with anyone else. The older man was a graceful dancer, she had to admit, as he led her through the familiar steps of a dance she had learned as a child. He was looking down at her, she knew, as she made the top button of his surcoat her sole focus. She wouldn’t and couldn’t look at him. But his dulled scent of leather and clove was cloying at her nose.

“Do you make it a habit of avoiding eye contact with whomever you dance with?”

Y/N suppressed an eye roll and granted him a single, short look. “I apologize, my lord. I am simply trying to remember the steps so I do not step on your foot.” A simple lie.

“Did you not practice as a child?”

“I did, my lord. Far more than necessary, I assume. But this dance was not a favorite of my septa. I do hope you do not fault me for it.” Another lie.

“Yes,” Tywin said. “I suppose you did have an unusual upbringing.” He stepped back and spun her under his arm just as the other couples did the same. “I could teach you.”

Y/N nearly choked on her next breath and missed a step, her toe colliding with the side of his boot. “M-my lord?”

“You are a young, beautiful, highborn lady. You should know to dance—properly. Not those dances I know they’re fond of in Dorne. Vulgar displays.”

Her throat was tightening, stopping air from moving in or out. “I…I quite like the Dornish dances. I think they’re lovely.”

“Do you know those steps, Lady Tully? Perhaps you could enlighten me to their beauty.” The words had a strange lift to them and his grip tightened on her hand, the other curling around her waist just a fraction more.

“My lord,” she dropped her voice to a whisper to avoid him hearing the tremble she knew was growing, “that is hardly appropriate.”

“It does not have to be inappropriate. You could be Lady of Casterly Rock. You would be more powerful than Margaery and worshipped by all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Y/N would swear her heart stopped. Was this his plan? Was he suggesting-

“And what of the Riverlands? I thought-”

“Your second son would rule the Riverlands. Your first, however,” he dipped his head closer to her ear, “would be my heir.”

The song ended and everyone else clapped, crowd moving—finding new partners, refilling wine. But Y/N could only pull her hands away from Tywin as her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. “A gracious offer, to be sure.”

“And what is your answer?”

“Lady Tully!” Y/N nearly collapsed as she heard Margaery call out for her.

“Please, excuse me, my lord.” She curtseyed, and then turned toward the head table. There was a strange buzzing between her ears as she made her way through the crowd. She barely gave it a second thought to see the knight-turned-fool Dontos waiting in the bushes as she passed. She curtseyed again in front of Joffrey and Margaery. “Yes, Your Grace?”

The new queen smiled up at her and grasped at her hands. “I-”

There was a sudden, familiar sound behind her, pulling her attention for just a moment before something pinched at her back and chest.

Margaery screamed.

The bolt was protruding from her shoulder like a terrible, blackened limb.  Margaery looked up at her with wide eyes as she felt the metallic tang of blood bubble over her tongue. She touched it—just once—as if not entirely believing she had been shot. The answering, near-crippling shock proved her otherwise. 

There was screaming—so much screaming and she could not discern one word from the other.

Someone called out her name as she doubled over onto her knees. Shaking fingers grasped the silver arrowhead and, with a strangled sort of groan, she pulled the rest of the arrow through, briefly wondering at the strange sensation of the fletching catching on her flesh. Warmth bloomed across her chest. It took her several moments to realize it was blood.

Bloodied palms slapped against the stones beneath her, keeping her from collapsing completely.

“The King!” Someone shouted. “The King!”

There was more screaming, panicked and screeching and turning into a howling cacophony in her swirling mind. She hardly noticed when someone ran to her side and grasped her face with gentle hands, trying to get her to move, to say something, to do anything. Pain grew and blossomed with every frantic beat of her heart but she could do precious little, her limbs feeling like stone. Even her eyes refused to move from where they were trained on the stone, watching, almost disinterestedly the blood start to pool beneath her fingers. 

Someone was pressing at her wound, trying to staunch the bleeding with little success. “Stay with me, stay awake.”

She lifted her head, a labored effort, and could only see the dark eyes staring back at her and then the world turned dark.

                                                        **

Olenna was sitting on the edge of her bed when she woke. The woman’s face was drawn tight with some strange emotion as she stared out into the small patch of sky visible from the chamber windows.

“My lady?” Y/N’s voice caught in her throat, dry and scratching. Pain shot through her body as she tried to lift herself up to sitting.

Olenna turned to face her, a small smile touching her mouth. “Ah, Little Fish. You finally wake.” She walked to the door and called out for the maester before helping Y/N to sit and put another pillow at her back. “Do you need more Milk of the Poppy?”

“What happened, Olenna? Tell me.” The pain was increasing with each beat of her heart but she needed to know—needed to understand.

Olenna sighed and stood straight. “It was never meant to be you, child. I want you to know that.”

“I-I-I don’t understand. And of Joffrey? What-”

The door to her chamber opened and a maester walked in, a small bowl of something in his weathered hands. Without prompting, he held it to Y/N’s lips and forced the viscous liquid into her mouth. The bitter taste was a familiar one—Milk of the Poppy. She coughed and nearly retched with how much he was pushing down her throat but sank into the pillows, mind already swimming, as he finished. “I just have to check your wrappings, my lady. To prevent infection.”

Y/N’s eyes were swimming, unfocused, as she tried to find Olenna again. “Stay,” she said, although her tongue felt too big for her mouth. “Tell me. What happened.”

“You were valiant, my lady,” the maester said as he pulled down the shoulder of her chemise. “But you were not able to save His Grace, King Joffrey. “

Her head lulled to the side on her pillows to find Olenna looking at her almost worriedly. “Dead?”

“Yes, Little Fish. He’s dead.”

“Oh.”

And then darkness swept over her like a raven’s wing.

                                                        **

The realm between dream and waking was a constant companion for the next handful of days, each one swimming into the next without much fanfare in the small haven of her chambers. The only time she had spent out of doors was when she was requested to attend the gathering of nobility for a time of prayer over the body of the slain king, and she could only stand upright for a few minutes before she was allowed to leave. She hardly remembered any of the ceremony. The maester came and went, cleaning her wound and wrappings without much fanfare.    “I need a bath, Daisy,” she murmured. Her feet felt foreign as they touched the stone of the floor of her bedroom. “I can smell myself. It isn’t pleasant.” 

The frazzled form of Daisy quickly set out to have a basin dragged in and filled with near-boiling water. She followed it with floral soaps and then helped her lady undress and slowly lower into the water. Y/N groaned as the water rose around her, already feeling more human. But her head lulled as if it felt too heavy on her neck and the room spun for a moment.

“Is the temperature too hot, my lady?” Daisy asked as she started to soak a cloth in the water.

“It is perfect, Daisy. You are too kind to me.”

Daisy smiled and opened her mouth to reply when there was a knock at the door. Y/N curled her knees up to her chest for a semblance of modesty under the milk-colored water. The knock came again.

“Come back later!” Daisy hollered.

And the door opened.

Daisy screeched and stepped in front of Y/N’s tub to shield her from the intruders, yelling about sending for the guards and Y/N, still hazy from the Poppy, leaned forward just enough to see Prince Oberyn and Ellaria standing in her chambers. A shock of orange was seen in front of the door before it closed. 

“Our guards are standing watch. I assure you that Lady Tully is well protected,” Oberyn said with an easy smile. 

Ellaria draped herself in a nearby chair with a smile of her own. “How are you feeling, my lady?”

“She is indecent,” Daisy nearly growled.

“It is fine, Daisy. They are friends and I cannot bring myself to care at the moment.”

Daisy’s brow furrowed as she turned to look at Y/N. “Do you need water, my lady? Food?” A gentle hand pressed against her cheek, checking her temperature. “If you feel faint I can call the maester again.”

Y/N smiled, knowing it probably looked crooked on her lips, and shook her head. “I am on the mend, Daisy. Thanks to your care. But, I promise you, I am in no danger with them.”

Daisy sighed and nodded. “I shall bring you fresh linens, then, for your bed.”

Y/N thanked her and Daisy quickly stripped the bed before leaving the chambers, leaving her alone with Oberyn and Ellaria.

“They have addled your mind with Milk of the Poppy.” The observation from Oberyn only earned a nod in return. “You will not feel yourself for a while longer.”

Another nod.

Ellaria stood and poked her head out the door, murmuring something to one of the guards before closing it again. She settled near the tub and grabbed the cloths Daisy had soaked and began to slide the cloth along Y/N’s arms and over her uninjured shoulder, the soaped water refreshing and hot. Y/N relaxed under her care and reclined against the back of the tub, uncaring that her breasts were starting to crest the water’s edge.

“You were kept from us for days. Oberyn said you were whisked away during prayers,” Ellaria whispered as she dipped the cloth under the water to wipe against her stomach. “We worried.”

Y/N smiled and moved to press her cheek against the warm lip of the tub. “I am sorry you were worried. I would have let you in, if I had known.”

The cloth slid up her stomach to wipe across her left breast and then the right, taking care to avoid the wrappings hiding her ugly stitches. And Y/N could not help the hitch in her breath as Ellaria seemed to take special care to make sure she was clean. She looked up at her: dark hair loose and lovely, like waves crashing in the dark, and simply watched her as she worked. There, of course, was an undercurrent of something more to it, but perhaps that was just Ellaria. Just who she was and why almost everyone was so taken with her on sight. But she knew Ellaria meant to help, too. To wash away the bitterness of the past few days.

A knock on the door had Ellaria turning toward Oberyn. “Would you answer that, my love?”

Oberyn, the prince, did as he was bid and opened the door only a fraction and spoke softly to whomever was on the other side before being handed something and closing the door again as they left. He carefully unwrapped the linen bundle to reveal a collection of small vials.

“Come,” Ellaria said softly to him, her hands pausing in their ministrations.

“Unlike you, my love, I have not been given permission to hold her as you do. I would not overstep, especially with her in such a state.”

Y/N’s addled mind was coherent enough to understand what he was saying and pivoted just enough to look at him. The entire scenario should have never happened, if she was being honest. Her nakedness had always been something she’d been told was to be avoided, discouraged, even. And now she was in the company of a man she was not married to and a woman who was not her maid—it reeked of scandal if anyone happened upon them. But she couldn’t bring herself care. She lifted an arm from the water and held it out, dripping onto the stone with a steady beat. “You have my permission, my prince. You always have my permission.” She crooked a finger at him before needing to curl a little further into the tub as the room spun.

He smiled and closed the space between them and he settled on the other side of the basin and let Ellaria pull the small collection of vials from his grasp. Y/N watched as Ellaria emptied one and then two of the vials into the water and gently swirl it around. The scent of roses and blood oranges filled her nose and pulled a smile from her tired lips.

“Lean forward for me,” Ellaria softly asked and Y/N did as she was told, nearly jumping as Ellaria poured water over her hair. Something was said to Oberyn as the water distorted her hearing but she didn’t mind.

Y/N closed her eyes as Ellaria began her careful ministrations again and she heard the sound of another vial being uncorked. Another set of hands gently started to massage her scalp and it took her far too long to realize that it was Oberyn. Her hazy eyes opened again to see him smiling as he worked through her hair, filling the room with the scent of more roses, decadent and heady. Again, his touch was gentle and he was careful as he moved her head this way or that so he could make sure he had completed his task. He had rolled the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows and his outer robe had been discarded, draped across the window seat behind him. The entire situation finally made a giggle fall from her lips. 

“What is so funny?” Oberyn asked with a smile of his own. He cupped his hands and brought a bit of water over her hair, starting to rinse it.

“A prince is washing my hair.” She laughed again and dipped her head back to help him.

“A prince serves his people, my lady.” His voice was soft. “And it is an honor to be of service to you.”

Something bloomed in her chest then, as she looked into his dark eyes and watched him smile. It felt soft and comforting and all-encompassing all at once. It felt, as strange as it was, like home. And when Ellaria pressed a kiss to her rose-scented skin, she knew it wasn’t strange at all.

“Your water grows cold. We must get you dry.”

Before she could even think to try to stand, Oberyn hand plunged his hands into the water and wrapped an arm around her back and the other just below her knees and helped her to her feet outside the bath. And now she had no water nor suds of soap to disguise her nakedness from him. Water slipped down her clean, perfumed skin in rivulets as he held her steady, soaking the ends of his tunic sleeves. His gaze could have wandered. Could have taken in her body as no man has ever done before. But he kept his eyes on hers and remained careful and gentle as Ellaria found her a new chemise and dressing robe and they each helped her dry and into the clean clothes to avoid further injury.

The poppy had continued to retreat, leaving her now in just a comfortable haze and she settled atop the stool in front of her small, mirrored vanity as Ellaria pulled yet another jar from somewhere and opened it to reveal a bit of pink paste she started to massage into Y/N’s hands. “You have both been very kind to me. I do not know what I have done or said to earn such care.”

“You are kind to us. We are kind to our friends.”

“Is that what I am?” She asked with a laugh. “A friend?”

Ellaria set down the jar, finished, and nuzzled her nose under Y/N’s jaw. Careful hands swept around her sides to hold her just under her breasts. “We can be more when you are well again.”

“I feel like I am more to you now. I have never been held so softly.” The words were true and she never would have spoken them if her mind had been entirely clear. But oh, how she reveled in the touch.

Ellaria smiled against the side of her throat. “I would like to hold you for as long as you would let me.” But then she stood straight, touch slowly receding, and looked at Oberyn with a playful smile. “Come, my love. She is soft to touch. You have been wanting to hold her since her third letter arrived.”

Oberyn chuckled. “It was her first, actually.” He stepped closer. “That first curl of ink had pulled me into its depths and I knew I’d never be able to recover.” And soon he was at her back. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the small bit of skin exposed where her neck met her uninjured shoulder. Y/N shivered and he trailed his fingers down her back. “You have bewitched me, my lady.”

Y/N could only smile up at him in the reflection of her mirror.

His hand curled under her chin and he tilted her face up so he could look at her properly. Dark eyes seemed to drink in her soft, tired features before he slowly, ever so slowly, leaned down to press his lips to hers. It was soft and gentle and still curled her toes into the silk rug beneath her feet. The simple touch left her panting as he pulled back. His thumb pressed against her bottom lip and he smiled again. “I knew you would taste sweet.”

There was a rapid knocking at the door and Ellaria pulled it open, letting a flustered Daisy in, her arms laden with clean linens for the bed. “The Dornishmen guarding the door are quite scary, you know,” she murmured, casting a glance at Oberyn before hurrying to the bed to start her task.

“They are for her protection.”

“Yes, but I am her maid, Prince Oberyn.”

“Daisy,” Y/N managed to say, her mind buzzing for more than one reason. “Please.”

Daisy huffed and shook her head but said nothing else, pulling the linens a little tighter than necessary across the featherbed.

“We must go,” Ellaria said as she stepped to Y/N’s side again and pressed a slow kiss to the side of her mouth. “When you are able, tell one of the men at the door. They will lead you to us.”

“Must you leave?” Y/N asked. She reached out to grasp one of Ellaria’s hands but stopped as pain racked her body, pulling at the wound in her shoulder.

“We have been far too selfish with you today already. You need rest. True rest without the Poppy pulling you into darkness. We are not leaving the capital until this is finished.”

She should have asked what they meant. What they needed to finish. But Oberyn had pulled a silk scarf, black and stitched with yellow suns, from the folds of his robe and he gently tied it about her neck and then slipped her arm into it. “This will keep you still, help you to heal.”

The scarf smelled like him, of spice and sandalwood and warmth. Y/N stood and curtseyed, a little off balance with the sling, but Oberyn bowed just the same before taking her other hand and pressing a kiss to the pads of her fingers, taking a deep breath in through his nose to fill his lungs with her scent.

“Until we meet again, my lady.”

A/N: Well, there’s part two. There is a plot developing. I am thinking this entire story will be about eight chapters. What do you all think? I’d love to hear what you’d like to see, and what you hope happens. Thank you for reading. Also, if you’d like to be tagged, I’d be happy to do so. I’ve never done it before but I’d be happy to try! xx

[alwayschoosechocolate]

Symbols in the snow and kisses under the birch (jjk)

Genre: fluff, (tiny bit of angst implied), established relationship

Paring: reader x Jungkook

Word count: 3100

Putting all your faith in the first snow, leaves you disheartened and annoyed when there still hasn’t fallen a single snowflake by the 1st of December. Despite your normal agreement with Jungkook to decorate for Christmas together, you’re too stubborn to wait for the universe to give you a sign and decides to take fate into your own hands. Which is how Jungkook finds you, when he returns home from tour.

Taglist: @spookidema​ @jessicarhb​

A/N: The first christmas drabble is here, my loves! May it bring you at least as much peace and love as I felt while writing it 💕 The next drabble will be up this wednesday! The schedule and themes of the stories can be found in the master post for the drabbles. If you want to be added to the tag list for this little advent calender of drabbles, just let me know!

My other stories and drabbles can be found in my masterlist 

Huffing in annoyance of the sight of the absolute mess of a space you called your attic, you tip-toed across the room towards the bright red boxes in the back that you knew contained all of your Christmas decorations. Balancing your weight on one foot as you tried not to step on some of Jungkooks old exercise equipment, you could almost reach the handle on the top box. Mumbling out a string of curse words, you recalled the small argument you had had last year after Jungkook placed the boxes against the backwall. He knew you couldn’t reach them there, but he had promised to be home to help you put up the decorations this year. And yet he wasn’t here. Sure, you had planned on putting them up next weekend, but you needed them up now and nothing was gonna change that. Not even him being away for a concert.

Still stretched out towards the boxes, you accidently knocked over another box labeled ‘Winter clothes’ in Jungkooks neat writing, sending it a defiant glance as its content spilled out over the descending staircase. Your eyes followed the clothes’ tumbling flight down the stairs and you let out an annoyed sigh. Not like it mattered anyway. Despite your hopes and prayers there still hadn’t been even a millimeter of snow this year. Thus, the early Christmas decorations.

Finally reaching the box, you let out a triumphant roar as you carefully freed it from the surrounding boxes and cradled it to your chest, as you made your way down the staircase now hidden under the coats, scarfs and hats. Placing the box in the middle of the living room, you stretched out your back for a bit as you looked around the house you had called home for almost three years now. It was decorated fairly simple, since none of you were big on trinkets. The walls were bare say for some frame photographs of family and friends. Returning the happy smiles from the photos, you connected your phone to the speakers to put on your Christmas playlist. Failing to contain the wide grin from settling on your face as you heard the first notes of ‘The Christmas Waltz’, you let yourself be carried away by the music as you started putting up the decorations.

As Jungkook walked through the door some time later, it only took him a second to figure out what was going on. He could hear the music even before reaching the door, and the smell of cinnamon and cloves hit him the moment he opened it.

An almost giddy love for Christmas was something you both shared, which is why decorating the house usually was an activity you cherished doing together. Typically, you wouldn’t put up any decorations until the first snowfall, which was another Christmas tradition of yours. Watching it together. Despite your non-Korean heritage, it had become one of your favorite Christmas traditions and you knew it was one of Jungkooks as well.

But the missing snow this year had postponed your decorations quite a bit and it had put a severe dimmer on your usual happy self. He knew it would only be a question of time before you put up the decorations – with or without snow, you wouldn’t enter December without Christmas decorations in your home.

As he made his way to the living room, he found your figure a top a chair trying to secure a mistletoe over the door leading into the kitchen. Observing you for a bit, he let his gaze follow the curve of your body as he felt that familiar feeling of home settling in his chest. As always, your presence immediately put him at easy and he felt the stress of the last few days of travelling and schedules melt away as a giddy grin settled on his face.

When the chair wobbled a bit, he quickly stepped up to wrap his arms securely around your legs, making you squeal in surprise.

“Watch out, babe,” he mumbled with a grin against your thighs, making you giggle in joy when you recognized his voice and the feel of his arms around you. “You shouldn’t do stuff like this, when I’m not around to catch you if you fall.”

Looking up at you he tightened his hold on your thighs, lifting you off the chair as he spun you around slowly to the song playing in the background. Supporting yourself on his shoulders, you sent him a happy smile, earning a soft bunny smile back, as he slowly loosened his hold on you, allowing your body to move closer to the ground and your face closer to his.

As your feet reached the ground, you let your fingers get tangled in his hair as your eyes roamed his face, taking in those features you loved so dearly.

“Welcome home, baby,” you smiled at him, before leaning forward to pluck a kiss from his lips, making his eyes light up in a smile. “ I missed you,” you added, as you tucked some hair behind his ear, a habit you had picked up from when he had his long hair.

“I missed you more.” He connected your lips in a long overdue kiss, sighing in content at that familiar taste of you. Tugging on your sweater, he pulled you flush against his chest and let his hands rest on the curve of your back. “I see you started decorating without me?”, he teased with a wink, as he threw a look around the room. “But I only see one mistletoe? That sure is a downgrade from last year.”

Giggling at his dry comments, you softly scratched at his scalp and smiled blissfully as you saw his eyes flutter shut for a moment, before he reached for your hands and pinned them against his chest.

“Don’t distract me, young lady,” he scolded in a poor attempt of dismay as the sparkles in his eyes intensified. “You know, this is our thing. Decorating the house has always been something we do together,” he reprimanded, although his words had no real weight behind them, as he was pressing featherlight kissed to your knuckles in-between his words.

“I know, but I couldn’t wait any longer,” you whined, not even attempting to free your hands from Jungkooks grasp. “It still hasn’t snowed, but I will not go one more day without our decorations. I’m telling you, guk. If I can’t have snow, at least I will have my tree and decorations up.”

“There’s my girl,” Jungkook smiled at your decisive tone, as he let go of your hands to cradle your face and press a kiss to your lips. “Do you need any help?”

“You’re not mad?”, you asked in bewilderment as you watched him walk over to peer into the box, you had brought down from the attic.

“Of course not,” he chuckled as he roamed through the box. “You’ve been waiting for the first snowfall for almost a month now. Expecting you to wait another week was foolish of me. I mean, this is the girl, who couldn’t even wait for our first date to end, before you were planning the next one,” he laughed, making your cheeks heat up at the memory.

“Can you blame me? You kept talking about your neighbor who wouldn’t stop asking you out,” you reminded him with a reminiscent smile. “I needed to make sure, you wouldn’t come home after our first date and forget about me.”  

As he looked up from the box of decorations, he couldn’t help but smile at the pout you were sporting, making his heartbeat pick up.

“I would never,” he spoke softly, letting the few items he had picked up fall back into the box, so he could walk over and take you in his arms, feeling a sudden need to have you close. “I’m so happy you saw through all my bullshit back then and took a chance me,” he whispered against your lips as he took out all his pent-up emotions and feelings on your lips. Feeling you whimpering against him, he wrapped his arms tighter around you as he felt your body melt against his. He felt your fingers tugging at his nape, drawing him impossibly closer to you as you sighed against his lips.

“Wait,” you exclaimed, suddenly drawing back and leaving Jungkook pouting at the missing contact. “Decorations. Please, guk. I really need them up.”

Cocking his head at your whiny tone, he took in your slightly distressed features and reached up to cup your cheek.

“Why do you need them up right now, babe?”

“I just…” shrugging your shoulders, you tried avoiding his observing eyes. “I just wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit and it hasn’t even snowed, and I just need something to feel like it is actually December and not any other month.”

Instead of questioning you further, Jungkook simply gave you a subtle nod before pulling you close and placing a light kiss on at your temple.

“I’ll go get the rest of the boxes from the attic,” he spoke against your skin, making your eyes flutter shut in content. He always knew when to support you without question and when to push you. Despite the long stretches of time you spent apart, he was always the perfect partner for you. When he was home at least.

“Did you have a fight with our coats?”, he snorted, as he was met with the chaos that was currently the staircase leading up to the attic.

“No,” you whined, unable to contain the giggle from spilling from your lips. “I was punishing them for being useless. They should feel ashamed.”

Shaking his head in amusement at your words, he cleared the staircase before retrieving the remaining boxes from the attic.

You could faintly hear him roaming around the attic over the sound of ‘Santa Clause is coming to town’ and you felt yourself calm down and the comfortableness of having Jungkook home expand your heart. Home wasn’t really home, when he wasn’t there with you and just hearing him somewhere in the house made you feel more at home as well.

Humming along to the song, you continued putting up the decorations, smiling softly when you heard him cursing about the boxes, as he descended the stairs.

“Look, when we pack the boxes away this year, I’ll listen to you,” he huffed in defeat as he placed the two boxes on the floor. “It took me forever to get them out from the back.”

“Thank you for getting them down for me, babe,” you smiled at him, as you placed a sweet kiss to his cheek, before busying yourself with the content of the boxes.

Jungkooks hand fell comfortably to your hip as he leaned over the box with you, looking through the content.

“Oh, here are the other mistletoes!”, he exclaimed, pulling the tangled mess out of the box and holding it above your heads. “Kiss?”

As you pressed a kiss to his lips without hesitations, he rewarded you with a bunny smile.

“See, this is why we do the decorations together.”

“So you can steal kisses from me every 5 minutes?”, you asked dryly, although you loved his playfulness.

“Exactly. And there are at least 3 mistletoes here, so you owe me two more kisses, missy,” he smirked, dangling the mistletoes again.

Mirroring his smirk, you threw yourself against his body, making him stumble back a bit in surprise and drop the mistletoe, so he could catch you. Feeling him smile against your lips, you heart was swelling with happiness at how easy you got back to being you after he had been gone on tour. You let your hands roam his back and felt him tightening his hold on you as he deepened the kiss.

Drawing back for air, you locked eyes with him and sighed deeply.

“I missed you,” you smiled softly through a comfortable smile.

“You’re being really cute today, babe. Everything okay?”

Nodding at him, as he tugged some hair behind your ear, you felt your heart swell with love at how attentive he was with you. Maybe you were overthinking things.

“I’m good. Just missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he smiled at you, earrings dangling as he cocked his head a bit. “I’m so happy to be home.”

He pulled you close for a hug, caressing your back as he hooked his chin over the top of your head and let you rest your head against his chest, so you could hear his heartbeat. Closing your eyes for a second, you breathed in his scent and felt the comfortable warmth emanating from his body. Drawing a heavy sigh, you opened your eyes again. Looking out the window you were met with…

“Snow!”, you exclaimed, quickly untangling yourself from his embrace to run to the window. “It’s snowing,” you giggled, beaming back at Jungkook with sparkling eyes. “It’s finally snowing.”

Grabbing his wrist and dragging him outside, you ignored his weak complaints as you stopped in the middle of the garden, turning towards him and giggling once more at the feeling of the cold ground under your feet.

“It’s snowing, babe,” you repeated, this time in a softer voice as you craned your neck to take in the beautiful snowflakes falling around you, missing the way Jungkooks face turned soft as he took in your features.

“I was afraid it wouldn’t happen this year,” you half-whispered, half-giggled as the flakes landed on your outstretched hand. Suddenly hit with a wave of emotions, you looked up at Jungkook and felt the tears pressing in the corner of your eyes. “I’m so happy you made it home for this.”

“Is that what this is all about?”, he asked, voice laced with concern as he stepped up to you to pull you into a hug.

“It’s just… we’ve both been so busy lately and I was afraid that we were drifting apart a bit. But we’ve always been together for the first snow, and I just felt like we needed a sign,” you admitted, your voice muffled against his sweater.

“A sign of what?”

“That we should stay together.”

Hearing his sharp intake of breath, you immediately regretted telling him your concerns.

“No, listen. I want to be with you,” you spoke in a sure voice as you held him close by his sweater. “I do. I love you and I love us. But it’s been tough lately, right? You gotta admit that it’s been tough, Kook. It’s just…” Taking a deep breath you looked up to see his eyes already a bit misty and his jaw tensed. You hated seeing him cry. It was endearing seeing him cry over a song or a movie, but when you were the one causing it, it felt like all air had been punched out of your lungs. It was unbearable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“But you’ve been upset,” he countered with a knowing look, tightening his hold on you as if afraid you would slip away from him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we’ve both been so busy. There wasn’t really anything that could be done.” Your voice was soft, but not weak. This wasn’t a defeat, more a confession. Despite Jungkooks crazy schedule as an idol and your own work burden, you had never actually had any trouble making your relationship work. Allowing each other the space you needed for your careers and other friends, your relationship had remained a sturdy haven for you, when life was flying at warp speed around you. But lately your time spent in that haven had decreased severely.

“And you needed the snow to convince you, that we should stay together?”

His voice broke your train of thoughts and when you met his eyes, they were clear and stubborn.

“Well, you taught me that seeing the first snow together means we will have a long and happy relationship together,” you reminded him.

“Y/n, I told you that because you were so hesitant in the first few months of our relationship, and I know you always look for signs,” he admitted with a slight giggle. “I checked the weather forecasts for weeks to make sure I didn’t miss it. Didn’t you wonder, why we were out almost everyday during those days?”

Taken aback by his confession, you thought back to the first winter of your relationship. You had gone skating, taken long walks together, visited Christmas markets and a thousand other activities, which sure enough all happened to be outside.

“Ya,” you exclaimed, lightly hitting his chest and earning a chuckle from the man, who had been way more cunning than you thought. “You tricked me! I can’t believe this!”

Unable to keep your own bubbling laughter from escaping, you looked up at Jungkook with sparkling eyes and found his own twinkling back at you.

“You really think I would let the weather decide our relationship?”, he chuckled, although you felt the sincerity behind his words. “I love you. With or without snow. With or without Christmas decorations. Always. I promise, I’ll be better at showing it. And I will find all the signs I can to put in your way, so you will never doubt it again.”

“Guk,” you whispered and raised yourself on your toes so you could give him a soft peck on the lips. “I love you too. I’m sorry I doubted us.”

Smiling softly at you, he reached down to cup your thighs and by instinct you jumped into his arms. Sliding his hands further back, he cupped your ass giving it a light squeeze as he sent you a mischievous grin.

“It’s okay, babe. Guess I’ll just have to be better at showing you. Oh, and what’s this?”, he asked innocently with a cheeky smirk as he looked up. “A mistletoe? That’s a sign! We should kiss!”

Following his eyes upwards you snorted out a laugh.

“Guk, that’s birch tree, not a mistletoe,” you chuckled.

“Nah, babe. Trust me on this one. That is definitely a mistletoe, and if you don’t kiss me right now, you are working against the universe,” he countered, his smile growing wider with each word.

“You just want me to kiss you.”

“Yes, definitely. And preferably the entire night only interrupted by you gasping my name in pleasure,” he deadpanned as he started carrying you back to the house.

“Jungkook!”, you squealed in a giggle, before connecting your lips in an effort to shut him up, before the entire neighborhood heard him.

Endnote: Happy December 1st, everyone!