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sehaedazokla · 5 months ago

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he that dares

part one

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

warnings: grief mention

word count: 4k

a/n: here is the idea that has been plaguing my brain since i started this blog. more installments to follow. any comments, feedback, thoughts are always appreciated, especially since this is my first longer piece on here. thank you to whomever requested this. it is not exactly what you asked for, but rest assured the story shall eventually give you what you desire.

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The Tyrell girl finds herself with the distinct thought that there is absolutely nothing special about Cregan Stark after all.

She decides upon this in her quarters at King’s Landing, which are modest in size, almost befitting a young lady from a family as opulent as House Tyrell. The sheer silks of the curtains blow inwards gently in the face of the afternoon wind that drifts in from the open window, the slight smell of seawater and the remnants of a cooler day.

The girl in the vanity mirror gazes back at her with a delicately downturned chin and round doe eyes that look up underneath delicate wisps of long lashes. She gives the look another attempt, pressing her lips together slightly to give her a darling pout as she opens a small pot of rouge. The color comes from an ornate box that is covered in gilded roses and twisting thorns. Her fingernails tap gently on the edge of the metal as she opens the rouge with a soft click. With one of her fingers, she presses into the coloring only the slightest bit to pull some onto her skin.

Her plump lips are parted carefully as she raises her hand to dab the color to her mouth, leaning forward slightly. Some of her loose curls sway softly with the motion, and she rests her elbow against the edge of the vanity’s table. Once she has finished, she reaches down to open a drawer and produces a white lace handkerchief that is embroidered with the sigil of House Tyrell – a beautiful rose in shimmering golden silk. When she wipes her finger against the fabric, a light stain of pink is left behind.

She returns to her earlier judgement, regarding the young lord she is set to meet with shortly. Cregan Stark is heavy on her mind that day.

It was not too long ago that the Northern men had arrived in King’s Landing. Soon after followed their liege lord, the Lord of Winterfell, the man who holds the court at present. With him had come an even larger force and with that army he had seized control of the entire city in a very short manner of time. It would seem the young lord had every intention of continuing the war that had consumed the noble houses, much to the concern of House Tyrell.

The House is ran by a woman at present. The Tyrell girl thought of her mother briefly, and of her little brother Lyonel who was only two years of age. She knew her mother did not wish for the war to continue. That very mother had then told the girl that while this Northern lord maintained a firm hold on King’s Landing it was her responsibility to do what she did best: win him over.

There was little to complain about when the request was delivered to her. On the contrary, she had already predicted the wishes of her mother and had ensured she was in the throne room the moment Cregan Stark had first pushed those large doors open, blue eyes sharp and sword still in his hand as he led his bannermen in. It is with perfect clarity that she can recall the moment his head lifted to the balcony of the grand room, meeting her gaze for the first time.

She could additionally recall each and every following occurrence of the prolonged gaze they exchanged whenever they happened to cross paths. After a few instances of this, heavy looks where the Northern lord would hold her stare as if he had no intention of ever looking elsewhere again, she found his eyes began to wander. To the lady’s lace she occasionally wove into her elaborate hairstyles, to the small freshwater pearls that spilled over of her collarbones, and then down further to the way the embroidery at the top of her gowns would sweep across her breasts that were pushed upward by the tightness of her whalebone corsets.

And once an adequate trap had been laid, the Rose of the Court had swept in with angelic grace and poise to introduce herself to him. It had gone as smoothly as she could have expected – save for the way she had found Cregan Stark was smarter than she expected. The shine in his eyes when she’d spoken let her know that this Northern lord would not fall prey to her so easily.

Nevertheless, he has called upon her that afternoon. Which is why she is spending a rather grey day dabbing the subtlest of color onto her lips before smoothing her delicately arranged hair into place and informing her maid she is ready to depart.

They are to meet in the castle’s gardens, as per her own request. She had spent quite some time in the gardens during her time in King’s Landing, and found men were much more likely to deem a conservation there pleasant as it would reflect her scents of rose water and lavender oil and honey.

She catches sight of him as she makes her way down one of the pathways made of little rocks, her elegant heels tapping on the small, pearl-colored pebbles as she approaches. Lord Stark is facing away from her, his hands clasped behind his back. He is still dressed in dark colors but has opted against the heavy furs that had adorned his broad shoulders the first time she had seen him. His hair is a striking shade of red that when caught by sunlight shines almost golden about the edges. But this day, the sky is overcast and gloomy with a few gusts of wind and the faint smell of rain that perhaps foretold an incoming summer storm.

Cregan Stark turns as he hears her drawing nearer, his chin raising slightly as his stern gaze falls upon the Tyrell girl.

She has settled for a hurried step, the heavy skirts of her elaborate dress clutched in her petite hands as she rushes up to him rather quickly, bringing a natural red flush to her cheeks. As if she had been quite fretful over the idea of making him wait for even a moment. Her maid trails behind, grasping at the fluttering of her headdress that the wind plucks at in gusts. The maid is providing the girl with a small amount of distance as she stops to catch her breath in front of Cregan.

“I do hope I have not kept you waiting, Lord Stark,” The Tyrell girl begins, her shoulders rolling back elegantly as she speaks. The action draws further attention to the prominence of her collarbone, over which a thin necklace of gold lays. Her eyebrows raise and draw closer as she gives Cregan a honeyed and apologetic smile. The color of her lips is that of a blooming rose.

Cregan finds there are no shortages of places to look when it comes to her. And yet there is no safe place to rest his eyes upon, no part of her that has not been subtly enhanced or maneuvered to make her look as comely as might be possible. It is no wonder that she has enchanted half of his bannermen as if by some sort of spell, leaving longing eyes and craning necks in her wake as she glides about the court.

And Cregan cannot truthfully declare he is immune to her beauty. The only reason he has noticed so much regarding her is that he had been staring, all dry swallows and heavy-lidded eyes, at her since arriving. The way she made his blood rush hot in his veins, her face and figure more than pleasing. Cregan will not imagine – he is a gentleman, and she a highborn lady -but he could imagine, if he allows himself to, and he could imagine much whenever she enters his line of sight. She needn’t say a word to draw his eye.

He settles for looking into her eyes, although they are perhaps the most disarming feature on her dollish face.

“No, you have not Lady Tyrell.” There is a depth to his tone that she is not used to, even after a week of hearing Northern accents echoing down the halls of King’s Landing. He pronounces both her name and title by enunciating both syllables with a low timbre. She notices the way he intentionally kept his gaze to her eyes, his brows neutral and his features even. A proper Northern lord, perhaps. The girl will figure him out for herself soon enough.

“Oh, thank goodness,” She breathes the first word as a sigh of sweet relief, pausing for a moment to catch her breath since she had hurried so worriedly over to him. A hand comes to her chest, sliding over the top of her full breasts as she presses down to soothe her aching lungs.

Cregan’s eyes flick down.

“I would hate to be late. I know how busy you must be, what with all of your responsibilities here at King’s Landing,” There is that sweet smile again, breaking across her face like the sun through the sky in the early hours of the morning. When she folds her hands gracefully across her front, her cleavage comes together impossibly tighter as her arms press to her sides.

Cregan looks back up to her face, hand clenching lightly.

“Aye, I have been quite busy. Handling the remnants of Aegon’s supporters has proved a heavy task.” His eyes are light, reflective of the overcast sky above their heads. They narrow a bit as he speaks, his expression stern and his voice gruff. She wonders for a moment over how seriously he must take himself.

“A difficult yet vital task, verily.” The Tyrell girl’s eyelashes flutter lightly. She dips her head as if to acknowledge the severity and importance of his work at the capital.

He beholds her for a heartbeat, the slightest twitch of his heavy brows when she speaks with a tone that implies the most agreeable and sweet countenance. It is the perfect thing to reply with, a simple sentence that does not ally herself with either side of the war. An easy compliment given to him like candy. Here is a girl who has learned to play the game of court.

And before Cregan can push the subject further to see if he might glimpse a hint of her true opinion on the matter, the girl is already turning towards the path. He waits a moment while she begins to walk, observing the way she steps with effortless grace. Letting out a small sigh, his wide shoulders drop and he takes a few heavy steps to catch up with her.

The maid trails behind them, and Cregan wonders for a moment if she needs anything from the girl. As he glances over his shoulder, the girl catches notice and smiles, sugary and pleasant.

“How has the capital treated you, my lord? Aside from your important work, that is,” Her chin raises as she looks at him sideways. It is a fair way she has to look up, with the obvious height he has on her. She has never been considered tall, but even so, Cregan’s stature is quite imposing.

Cregan considers her words for a moment. The gardens are quiet, most of the lords and ladies inside to avoid the low clouds that hang precariously above them.

“The South is not much like the North,” He meets her eyes with a heavy gaze as he speaks. There is a heaviness about him in general – stern and disciplined. “I came for the war and find there’s one in every corner of your court.”

She keeps her eyes to the ground for a moment, her expression cool and pleasing. So it would seem Cregan Stark was not altogether empty-headed and boorish.

“Life at court can be quite turbulent at times, it is true,” A honey-tongued and cool concession, smooth as river water over rocks. “But your steadfast devotion to bringing justice is a refreshing presence. Others of your idealism have long since left these walls.”

At first glance, it is a compliment of the softest praise. But Cregan is not foolish enough to take her words for their immediate meaning. No, what Cregan hears instead is an unimpressed warning of what happens to those who come to King’s Landing with good intentions.

“I swore an oath and intend to keep it,” His brow creases in a serious frown. “Even should those I made that oath to no longer draw breath.”

“How very honorable,” Swift and candied, the words fall from her rosy lips as she walks gracefully at his side, finding herself with a flash of annoyance as she has to increase her pace to keep up with his wide steps. This is supposed to be a leisurely stroll, why is it that every step he takes has the length and intent of someone walking towards a particular destination? “It is good to know that the stories of Northern loyalty ring true.”

Cregan feels his jaw tighten slightly, his eyes on her face as she upturns her chin to meet his gaze once more. The look on her face implies she is impressed, but the Lord of Winterfell has an eye for falsehoods and this girl is covered in them, no matter how coquettishly smoothed they are.

A frown of contemplation folds onto his stern face. “It is our nature, my lady.”

“So it is.” A saccharine smile and the glitter of wide eyes. The garden’s flowers are in full bloom, upturned to the sky to catch the possible rain that would occur in the later evening. The petals facing the clouds, waiting, watching. Leaning towards the water they wish for. A small flutter of wings can be heard as a butterfly brushes past. “To be true to one’s nature, you will find, is not a common occurrence here at court. If it is Northern custom to be honest and straightforward, it is Southern custom to be prudent and waiting.”

There is an eloquent way of describing the venomous snake pit that was the capital. Most of the men there came for their own personal interest or gain, clawing to the top of the food chain through underhanded tactics and broken oaths and lies. Most men worked their entire lives for a fragment of what Cregan Stark had come to King’s Landing and taken in one day.

“Therefore, you must imagine why you are so fascinating to many of us here at court.” She explains in a tone of light and airy amiableness, meeting his gaze as if admitting why she had been staring after him so often since his arrival at King’s Landing. This is not exclusively a lie – she was sizing him up, same as every other noble who cared enough to keep an eye on the larger game at play. But some of her staring had been purely self-indulgent, much to her own irritation.

“And you have lived here at court long?” Cregan’s question is reserved and polite.

“A couple of years now,” The Tyrell girl looks out in front of her again while they walk, surveying the gardens around them thoughtfully as if she had not seen them a thousand times. “I served as a lady in waiting to Queen Helaena. The Hightowers are bannermen of House Tyrell and I had been betrothed to her younger brother Daeron from his birth. We had been set to marry this year, however…”

She could not care less about her betrothal to Daeron. It had served her well, allowing her more time to live unmarried as Daeron was much younger than her and the two had never met. And then he had died, and she found herself lacking the safety and security of a royal and wealthy betrothed who was miles away. She wishes she could say she had mourned him, but she had not known him at all.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Tyrell.” There is an almost warm quality in his voice as Cregan offers his sincere condolences. She looks down, as she knows she should. Many had given her similar sentiments in regard to the loss of her betrothed, but she did not find herself shedding a single tear for the fallen prince. It is not that there had been no love between them: it is that there had been nothing between them at all. Daeron had never so much as written her a single letter in an attempt to know her. But his sister plagues her thoughts.

Helaena had been a dear friend, a companion, a confidant. It was Helaena who had offered the girl company in that first frightening year at court, who had been unfaltering honest and direct with her. There were no court games or schemes at play with Helaena, no power struggles or competition or backstabbing. The Tyrell girl had been devastated to lose the Queen. Much more so than a stranger she had never even laid eyes upon. Daeron was a figment of imagination from the mind of her childhood self; Helaena had been flesh and blood and dreams and understanding.

She is glad her eyes are downcast; she can feel the glassy haze falling over them and the way her smile lacks any warmth. After a moment, she forces a happier smile back upon her lips and dips her head slightly.

“I thank you, Lord Stark. It has been difficult in the face of such a loss, but I do hope to persevere.” The brightness of her voice lowers to a softer tone. She is well used to pretending to mourn her late betrothed. It is not hard when she simply examines her feelings over Helaena, but such raw and angry grief is not befitting of a lady. No one wishes to see her scream and tear at her hair over the pain that rakes carved, hollow cavities into her chest. They wish for a light dab at a stray tear, a quiet, palatable sadness they can soothe with promises of future love and happiness.

Cregan does not know what to make of her reaction, unable to see her face as it is turned away. Her words are even, practiced.

“I have only spent my time between the capital and Highgarden. There is much of the world I have yet to see,” The Tyrell girl guides the conversation back to Cregan’s original question with ease and experience. She catches his stormy eyes gazing intensely at her once more, sucking in a gentle breath that she wishes she could say is done on purpose to feign interest.

“I imagine I might fair poorly in the North,” She continues hurriedly, eyelashes fluttering as she regains control over her composure, eyes cast to the sky as she presents a sheepish breath of laughter. “With the cold and what not.”

Cregan’s lips twitch faintly at her admission, his head tilting a little as he gazes down at her. It is an amusing thought, this delicate rose in her pastel fabrics and shining jewelry among the ice and snow. He rather wishes to see it, he finds.

“Aye, I fear even our summers would prove challenging for those raised in such fair climate.” The amusement reaches his eyes and she finds herself watching as Cregan looks down, doing his best to remain a gentleman and fighting off the smile that seems to be threatening to break out at the corners of his lips. She hears what his words truthfully mean: he views the Southerners as weaker, used to sunshine and easy days.

Does he fancy himself better because he spent all his time in nightmarish weather, buried under pelts and furs and smelling of sweat and snow? She is eager to see how he’d fare in court without the large army he had brought with him.

“Oh, I simply could not bear it,” She sighs deeply, as if even the thought of such bitter cold was too worrying a predicament to bear in her delicate mind. “I am afraid you shall not be seeing me in the North anytime soon, Lord Stark.”

“A pity, my lady,” There is still a measure of serious composure in his face, but Cregan’s eyes shimmer with something else as he watches her bring her hand to her chest again, smoothing down the expensive fabrics and then up over the soft flesh of her breasts. An action that feigns worry and concern and draws his attention. She has a way of leading the eye about in a subtle manner. Her figure gives him pause. “The North offers a great beauty for those who choose to brave it.”

Her eyes flick to his and there is a moment where Cregan can almost see her sharp mind discerning whether his comment is a challenge or a jab or merely an observation. It fascinates him, yet his face betrays nothing of the thought.

“Perhaps I should amend my previous statement,” The soft laugh that escapes her lips and the sweetness of her expression makes Cregan wonder if he has imagined something. “If my lord was so kind as to offer me an invitation to Winterfell, I would, of course, be honored beyond words.”

Cregan wonders for a moment if he can discern her true intentions. She intrigues him, much more than she should. It was her alone of all the Southern ladies who had approached him directly, introducing herself and offering welcome. Cregan knows it is not from the goodness of her heart. She could fool his bannerman with her wide eyes and friendly smiles, but Cregan was attuned to lies, no matter how beautifully they were spun. Attuned, yet perhaps not immune to their crafter.

It is likely she seeks marriage, now that her betrothed has fallen in battle. Cregan is a perfect candidate. But he cannot be sure, not when she’s blinking up at him with such sweet and thoughtful eyes. Her weapons are great and her skill with them is more so. Before Cregan can open his mouth to mention that he would in fact, wish to see her with rosy cheeks bitten from the cold and snowflakes in her soft hair, she casts her eyes to the sky, frowning thoughtfully.

“It would seem that the evening storm is rolling in sooner that anticipated,” She muses, sighing a little, as if she is truly saddened their stroll is coming to an end. They have almost walked to the end of the gardens anyhow. “I shall excuse myself, if you do not mind, Lord Stark.”

Cregan lowers his head in understanding, his eyes meeting hers as he lifts his chin. He holds the stare for longer than needed. “Go ahead, my lady. I would hate to see you caught in the rain. You might melt.”

She blinks, that sweet smile on her lips but not quite reaching her eyes as she feels her jaw tighten slightly. How utterly charming. As if to subtly let her know he has not fallen for a single thing she has said or done in the last hour. She imagines he finds that amusing.

“How kind of you, my lord.” She offers him through a mildly forced grace, her right eye twitching a little as she gives a deep curtsy that once again showcases just how fortunately she is blessed in the bosom. Cregan finds his mouth dry, his shoulders rolling back slightly. “Do not hesitate to call upon me should you need anything at court. I hear it can be quite challenging for those raised in such fair company.”

When she draws herself up, she gives him one last smile before she turns to collect her maid and disappears.

Cregan hears his own words shot back at him with the most amiable and honeyed cadence but realizes a moment too late. He runs a hand through his red hair and then over his face as he sighs. But as he does so, he feels the ghost of a smile on his lips. Cregan finds himself shaking his head, gazing in the direction she has vanished into for a long moment in silence.

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lovesickeros · 1 year ago

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☆ even the gods bleed

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, injury, light angst {☆} word count 2.3k

What was justice?

Focalors had asked herself that question many times during the long nights she spends awake pouring over the prophecy of a dead God, words replaying in her mind like a broken record until the sun rose like a blooming flower.

She was the God of Justice, an Archon, yet she herself lacked the answer to such a simple and yet so very complex question.

How does one define what is just and what is not? How does she know that what she believes to be just is right? Is it justice if one being alone may sway the scales of justice on a whim? What justice is there to be found in the cold, watery grave that awaits her nation?

She does not know.

Perhaps she may never know.

What she does know, at least, is that this is not justice.

It is a mockery of it.

She stands before the bloodied, broken body like the judge, her sword held so tightly in her hand her fingers feel stiff, a dull ache adding to the weight of what she's seen. For a long, horrible moment she almost thinks they are dead – something she would have reveled in, only a day prior – before she sees the subtle rise and fall of their chest. Breathing, but barely.

The rain felt heavier upon her shoulders at the realization – she was not sure if it was in relief or horror.

Her nails dig into her palm, mind stuck somewhere between that abject horror and confusion so palpable she swore she could hear the gears in her head turning.

For a long, silent moment as she stares upon the body beneath the heavy rain..she wonders if this is how it all ends instead. If the world itself will simply crumple in on itself and cease – without its heart, it will wither, after all – long before the waters ever swallow her nation whole.

Because, try as she might to rationalize it, for every drop of rain that hits her like pins and needles, soaking her down to the bone..the body of the imposter is completely dry. Even the water pooling along the stones dares not to leave so much as a splotch against their ragged, torn clothes.

She remembers the meeting so very clearly, and she thinks she is a fool to not have noticed sooner – the Creator upon their gilded throne, finger pointed in accusation at the visage far too similar to their own. The imposter. She remembers the lilt of their voice as they called for their death as easily as one would speak of the weather – and to no one other then herself would she admit the spark of fear it had ignited within her. Because beneath the divine charade there was a sick enjoyment in the way they looked upon the imposter – like a bug beneath their shoe.

She understands, now.

She had thought that perhaps finally – finally – she could do right by her people, by her Creator, if she rid Teyvat of this..intrusion.

Now she sees herself as what it all really is – blind lambs following the herder.

Perhaps she would be considered a heretic under the eyes of the law – beneath the weight of justice, heavy as the heart that bears its sins. Perhaps this is a mistake, one she would come to regret.

But for now, she sheathes her blade with unsteady hands, the sound making her ears ring – for what she had almost done, what she had already done – as she stumbles like a newborn lamb towards the broken body of..

..What, exactly? Human? Divine? She is not so sure what to call them. Creator? No. The name is bitter upon her tongue, now, burning like liquid flame down her throat.

Where once she had spoken it in reverence and admiration, it felt hollow and empty, now.

Her vision wavers as she kneels down against the rain soaked stones, the rain upon her back growing heavier as she reaches a shaky hand forth – and for a moment, however brief, she feels the weight of expectation, of a title she fears she may never live up to, wash away with the waters that fall from the heavens.

The bruises and blood smeared across their skin are like strokes of a paintbrush, their body the canvas from which such horrid art is created. It makes her ill.

Doubt wavers her composure briefly – her position is already unsteady. She has never been seen as an equal to many of the other Archons. Her own people do not see her as their Archon, but an actor in a grand play that they shall simply toss aside and replace like a broken doll the moment she bores them.

What does she have left to lose?

She reaches out again, her hand settling onto their shoulder and turning them onto their back. She..isn't sure what to do, actually. She's never been particularly physically capable – she tended to avoid fights, even if she oft provoked them – and she was certainly no healer.

Yet what choice does she have but to march on anyway? She is in the heart of the city, it is far more dangerous here then anywhere else..she had little time to make her move.

Fontaine was, after all, a nation founded on the principle of justice. To know an injustice has been made against the most Divine..the entire nation was in a frenzy.

Her eyes dart around nervously, hands clasped tight on their shoulders and her lips drawn into a taut line – someone would notice her absence. One of the Archons would point out her absence in the coordination of the search.

Her options were just as limited as her time – she couldn't just take them out of the city. Security was tight, and as much as she fancied herself an escape artist – Neuvillette could hardly keep her in one place for too long – she doubted she could do the same with the limp body of the imposter in tow.

..The Palais Mermonia it was, then.

Her room had a secret entrance that few knew about, and even fewer would dare to traverse. She just..had to hide them there for a bit and hope Neuvillette wouldn't notice anything different.

Probably.

Still, there was the problem of actually..transporting the body. As grim as it sounded. Her only solace was the fact she didn't have to worry about them catching a cold, at least, and their breaths were still audible, if only barely. So she had to resort to some..unexpected methods.

Seeing the limp form of, well, the imposter – she'd really have to ask for something else to call them when they woke up – stuck in a bubble of hydro wasn't exactly on her bucket list.

Then again, neither was treason.

Well, first time for everything, right?

It wasn't breaking the law if no one else knew about it.

..Neuvillette didn't have to know about it, really. It was fine.

She could, of course, technically try to talk some sense into Neuvillette – he'd listen to her, right? She thought she was pretty close with him..but he was also the one person more obsessed with justice then she was. Such a stickler for the law..so maybe she's breaking a few, it's fine.

But he was also pretty devout, as much as he tried to keep his worship private – with Focalors around, nothing was really secret. Maybe she could get him to settle down long enough to prove it.

..How was she going to prove it?

An exaggerated groan escaped her lips as she led the bubbled imposter – she really wished she didn't have to resort to that, it would be a lot a more awkward to explain then dragging the body around – through the winding streets of Fontaine. She's just glad she's already memorized the entire city like the back of her hand..and a little dramatics went a long way. People listened when the Hydro Archon spoke, and she was suddenly very, very glad for that fact, even if they treated her more like a mascot then a God.

And partially because she, maybe, just a little..stole a few documents detailing the layout and a little personal exploration of her own – but what Neuvillette didn't know couldn't hurt him!

After what felt like hours, though was really no more then half an hour at best, she'd managed to drag herself – soaked to the bone with rain – and the conveniently bubbled imposter up through the secret entrance and into her room.

The perceived safety, as flimsy as it was, was..comforting. Until she heard the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat and the pop of a bubble as she, in her surprise, popped it – and then the thud of the imposter hitting the floor.

She felt a bit of regret about that part, at least, wincing.

"Lady Furina." His voice was as sharp and cool as she remembered it always being – like fresh spring water, she'd heard it described. Soothing. It did not feeling very soothing right about now.

She turned sharply on her heel, a forced smile tugging at her lips on reflex, every muscle in her body tensed – she probably looked like a wet cat right about now, soaked with rain, but that was the last thing on her mind.

"Do you mind explaining what, exactly, you did?" Not what you're doing, she notes – what she did. He was mad. Oh, she was really in for a scolding now. She twiddled her thumbs, laughing weakly, though it quickly dies out at the awkward, tense silence.

"Well, you see – it's rather complicated! I can– I can explain." Her attempts to diffuse are met with a raised brow and the sharp tap of his cane. Every single thought is plagued with the urge to run, but the unsteady breathes of the 'imposter' keep her rooted in place. "Well?"

She was sweating bullets, her nails digging into her palm as she scrambled for any excuse that could warrant her not getting hauled off and scolded thoroughly at best – she was coming up empty. How was she supposed to prove that the 'imposter' was very much not what the 'Creator' said they were? Their unconscious body was doing no one any favors, certainly.

"The Creator is lying," She blurts out, immediately regretting her impulsiveness when she feels the sudden weight of his stare – the piercing hues of his eyes that remind her just who is the strongest between them. It is not her, she knows. It never has been. "You can see for yourself! Don't you trust me, Neuvillette–?"

Her voice is cut off by the sharp click of his cane as he strides across the room in only a few steps, his height making her feel like a child about to scolded. She hated it, but she grit her teeth through the exchange. She reminded herself that this was for the sake of the 'imposter' and any affront to her ego was..tolerable.

To her credit, too, she didn't immediately lash out when she saw him poke at their body with his cane, turning them onto their back – she wanted too, though. She considered it, but the thought was quickly shot down when his stare turned back upon her, and she felt frozen in place again, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth.

Yet she couldn't shake the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, his brows furrowed and a distant look to his eyes. It was..haunting, in a way.

She knows it well, she realizes. The realization and acceptance, the crumbling of every solid foundation you've ever known – leaving you to flounder in the waves, alone and afraid.

The gentleness in which he picks up the limp body surprises her though, his cane set aside. The rain howls like a horrid storm outside, but she cannot focus on anything but the furrow of their brows, the soft noise that escapes their lips.

"I trust that you know that this must stay between us," His voice is soft, like the gentle lap of waves against the shore, as he sets their body down against the bed, his hand lingering against their cheek with something almost like reverence – and if her eyes do not deceive her, affection. "Lady Furina."

She does not hesitate to agree.

"Well– well of course!" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at the feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, a heavy weight that feels like it's dragging her down. "Just what do you take me for?"

He doesn't deign to respond.

It only makes her fume more.

Not that he seems to notice, unbuttoning his heavy outerwear and tossing it on the bed, rolling up his sleeves and focusing on the injured– er..yeah, she really needed a new name for them. Calling them imposter felt wrong.

"So long as you understand, then we will have no problems." She huffs again, pouting and puffing up her cheeks, sitting down on the other end of the bed with only an occasional glance towards him as he worked at peeling away the ragged clothes and examining the injuries marring their skin.

She suddenly felt out of place.

..What was she supposed to be doing?

As if noticing her sudden quietness, Neuvillette sighed, his back turned to her though his attention very much falling upon her. She really hated the feeling like she was being dissected whenever he looked at her. It was unnerving. She doesn't know how anyone else handles it..

"If you are so eager to do something, Lady Furina, then please have something brought up for when our..guest awakens. They will need to recover their strength."

Finally! Something she can do. She perks up, her heels clicking on the floorboards as she darts out like a bullet, unable to stay still for so much as a moment.

Neuvillette, for his part..

Feels an odd sense of serenity as he stares upon the troubled features of the..guest. A peace that lessens the burdens upon his shoulders, the weight of a nation upon his back.

He cannot hear the rain, anymore.

..It must have stopped.

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #fic tag #imposter au #focalors #furina #neuvillete #a family can be a dragon an archon and his 300 other children who reverse adopted him #u date him its a package deal sorry #u now have like 300 children g-dspeed #also tagged spoilers on neuvi's part bc its kinda a spoiler??? sort of #also this can be read as platonic or romantic on neuvi's part #can u tell i like focalors btw :)#also gonna be swapping between focalors/furina bc SOMEONE sent me a theory and it sent me spiraling im gonna be ill #u know who u r and ur days r numbered #can be read as romantic between reader & neuvi but only bc i know focalors rubs it in his face she found the actual creator first #anyway can u tell focalors is my fav pt2 i wont shut up abt her its terminal atp #focalors..................#anyway *doesnt post fr months. randomly drops a 2k word fic. leaves and doesnt elaborate*#starts out v serious ends v silly #wrote this in one sitting im gonna go pass out now gn

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goldsainz · 2 months ago

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# HIGH INFIDELITY — CHAPTER TWO !

SERIES MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ rafe’s feelings are conflicting, both for him and for you.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ nothing, i think.

003. NOTE !

✯ kinda filler (but not actually) chapter

word count : 1,6k words

Rafe Cameron likes to pretend that nothing in the world can hurt him, that nothing can truly bother him. Though he does hate, and he hates a lot. He hates the shrill sound of Rose’s voice, he hates the expectations Ward places on him, but most of all, he hates not having control. And tonight, at the party at Tannyhill, it feels like control is slipping through his fingers.

The party is everything Rafe Cameron loves and hates about his life rolled into one. On the surface, it’s perfect—just the right mix of chaos and control. The music is loud enough to drown out any awkward silences, the drinks flow as freely as the insults behind polished smiles, and every person in the room knows their place, even if they won’t admit it.

Rafe thrives in this world, the effortless ruler of his gilded kingdom, but tonight something is off. His usual sense of control feels… frayed, like a taut wire on the verge of snapping. He leans casually against a wall, scanning the room, and his jaw tightens when his eyes land yet again on Joshua Diaz.

Josh has always been likable in that unassuming, easygoing way—popular without being cocky, charming without trying. It’s infuriating, really, how people just gravitate toward him, and now you have fallen for his charm too. Because of course you have.

Rafe’s eyes follow you both as you weave through the crowd, your laughter bubbling up every time Josh leans in to whisper something. It’s a sound that cuts through the haze of noise, sharp and impossible to ignore. And Rafe hates that he notices it.

He tells himself it’s not jealousy. It’s something else—something easier to swallow, like irritation. Annoyance at Josh for bringing her here, into his space, when you so clearly don't belong. You’re a Pogue, for crying out loud. What is Josh even thinking?

But deep down, Rafe knows it’s not just about you being a Pogue. It’s the way you carry yourself, like you're unaware of the lines you’ve crossed just by stepping into his house. Like you don't care. It’s the way you laugh, uninhibited and real, in a way that no one in his world ever does. It’s the way you look at Josh, eyes bright and full of warmth that Rafe hasn’t seen directed at himself in years.

It’s maddening.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed over his chest, as he watches Josh place a hand on her back, guiding her through the crowd with ease. Rafe clenches his jaw, a low simmer of frustration building in his chest.

What does he see in you?

The question gnaws at him, and he hates that he’s even asking it. Hates that he’s wasting mental energy on a girl who should be nothing more than a passing annoyance. Yet he can’t stop watching you, can’t stop the irrational churn of emotions every time you smile at Josh like he’s the only person in the room.

He convinces himself it’s not about you. It’s about Josh. It’s about protecting his friend from making a mistake, from getting too close to someone who could never understand their world.

You’re looking out for him, Rafe tells himself, though the words ring hollow.

Rafe tears his gaze away, forcing himself to look anywhere but at you. The room feels suffocating now, the press of bodies and the buzz of conversation blending into a dull roar in his ears. He grabs a drink from the table beside him, more out of habit than thirst, and downs it in one sharp gulp. The burn of alcohol barely registers; his mind is too tangled in thoughts he refuses to name.

It shouldn’t matter to him. You shouldn’t matter to him. Yet, as much as he tries to push the feelings down, they bubble up like a poison he can’t shake. Every laugh, every fleeting touch between you and Josh grates on him, a reminder of just how out of control he feels tonight.

And control is everything to Rafe Cameron.

He sets the empty glass down harder than necessary, drawing a glance from one of the partygoers nearby. He ignores it, his attention already drifting back to you despite himself. You're standing near the pool now, the soft glow of the lights casting a golden hue over your skin. Josh is still by your side, but his focus has shifted to someone else. You’re alone, if only for a moment.

The logical part of Rafe tells him to let it go, to stay where he is and let the night play out. But another part—a louder, more reckless part—urges him forward. Before he can second-guess himself, he’s moving through the crowd, weaving between groups of people with single-minded determination.

When he reaches you, you don’t notice him at first, your gaze fixed on the water as you swirl the drink in your hand. There’s a calmness about you, an ease that feels so foreign in this world of his. For a moment, Rafe hesitates, caught between wanting to ruin it and wanting to understand it.

“You look out of place,” he says finally, his voice low but cutting.

You turn, startled, and meet his eyes. There’s no fear there, no shrinking under his scrutiny. Instead, you raise an eyebrow, your lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“And yet, here I am,” you reply, seemingly unfazed.

The simplicity of your response throws him. Most people would stumble over themselves trying to appease him, but not you. You hold your ground, unbothered, and it both infuriates and intrigues him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words come out weaker than he intends.

“Neither should you,” you counter, tilting your head. “You don’t even look like you’re enjoying your own party.”

Rafe opens his mouth to respond, but for once, he’s at a loss. You’re not wrong—he hasn’t enjoyed a single second of tonight. Yet, as much as he wants to push you away, he finds himself rooted in place, unwilling to leave.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why Josh brought you here,” he says, falling back on the sharp edge of his words.

For a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Maybe you should ask him,” you say lightly. “Or is it easier to corner me instead?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to. For all his bravado, all his carefully crafted masks, he feels exposed under your gaze, as if you can see straight through him.

And he hates that too.

For a moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of the party muffled by the weight of the silence between you and Rafe. His sharp blue eyes hold yours, and though he tries to mask it, there’s something raw and unspoken lingering there—something that sets your nerves on edge and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Neither of you say a word, but the tension is palpable, stretching between you, ready to snap.

Then, like a switch being flipped, your expression changes. The barely-there softness in your gaze hardens. Without so much as a word, you turn your attention away from Rafe and lean into Josh. The move is deliberate, calculated, as if you’re making a point. You whisper something into Josh’s ear, your voice too low for Rafe to hear, but the intent behind it is clear.

Josh’s easy going demeanor shifts almost instantly. His brows furrow, and his head turns sharply in Rafe’s direction. There’s no mistaking the glint of surprise—and maybe a hint of irritation—in his eyes as they lock onto Rafe’s. Whatever you said, it’s enough to make Josh stand a little straighter, his shoulders squaring as he regards his friend with a newfound wariness.

Rafe stiffens under the weight of Josh’s gaze, his fists clenching at his sides. He feels exposed, like he’s just been caught in the act of something he can’t explain. The simmering frustration he’s been trying to suppress threatens to boil over, but he forces himself to stay composed. Barely.

Josh leans in closer to you, murmuring something he can’t quite catch, and you respond with a casual shrug, as if Rafe isn’t even worth a second thought. The sight of it—the ease with which you brush him off—grates on Rafe more than he cares to admit. It’s as if the two of you are speaking a language he doesn’t understand, leaving him on the outside looking in.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron feels like he’s lost control. And he hates it.

He hates that he can't tear his gaze away from the two of you as you weave once again through the crowd. Hates the way he barely moves from the spot he was standing, as if his feet are rooted to the floor by some invisible force, forcing him to watch you slip further away from him with each passing second.

The longer he watches, the more he feels himself unraveling. Every smile you share with Josh, every glance exchanged between the two of you, twists something inside him, something raw and unexplainable. He’s not supposed to care. He knows that. You’re just another person in his world, another blip in the endless sea of faces he can’t be bothered to remember. But tonight, it feels different.

And he can’t stand it.

#*ੈ✩༄ my works !#✶⋆*.ೃ high infidelity !#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron obx #rafe fanfiction #outer banks x reader #outer banks x you #outer banks x y/n #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks #obx

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cherrysha · 11 months ago

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Craving

Pairing: Vampire!Phinks x Reader

A/N: this was supposed to be short but it kinda got out of hand...also wanna thank True Blood for the whole 'vampire blood as an aphrodisiac' thing.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warning: Blood, Death, Allusions to Sex, (Phinks could be seen as yandere in this piece)

Hunger. Its the first thing he notices when he opens his eyes. All consuming, bubbling and burning away at his stomach to the point he feels sick. It’d only been a few days since Phinks ate, although the meal itself was more of a snack. He hadn't had the luxury of gorging himself, seeing as he was on the road and there were very few people passing by at that hour in the night.

He had resigned himself to emptying the veins of someone in a nearby village; although they were poor and Phink’s meal reflected that. Instead of the nutrient dense blood he was accustomed to, this man’s had the viscosity of water and left Phinks barely satiated.

At the moment, he wanted to roll over and satisfy his empty stomach with you. It was the easiest option, and he knew your blood to be of high quality; ensured it even, but the last time he fed from you, without slaking his overwhelming emptiness on someone else first, was all too fresh in his mind. Your hollowed eyes and exhausted body had shaken him to his core. Even now he can see your gaunt face flicker through his mind in warning.

Slowly, Phinks rose from the bed, whisper quiet as all of his kind were, before leaving your little cottage just as quietly.

The walk into the city would’ve taken a normal man hours. For Phinks it was barely long enough to reorient himself. The moon shone brightly on the weathered path, casting shadow in the ditches that wagon wheels had left in the dried earth. It had to be close to midnight, although the passage of time seemed torturously fast to him, he’d gotten acquainted with telling it through the cycles of the moon. Phinks had one more week with you before he had to report back to the troupe. He loathed leaving you, the easiest solution being to take you with him, but the idea of any other of his kind looking upon you, drinking from you, was abhorrent to him. No, bringing you with him opened up the possibility that he’d be forced to share; An idea he wasn’t keen on.

The routine of finding his first meal was easy enough. The streets were packed on warm summer nights such as this. People eager to partake in festivities that hadn’t enticed him for nearly a century. There were brothels, bars, and other unscrupulous places to choose from; but Phinks preferred to choose from the nearly empty buildings in the city.

A rich apartment complex had been built in the heart of town, over the sea of shantytowns that had, at one point, choked off the streets. Now, all that stood were regal, gilded buildings. The residents weren’t his target, no, they’d draw too much suspicion. He craved a filling meal and knew the guards would be all too easy. They were paid enough to be loyal, and that in turn meant they were fed well. He’d just have to set the scene.

Phinks enters the bar a little ways down the street from his targets as he does all things; with an air of smug arrogance that he’s been unable to shake since before he was undead. He fits in with the crowd, so much so that he’s not even questioned as he asks for an entire bottle of whiskey. As long as he’s got the coin to spare it doesn’t seem that the bartender cares. All to Phinks’ benefit. He empties half the bottle on the cobbled streets before returning to his hunt. He’d only need about half of it anyway, and knew better than to drink the swill himself.

No, the last time he’d tried drinking alcohol he’d vomited so much that Shalnark still mocked him for it. He hadn’t been a heavy drinker before turning, but he’d wanted a touch of normalcy. Food and drink tasted like ash in his throat, yet sweets and alcohol were the worst offenders. The memory makes Phinks grimace, quickening his steps as he heads down the road.

It takes mere moments before two guards are cornered in a dimly lit alley and Phinks snaps both of their necks. He didn’t want to cause any injuries that would spill his dinner onto the dirty cobblestone. He was too smart for that. Instead, he drank his fill before snatching one of their pistols. He aimed, pointing at one guard’s chest and the other’s head before firing. The whiskey was easily dumped into their open mouths and he used the rest to douse them. The bottle clinked against the ground as he admired his work. A late night brawl between the two would draw less attention than finding them dead with their veins sucked dry. The last thing he wanted was a monster hunter on his trail. Phinks quickly emptied their pockets before leaving. You could use the money. Buy yourself something good to eat that, he too, could enjoy.

By the time the moon hung bright in the sky, he’d drank enough to calm his stomach, although his mind was still racing. With his new meal came euphoria, the feeling accompanying the quenching of his hunger. It was during this time that his thoughts inevitably returned back to you.

He knew running full speed back to you was a waste of energy, but he did so anyway. The night was too perfect, the sky too peaceful to want to be anywhere but by your side.

He judged by the moon that he must make it back in record time. Maybe a quarter past one if he had to guess. It’d be around this time that you’d start to fidget in your sleep, maybe even wake yourself up in preparation to fulfill his needs. You did so every night, and although he spurned you by ignoring your requests to feed, tonight he’d indulge.

—

“It’s time.” Phinks calls to you, his curt tone belying a hint of annoyance that he didn’t truly feel. Unbeknownst to you he’d spent far too long just taking in your peaceful form, intent on studying the rise and fall of your chest that felt completely foreign to him at his age. Was there a time when he breathed like that? Out of sheer necessity instead of just having the instinctual urge from time to time? Phinks had copied your movements, breathing in sync with you as you dozed under the clear sky. He found that he enjoyed it, if not just for his senses being assaulted by your smell. He’d even leaned in closer to the juncture of your neck, had breathed in deeply and relished in the scent of blood pulsing just beneath your skin. The smell was exquisite, but what made his mouth water was how he was engulfed in a scent that was undeniably you.

You stir, groaning as you try to sit up, to gather yourself and answer his call. You knew him well enough now that ignoring him and continuing to sleep was not the best idea. Slowly, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before obediently waiting.

“We’re going outside.”

“Why?”

“So many fucking questions. Can’t you just do as you’re told for once?” His answer was sharp, as it always was, but lucky for him you’d just nodded. Gathering yourself before standing.

The night air was crisp, yet still comfortable. You’d even brought a blanket to shield yourself from the dew on the grass. Phinks grimaced at the thing. In truth, he was angered that he hadn’t thought of it, but yet he found the thin fabric to be an annoyance.

He’d made you come outside multiple times, enjoyed the way the moonlight danced along your skin, but to you, he’d always said feeding under the moon was less claustrophobic when he deigned to answer.

You sit, legs folded underneath you as you angle yourself to peer up at Phinks. He, in all restraint, moves slowly to sit in front of you, legs wide and inviting as he reaches for something at his belt.

The knife glints in the light, sharp and dangerous, and you felt your stomach roiling.

“We, we don’t have to do that tonight, Phinks.”

“But don’t I?” He growled, “You always cry if I don’t” there was a stunning truth to his words, a truth that had you nodding along in acquiescence as he pressed the blade to his open palm.

The sharp pinch was nothing to him; a slight irritant in an otherwise perfect night. An annoyance he was willing to bear for your comfort, although he’d never admit to it.

With no words spoken, you kneeled on the ground before him, letting the warmth of his blood slip past your lips and down your throat with moan. It tasted good, fresh. The tang of it reminding you of ripe fruit, of summer and sweetness that belied the stoic expression of the man in front of you. Phinks resisted the moan that was building in his chest at the sensation of your full lips wrapped around him, drinking him in so greedily it caused hunger to stir in his stomach once more. Your desire was his own, magnified and heightened by the blood slipping down your jaw and onto your neck, pooling on the white fabric of your nightgown. Phinks smiles at the sight of you tainted by him. As you should be.

“So fuckin’ messy.” He tuts, his free hand wrapping around your jaw as he pulls you into his lap. It’s quick, as all of his movements are, but he slows down as he licks a stripe up your neck, cleaning you with his tongue before covering your mouth with his own.

It doesn’t take long before he’s prying you away from him, ignoring the whimpers that echo through the cool night air. You land on your back, legs immediately splaying open in invitation. Phinks takes a moment to consider you, soft hair and even softer eyes as you stare at him pleadingly. So well trained. He doesn’t have to cajole you to open up, to accept what he’s offering you, what he’s taking. In part, he knows it to be the effect of his blood, but on nights like this it was easy to fool himself into thinking the searing affection he had for you was reciprocal in nature.

Phinks kisses his way up, following the veins marking the path to his next meal, his lips press behind your leg before stopping at the apex of your thighs. He finds that he quite likes breathing, likes the smell of you in his lungs, just as he likes the taste of you in his mouth. He remembers the first time he’d done this. Taken from your pliant body by force. No, his blood wasn’t necessary anymore but it made these shared moments all the more sweet. When he bites down its with enough force to make your legs shut on instinct, to rip a whimper from your lips. Phinks knows its not painful in your current state, can see the proof of your arousal glistening in the moonlight.

He indulges. Lets his mind wander on thoughts of you as he drinks you deep. Hopes he can engorge himself on the very essence of you. He craves it, an itch in the back of his mind that won’t go away; to consume, to be consumed, until neither you nor him can be separated. He fills his lungs with your scent, ears attuned to the soft whimper of your voice, mouth latched onto your femoral artery and he thinks that this could be enough.

The air around you shivers with the whine that leaves your mouth once he finishes. Over the past year you’d learned to find pleasure in the pain, learned to crave the feeling even. His mouth leaving your bloodied skin was a denial of that pleasure, the hollow ache in your chest incomparable to the mark he’d left on your skin.

Again, Phinks reprimands you for being so greedy, for wanting even when he was willing to give. But right now his prize was staring back at him; lust blown pupils trained on his every move as he slinked his way back up your body.

He tastes himself on your tongue. To him, its a bitter tang compared to the sweetness of your blood, but he enjoys it all the same. Enjoys swallowing your moans, sounds made solely for his ears and his alone. He wonders in times like this if you ever regret letting him through the threshold of your tiny home. Allowing him entry when you were too clueless to know you’d dragged home a half dead, and malnourished, vampire.

He smirks at the memory of it. Of your fear, your helplessness as he pinned you down and nearly drank you dry. The only reason he’d stopped was the severity of his injuries. At the time, he had planned to use you as one does a cow for milk. Letting you rest until you’d regained enough blood to nurse him back to health. He’d hadn’t fallen asleep more than twenty minutes before a stake was driven through his chest, high enough that it wasn’t lethal, but deep enough to betray your courage, and he’d fallen for you just as easily as the stake had been pulled out.

Now you were a supplicant at his altar, open and inviting as the pink stain of your feast on his blood betrayed you. As your actions betrayed you. You were his, in every way that mattered, your spirit was intertwined with his own.

“Please Phinks. I need you.” Your pupils are dilated, breath heaving as you beg for him. For all of him.

His tone is dry, an honest smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he replies, “Of course you do.”

#phinks x reader #phinks magcub x reader #yandere phinks

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wistfulwanderingone · 17 days ago

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"The Fated Macaron"

-Yves Kloss, Licht Klein, Cassandra Bellerose (Ikemen Prince)

Fandom: Ikemen Prince

Characters: Cassandra Bellerose (OC), Yves Kloss, Licht Klein

Pairing: Clavis Lelouch x OC (eventually)

Word Count: ~5000

Summary:

A clumsy misstep. A stolen dessert. A surprising connection.

Cassandra Bellerose thought surviving the ballroom would be her biggest challenge tonight—until she found herself in the company of sharp-tongued Yves and quietly intriguing Licht.

Standing in the entryway to the palace ballroom, Cassandra Bellerose smoothed the pale pink fabric of her gown for the umpteenth time. This room alone was more regal and elaborate than even her family’s own ballroom. Crystal chandeliers lined the wall, casting a warm glow over the room and reflecting off the polished marble floors and gilded mirrors. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and expensive perfume, and the hum of conversation buzzed like a hive of bees from behind the immense double doors before her.

She glanced at her reflection in one of the mirrors and frowned. Her emerald eyes, framed by long dark lashes, stared back at her, wide and anxious. They reminded her of a doe caught off guard in the woods. Freckles, a rare and despised trait among nobles, dotted the bridge of her nose despite her mother’s attempts to cover them with face powder. Her rosy cheeks, flushed from the nerves and heat of the room, seemed to expose her every nervous thought. She wore the family colors of pastel pink and gold, her gown a delicate confection of silk and lace that shimmered with every step. The dress was beautiful, but it felt like a stiff costume, a mask used to distract from her own flawed true personality. She noticed a stray strand of brown hair escaping her meticulously crafted updo, stubbornly refusing to stay in place despite her best efforts. Tucking it back with a sigh, she couldn't help but feel the familiar sting of insecurity. Was she pretty enough? Graceful enough? Worthy of the attention that would fall upon her and her family tonight? Would she embarrass them? Disappoint them? Fail them? Would the perfectly crafted mask slip and reveal her true self and ruin her family?

As she followed her family toward the broad doors, each step felt like she was walking a tightrope. The doors opened, and she watched as her sister and her husband stepped into the light and the herald announced them. “Presenting Comtess Evangeline Bellerose-Toussaint and her husband, Comte Tristan Toussaint.” Beautiful Evangeline glowed like the confident, radiant rose she was, and her handsome, aristocratic husband smiled as all eyes turned to look at them.

Cassandra knew she couldn’t even begin to compare to the beauty and perfect grace her sister personified. Still, she took a deep breath and stepped forward beside her parents. It was all she could do not to jump as the herald’s loud voice boomed beside them. "Presenting Marquess and Marchioness Bellerose and their daughter, Lady Cassandra Bellerose."

Her parents led the way, their posture perfect, their expressions serene. Cassandra, bringing up the rear, felt every gaze in the room turn towards them. The walls seemed to close in on her, but she kept her head high, the lessons drilled into her by her parents echoing in her mind. Be graceful, be poised, be perfect. Do not frown. And absolutely do not trip on your dress. The weight of their expectations pressed down on her, making her shoulders stiffen, but she forced herself to smile, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd. The room was filled with nobility; each face more resplendent than the last, adorned in jewels and silks that shimmered under the chandeliers. But all she wanted was to find a quiet corner where she could disappear, avoiding any chance of causing ignominy for her family.

As they made their way deeper into the ballroom, Cassandra's gaze drifted upward, taking in the grandeur of the space. Brilliant crystal chandeliers, each of their facets catching the light, cast a warm, heavenly glow over the entire room. They hung from a high ceiling adorned with intricate frescoes, each depicting scenes of Rhodolitian myth and legend. The polished marble floors gleamed underfoot, reflecting the light in a way that made the entire room sparkle. The centerpiece of the floor was an elaborate mosaic of a rose, its petals unfurling in exquisite detail. Tall, arched, gilded windows, each framed in ornate gold, allowed the moonlight to stream in, adding a cool, silvery touch to the warm glow of the chandeliers and the myriad candles.

Everywhere she looked, there were fresh, fragrant roses adorning every surface, from the tables laden with fine china and crystal to the mantels and window ledges. The air was thick with their sweet scent, mingling with the more subtle notes of expensive perfumes the guests wore. It was a room designed and decorated to impress and awe, every detail meticulously crafted to create an atmosphere of elegance and splendor. Cassandra was in awe of the sheer beauty and opulence surrounding her. It was a scene straight out of a fairy tale, but her anxiety overshadowed her ability to appreciate it like she would have liked.

Her parents glided through the crowd with practiced ease, exchanging pleasantries and nodding at acquaintances. Evangeline and Tristan followed suit, basking in the adoration and admiration of the other guests. Cassandra, however, felt like an imposter. Her fingers brushed the delicate emerald necklace at her throat, a gift from her parents meant to enhance her beauty and status. But all it did was remind her of the expectations she could never quite meet. The necklace, though beautiful, felt like a chain binding her to a role she had never wanted, a constant reminder of her family's relentless ambition and expectations—things that she couldn’t even begin to desire.

Her eyes scanned the crowd again, looking for any familiar face, any friend who might offer her a moment of genuine connection in this sea of superficiality. The room was a blur of pastel gowns and dark suits, each person more resplendent than the last, yet all blending into a tapestry of indifference.

She knew it was hopeless—it always was. Everyone who spoke to her did so because of her family’s status or to secure a good deal on gems from their mine. Since her debut earlier in the year, men had begun to shower her with attention, but it was all for her family’s wealth and title, not out of any real interest in her. The polite smiles and flattering compliments felt hollow, their words thinly veiled attempts to curry favor with her influential parents. And why wouldn’t they use her in such ways? The only ranks higher than her parents in the kingdom were the royal family and the dukes. With her sister married into a count’s family, her family's wealth and title would eventually fall to her and whichever man married her.

Cassandra's heart ached from it all. She longed for true, heartfelt affection, someone to see beyond the glittering facade and see her soul—a soul that burned with passion and fire. She wanted to be free to be herself, chase her dreams, and be with someone whom she could love deeply and thoroughly and who would love her just as much in return. She hated this world of calculated alliances and strategic marriage. She wanted not part of it. But what other choice did she have? Such dreams seemed naive and unattainable. The reality of her circumstances was suffocating, where her every move was scrutinized and her every word measured and where no part of who she truly was could ever be permitted or welcomed.

As the evening wore on, her thoughts became unbearable. Cassandra's pulse quickened, and she desperately sought an escape from the overwhelming crowd. She needed a quiet corner to collect herself. Her steps became more hurried, and her breath came in short, anxious bursts.

Just as she spied a quieter corner, she collided with a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. The tray tipped, and the delicate glasses tumbled to the floor, shattering with a loud crash at her feet. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and suddenly, all eyes were on her. The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence deafening.

Cassandra's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the weight of their stares, the judgment in their eyes. She dared to glance at her parents, whose faces were masks of polite disapproval, their perfect composure a stark contrast to her own flustered state.

Whispers of her clumsiness spread like wildfire through the room. She could hear the hushed words, the snide comments disguised as concern.

"Poor thing, always so awkward."

"Such a shame, considering her family's status."

"Perhaps she shouldn't have come out so soon."

Cassandra's vision blurred with unshed tears as she bent down to help the waiter pick up the shattered pieces. Her hands trembled, the sharp edges of the glass pricking her fingers. She forced herself to breathe and calm the storm of emotions within her.

A hand grabbed hers, squeezing gently. "My lady, I can take care of this. Are you alright?" the waiter asked, his voice filled with concern.

She nodded, unable to trust her voice, and managed a weak smile. "Yes, thank you. I'm so sorry."

As she stood, her gaze once again met the disapproving eyes of her parents. She could see the disappointment etched on their faces, a silent reprimand before they turned their noses up and walked away. Their scrutiny and judgment made it even harder to breathe.

Desperate to escape, Cassandra made a quick curtsy to the crowd before heading to the small alcove at the edge of the ballroom she had spotted before her collision with the waiter. The whispers followed her, but she forced herself to keep moving, however unsteadily, with her head held high, longing for a moment of solitude where she could gather what little remained of her composure.

At last, she pressed herself into the corner behind a large potted plant, desperately trying to keep her tears at bay. She took deep, shaky breaths, her fingers trembling as they traced the delicate emerald necklace at her throat. The fronds provided a fragile barrier between her and the bustling ballroom. Leaning back against the wall, she gazed up at the ornate ceiling, the intricate patterns blurring as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She felt like a fragile vase, carefully displayed and polished, yet always on the verge of shattering. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, shimmering like raindrops on the brink of falling.

The incident with the waiter replayed in her mind; the sound of splintering glass mingling with the disapproving murmurs of the guests, her parents’ dismay. Each one of their disapproving glances and words felt like a sharp dagger piercing her heart.

Why do I care so much? She clenched her fists as her internal voice became harsh and unforgiving. Why does it matter what they think? Why do I try so hard to please everyone? But then, the reasons came flooding back, each one a tether that bound her to this life. The innate desire for her parents’ love and approval, the importance of the family name and it’s historical significance, and the fact that she was a seventeen year-old woman with no other prospects or ability to provide for herself. What other choice do I have? If she ran away, she'd be destitute, wandering the streets with no means to provide for herself.

Over and over again, she reminded herself that this was her duty, her role to play, her only option, even if it felt like a prison. The thought of escaping, of living a life free from these constraints, was a tantalizing fantasy. But it was just that—a fantasy. She was trapped in this gilded cage, her wings clipped by obligation and reality, the bars forged from the iron of familial duty and societal pressure.

Finally, she began to feel a little bit calmer. Taking a deep breath she peered through the fronds of the potted plant, her eyes landing on a young man standing by the dessert table. He was the picture of flawlessness in his elegant pink attire, exuding an aura of nobility and refinement. His outfit was impeccable, every detail meticulously arranged. The tailored pink coat, adorned with intricate gold embroidery, complemented his delicate and beautiful face. His honey-blonde hair framed his delicate, porcelain features, and his sparkling blue eyes held an air of aloofness. Despite his haughty demeanor, a subtle unease flickered in those eyes. He stood there, a delicate statue of perfection, yet there was a fragility in his stance, a hidden vulnerability that resonated with her own feelings.

Cassandra recognized the look in his eyes; it was the same unease she felt in social gatherings. Her heart went out to him. The urge to comfort him, to offer some semblance of understanding, welled up inside her. Maybe no one would help her out of her own situation, but helping others had always been her refuge, a way to distract herself from her own struggles and to make someone else’s day better.

Then she noticed something else about him. No one approached him, no one spoke to him. They glanced at him with a strange mix of judgment and unease. Once they had receded a few steps, they whispered. He remained aloof; the only sign he noticed was the faint movement of his Adam’s apple each time it happened. And suddenly, she felt even more akin to him.

As she watched, another figure joined him. Clad in blue and gold, his military-style outfit was simpler yet equally commanding. His silvery hair, tousled and slightly unruly, framed his pale, porcelain-like complexion and highlighted his sharp jawline and piercing red eyes. She couldn’t hear the words they spoke to each other, but he stood close to the blonde man, his eyes scanning the room with a protective intensity as he spoke. Despite his solemn, almost detached expression, there was a warmth in the way he stayed close to the first man as if giving him a sense of assurance.

Gathering her courage, Cassandra stepped out from behind the plant, her movements tentative. She reminded herself that helping others always made her feel better, and perhaps offering a kind word to these strangers would do the same. She made her way across the room, her eyes never leaving the blonde man. As she approached, she noticed the faint lines of tension around his mouth and the way his fingers fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve.

"These desserts look amazing, don't they?" she said, her voice soft, attempting to break the ice.

Both men turned their gaze to her. The blond one’s crystal blue eyes were wide and childlike before he narrowed them suspiciously. "If you’re going to compliment the desserts, at least have the decency not to spill anything on them," he replied, his tone brusque but not entirely unkind, as he turned back to the other man.

Cassandra felt a momentary sting at his words, but as she looked closer, she sensed something beneath his haughty exterior—almost like he was trying to hide his vulnerability. His eyes, despite their sharpness, held a flicker of uncertainty, a guardedness that intrigued her.

“I’ll be careful," she promised. “You seem to be guarding these sweets. If I didn’t know better…I’d think you had made them yourself.” She offered a gentle smile, hoping to break through his defensive facade.

Wide child-like eyes again, then a frown and rosy-red cheeks. “What did you say?”

The silvery-haired man beside him regarded her with a wary gaze. His striking red eyes seemed to bore into her as if he were assessing her intentions. Despite his guarded demeanor, Cassandra sensed a deep sadness and a fierce protectiveness in him, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Who are you?" the silvery-haired man asked, his voice low and guarded, as though bracing for a threat.

"Cassandra Bellerose," she replied, striving to keep her tone light and non-threatening, yet she felt a twinge of anxiety under his intense gaze. "I didn't mean to intrude. I couldn’t resist these desserts. It's not often I get to enjoy such fine sweets."

As she appraised the table, her eyes landed on a perfectly pink macaron sitting on a plate like a tiny, edible jewel. The delicate confection was too tempting to resist. Just as her fingers brushed its surface, the blond man nearly jumped at her.

"How dare you!" he squeaked, his voice a pitch higher than she expected. The blond man’s eyes were wide with shock and indignation, his perfect features contorted in a way that was both intimidating and oddly endearing.

Cassandra froze, the macaron poised precariously between her fingers near her mouth, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the tension crackling in the air, and for a brief moment, she was sure he was going to grab a cake knife and end her life. The vibrant ballroom seemed to fade around her, the chatter and music muffled as if submerged underwater.

"I’m sorry," she managed to stammer, her voice barely audible over the roaring in her ears. "I didn't realize...I just thought...it looked so delicious." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. Maybe coming over here wasn’t her brightest idea. No wonder her parents were always so nervous when they brought her to social events. The vibrant ballroom seemed to close in around her, its opulence and grandeur becoming suffocating as she stood there, the weight of her social faux pas pressing heavily on her shoulders.

"Yves," the silver-haired man said, laying a hand on his companion’s shoulder with a calm, steadying presence. “She didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Cassandra asked, her hand trembling slightly as she tried to decide what to do with the macaron. The delicate treat now felt like a burden, her fingers itching to put it back.

Yves didn’t seem capable of speech, his face a fiery red, eyes wide with indignation. He looked utterly scandalized, and Cassandra could see his lips moving wordlessly, struggling to form a coherent sentence.

The silver-haired man’s crimson eyes landed on her. Despite his stoicism, she felt an unexpected kindness radiating from him. "Yves made that for me. He said it would be my reward for attending this ball," he explained, his voice low and measured yet carrying a warmth that put her somewhat at ease.

Cassandra felt her cheeks warm even more as guilt filled her chest. She looked at the macaron, its vibrant pink mocking her, and then back at Yves, whose mortified expression tugged at her heart. “I am so so sorry,” she said earnestly, her voice quivering. She extended her hand to return the macaron to the silver-haired man, her movements tentative and apologetic.

"It’s alright," he said gently, taking the macaron from her hand. "Yves puts a lot of effort into his baking, and it means a great deal to him. Thank you for understanding."

Cassandra nodded, feeling relief and lingering embarrassment. "I do understand. And for what it’s worth, it looks absolutely exquisite. You have a real talent," she said, offering Yves a smile, hoping to convey her admiration and regret for the misunderstanding.

Yves's cheeks remained flushed, the fiery red slowly fading as he finally found his voice. He took a deep breath, his eyes flickering between the macaron in the silver-haired man's hand and Cassandra's apologetic expression.

“It’s...fine,” Yves managed to say, his voice still edged with irritation but noticeably softer. He ran a hand through his blond hair, a gesture that seemed to steady him as he smoothed it. “Just...be more self-aware next time.”

Cassandra nodded fervently, her own cheeks still burning with embarrassment. “I promise. I didn’t mean to offend you. I truly admire the effort and skill it takes to create something like this.” She glanced at the pink macaron with a newfound appreciation for the care and precision behind its creation.

The silver-haired man gave Cassandra a reassuring nod, his crimson eyes conveying a silent message of understanding. “I’m Licht, by the way,” he said. “And this is my brother, Yves.”

Cassandra smiled, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. “It's a pleasure to meet you both.” She gave a small curtsy, hoping to convey her sincerity through the graceful gesture. “Again, I’m truly sorry.”

Licht cleared his throat and reached out to take her hand in his. “We can share this.” He placed the macaron gently into her hand, his crimson eyes looking so soft and sincere, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was smiling.

Cassandra’s heart fluttered at the unexpected kindness. She met Licht’s gaze, feeling a strange connection form in the silent exchange. “I’d like that,” she said softly, breaking the macaron in half and offering one part to Licht. The delicate treat crumbled slightly in her hand, releasing a subtle fragrance of rose.

Licht took his half with a nod of thanks. Yves watched the exchange, his expression softening further as he saw kindness between them.

As they each took a bite, the rich, floral flavors mingled on Cassandra’s tongue, and the macaron fairly melted in her mouth. “Mmm!” She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips. Yves truly was talented! “Rose and lemon…and is that a hint of lavender? I love lavender!”

Yves eyes widened, and his perfectly pink lips dropped open. “Yes it is. I can’t believe you could tell after one bite.”

Licht’s expression softened ever so slightly. “Everything Yves makes is really good.”

As he spoke, Cassandra noticed a flicker of something in his eyes—a longing, perhaps, for simplicity or joy. A sudden urge to understand him better and offer comfort or companionship welled up inside her.

"I believe it!" she exclaimed sincerely, her voice warm with appreciation as she turned back to Yves. "Baking requires a lot of skill and patience. You have quite the talent; this is the most delicious macaron I’ve ever tasted. And it’s so light and airy. I’ve never had success with making macarons, but I can make a mean mille-feuille.”

Yves’ cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red, making him look utterly embarrassed and, to her, even more endearing. He sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her. "Here," he said gruffly. "You’ve got a bit of...something on your dress, Lady Cassandra."

Cassandra took the handkerchief, a bit startled by the unexpected kindness. "Thank you," she said, dabbing at the small spot she hadn’t even noticed. "You can just call me Cassandra, by the way."

"Don’t think this means you can just take whatever you want,” he stated, though his tone was much softer, almost teasing. “I’m very particular about who gets to eat my desserts and you’ve yet to pass the test."

She couldn’t help but smile at his haughty tone, sensing the warmth beneath his stern exterior. "I wouldn’t dream of it without your permission," she teased lightly, hoping to see more of his softer side.

His blush crept even higher up his cheeks, and he looked away. "Well, you’ve got my permission for now. Just don’t make a mess," he said turning back to her, his tone softer than before.

Cassandra took the last bite of the macaron, savoring the exquisite balance of flavors. The delicate shell gave way to a burst of rose and lavender, making her close her eyes and hummed to herself briefly in appreciation.

She wanted to prolong the conversation and delve deeper into the lives of these intriguing strangers. But the crowded ballroom was stifling, and the weight of curious eyes felt like a tangible pressure on her shoulders. She glanced toward the tall windows, their glass panes reflecting the warm light of the chandeliers, and saw the garden beyond, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. The thought of escaping to the tranquility of the garden, away from the prying eyes, was too tempting to resist.

"This room is getting rather stuffy," Cassandra said, her gaze shifting back to Yves and Licht. "Would you two like to join me for a stroll in the garden? It's much cooler out there, and we could continue our conversation..."

Yves looked hesitant, glancing at Licht for confirmation. Licht gave a barely perceptible nod, his expression unreadable. "Alright," Yves agreed, his tone begrudging but not unfriendly. "I suppose some fresh air wouldn't hurt."

What began as an attempt to make someone else feel good, to distract herself from her insecurities, had quickly blossomed into curiosity. She sensed that beneath their facades, these two young men harbored great depths of character. From Yves, she sensed a profound loneliness and vulnerability, carefully masked with his sharp tongue and haughty demeanor. Licht, on the other hand, exuded a subtle melancholy that intrigued her, hinting at a past filled with grief and unspeakable burdens. His silence and reserved manner suggested a heart that had endured far too much.

The cool night air was a welcome change from the oppressive heat of the ballroom, and the gentle rustling of leaves provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation. Cassandra found her heart opening up to them. She wanted to break through the walls they had built around themselves and offer something more genuine—friendship, perhaps, or understanding, whatever it was they needed. Her own struggles and her family’s expectations faded into the background. In that moment, she sensed a familiar yearning in them, one that mirrored her own desire for something deeper than the hollow exchanges of the ballroom.

Yves led the way to a secluded corner of the garden and a stone bench nestled under a flowering arbor. The scent of roses filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the garden.

"It's so peaceful out here," Cassandra said, looking up at the stars twinkling above and inhaling deeply. "I feel like I can breathe properly for the first time all evening." She settled onto the bench, gesturing for Yves and Licht to join her.

Licht remained standing, his posture relaxed but alert, while Yves took a seat beside her, his expression softening slightly. The moonlight bathed his features, making the tension lines around his eyes less severe. "It is less insufferable out here," Yves remarked, his voice quieter. "I can't stand these grand events."

Cassandra nodded in understanding. "Neither can I. It's all so...overwhelming at times. But it's nice to meet new people, especially when they're as interesting as you two."

"You have very peculiar taste," Yves remarked, his voice carrying a touch of dismissiveness.

Cassandra laughed softly, feeling more at ease. "Well, I mean it. You both seem so...genuine. It's rare to find that in these circles."

Licht, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "You're not like the others," he said, his tone contemplative. "You're different."

Cassandra looked up at him, surprised by the observation. "Different how?"

Licht's red gaze was steady, piercing. "You actually care. Most people here are only interested in appearances and status. But you...you're sincere."

Cassandra felt a blush rise to her cheeks and a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude swell within her. "Thank you," she said softly. "That means a lot. I don’t want to be like them.” She gestured towards the glass doors where they could see the nobles dancing. “Honestly, I feel out of place. I don’t want to lose who I am or what I feel…” but she trailed off and bit her lip. She was starting to talk too much, revealing too much of her inner emotions.

"It's exhausting, pretending to be something you're not,” Yves stated softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Licht nodded solemnly.

“With us, you can just be yourself," Yves assured her, his voice softening with warmth.

Cassandra smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her. "Thank you." As the words left her lips, she felt a rush of vulnerability, almost embarrassed by how quickly she had opened up to them. The sincerity in their eyes reassured her, but the sudden rawness of her emotions left her feeling exposed.

As if sensing her discomfort, Yves cleared his throat. "So, Cassandra," he began, his tone taking on a conversational lilt, "what's your favorite dessert? I assume someone who enjoys sweets as much as you must have a preference."

Cassandra blinked at the unexpected question. The tension in her shoulders eased, and she was grateful for the diversion. "Oh, that's a tough one," she replied, a smile forming on her lips. "I think I'd have to say lavender shortbread cookies. There's something about the delicate floral flavor combined with buttery sweetness that I just love."

Yves's eyes lit up with interest. "Lavender shortbread cookies, huh? A unique choice. Maybe... maybe you'd like to join us for afternoon tea next week? I could make some for you then." His cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink once again and he glanced away as if regretting the hasty invite.

"I'd love that." Cassandra's smile widened, feeling overjoyed at the invitation to spend more time with them. "And what about you, Yves? What's your favorite dessert to make?"

Yves leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face as he gazed up at the night sky. "I enjoy making all sorts of desserts, but if I had to choose, I'd say éclairs. There's something satisfying about getting the choux pastry just right and filling them with rich, creamy custard."

"Yves's darioles are my favorite," Licht, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up.

The conversation flowed more easily after that. They shared stories, laughter, and even moments of comfortable silence. Yves’s sharp wit and Licht’s quiet strength became increasingly apparent, and Cassandra found herself drawn to their authenticity. The garden, with its fragrant roses and whispering trees, became a haven for them, a place where they could be themselves without the pressures of the ballroom. Cassandra felt an even stronger connection forming, a friendship that seemed to blossom under the stars.

It was only later, however, when a passing servant bowed deeply and addressed Yves and Licht as "Your Highnesses," that the realization dawned on her. Her eyes widened in shock, and she turned to them, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're...you're princes?"

Yves gave her a rueful smile, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I suppose we forgot to mention that part."

"Does it matter?" Licht's expression remained unreadable as he watched her with his crimson eyes, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his silver hair.

Cassandra shook her head quickly, a smile spreading across her face. "No," she said softly. "It doesn't matter at all."

As they continued their walk through the moonlit garden, Cassandra felt a warmth spread through her, grateful for the unexpected camaraderie and the genuine interest they had shown in her. The night seemed to wrap around them like a comforting blanket, making her feel, for the first time in a long while, truly at ease. Under the starlit sky, she had found kindred spirits in the most unexpected of places, and for the first time in a long while, she felt hope for what the future might bring.

Tag List:

@ithseem @chirp-a-chirp @aquagirl1978 @queengiuliettafirstlady @nyxthepixystick

@ikeprinces-stuff @kaizoku-musume @candiedcoffeedrops @missaengg @ike-garden2024

@writingwhimsey @reborn-elven-spirit

If you want to be added to (or removed from) my tag list for Ikemen fics, just let me know!

#ikemen prince #ikepri #licht klein #yves kloss #ikepri clavis #Clavis x Cassandra

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fogwitchoftheevermore · 7 months ago

Note

Please get into fwhip being malnourished you mentioned it in the gender post and 👀

oh i WOULD LOVE TO. content warnings for discussion of famine and disordered eating below the cut. this is just a very fucking sad ramble for a lot of the time, strap in.

so in my heart of hearts, the grimlands is a very old empire, and it is an empire on the decline. fwhip is the last count of the grimlands because of the rapture, yes, but had the rapture not happened, or had the grimlands survived it, fwhip would’ve probably been one of the last few counts anyways. the last few generations of counts and countesses have been problematic for various reasons- warmongers, incompetent, greedy, etc., and this has resulted in the grimlands greatly decreasing in size by the time gem and fwhip are born, as well as loosing a lot of their allies and trade routes.

they haven’t lost every ally, of course. the wither rose alliance predates canon, with mythland and the grimlands being the original founders of it a long time ago, and gilded helianthia being incorporated in when it became a sovereign nation (as it was originally part of mythland) a few generations prior. they maintain trade with both of these empires, but otherwise don’t have any real allies. mythland also has the warmongering problem that the grimlands has had, but because mythland and gilded helianthia’s exports (iron and wheat/plants, respectively) are much more important to everyday life than the grimlands’ main export, their trade relationships remain, even if they’re rocky. i personally hc almost all of the emperors we see to fall into the categories of “ill prepared/trained to be a ruler”, “became a ruler way too young”, and/or “is the first ruler of their empire and as such has no idea what they’re doing”, which is something that has its pros and cons. one pro, though, is that they are generally much more willing to disregard their past grudges, at least for trade, and maybe to be friends with each other, than their ancestors. so these issues are definitely improving by the time fwhip becomes count, but the tension is still there and he is certainly not helping the problem.

the grimlands is also a very inhospitable empire, in terms of its environment. they live in rocky, mountainous areas, making for soil that can’t support many crops other than root vegetables (carrots and potatoes). its cold, basically all year, but the winters are particularly harsh. it’s generally very hard to farm plants or animals there, though obviously not impossible. it does mean that the grimlands relies very heavily on a quite small variety of food to survive, outside of trading for food with their slim number of allies.

these traits all coalesce into one very, very bad event in fwhip and gem’s childhood- a famine that absolutely ravages the grimlands. it starts because the potatoes are struck with a disease that makes the entire harvest basically inedible, and the carrot harvest is far from enough to feed the entire empire. they still have trading with their allies, of course, but at the same time, a different disease/animal infestation (not quite sure which yet) strikes the grain of gilded helianthia and mythland. this is bad for everyone involved, but gilded helianthia doesn’t only grow wheat to eat, so they’re able to still feed their people, they just don’t have the food to spare for their allies. mythland has more of a problem on that front, but they have allies that the grimlands do not, such as rivendell, who are more than willing to get iron for a new, arguably cheaper, food price while the problem is being dealt with. both of the other WRA empires spare what they can to the grimlands, but it’s not much. they have their own people to feed first and foremost.

so the grimlands, in gem and fwhip’s youth, suffers greatly from this famine. eventually, yes, they are able to recover, but not without significant loss. gem and fwhip, as nobility, get priority picking for the food (which i think personally disgusts them, i’ll get into that a bit), but they’re not unscathed. i think this famine is a contributing factor to the death of their mother, as well. it doesn’t kill her, but it doesn’t help a woman who already had some pretty significant health issues to not be able to access the same diet she had previously. even after recovering, the famine is visible in the grimlands’ people for years afterwards. gem and fwhip struggle to put on weight, and the fact that they’re both as tall as they are is a miracle (and can be at least partially attributed to the draconic in their bloodline, though that’s quite far back at this point). fwhip, i will note, does not help himself in this regard when he gets older.

here’s where we get into the disordered eating discussion. i wanted to bring it up again, since i imagine that’s a trigger more people are familiar with than famine.

one of the last notable interactions fwhip has with xornoth is the nightmare sequence that he, gem, and katherine(? don’t quote me on her being the third person) also experience. after that, he falls out of the xornoth plot a little bit, but in my mind he continues to have those nightmares when gem and katherine do not. gem and katherine continue to get visited by actual xornoth, but fwhip (and a few other emperors who get their own unique bullshit) are not worth xornoth’s time and energy to constantly visit. but of course, can’t let them get too complacent by leaving them alone entirely (unless you’re joel, he’s an outlier though). these nightmares suck and they are consistent, and fwhip starts searching for potential reasons he’s still getting them when xornoth doesn’t otherwise seem to care about him.

his first thought is the fertilizer. y’know. the corruption tentacles that he turned into fertilizer. there’s no way that’s not involved somehow, right? but the fertilizer is good, it’s borderline magic, it means his people are getting more consistent harvests and he knows they need that. and the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, so fwhip keeps turning the occasional corruption into fertilizer (against gem’s better judgement) and just doesn’t eat the plants his empire grows.

but that doesn’t work, so he keeps thinking. well, the livestock are eating these plants too, aren’t they? maybe whatever’s getting into the plants is carrying into the animals too. so then he stops eating the livestock as well.

at this point, he’s only eating the stuff he gets from other people, from the wandering salesmen who come by the grimlands or the crystal cliffs, the golden carrots gem gives him, the like. there’s the fish, too, but there’s a bit of a religious aversion to eating them and fwhip isn’t particularly religious anymore but that did stick, so he really tries to avoid it. the problem with relying on other people is something i mentioned in the original post- fwhip is horrified of looking weak, of looking small, and admitting enough about this situation to get food is textbook vulnerability that he’s not gonna do, so he doesn’t. so he’s not eating nearly as much as he needs to from that point until xornoth gets locked away, at which point the nightmares do stop for real. (or the nightmares sent from god do, the mental illness ones remain, but they’re not as much of a constant problem)

that whole situation combined with the famine in his early childhood makes it insanely difficult for fwhip to get proper nutrition for the rest of his life. his stomach so small now, he’s not able to eat that much food without getting sick. he’s getting the right balance of nutrients, but he’s just not getting enough of it. the rapture, which i think gives him a ton of new issues, also compounds on this a bit, and the fact that he survives even a few months after the event are really contingent on the fact that he has gem to help him. because without her (or anyone who could help him get back on his feet after all that, gem was just who was there) things would’ve probably gotten very dire indeed, with his mental health after the fact compounding his new physical issues, compounding the old ones. he’s got. problems.

this is such a sad fucking rant i went on my god. this is what happens when you have autism guys.

#empires smp #empires s1 #empires fwhip #fwhip #can you tell i think about the politics and history of this world a lot #the grimlands especially since fwhip is one of my main empires povs #i don’t even get into all the politics shit here. i have so many thoughts man im consumed by this stuff #disordered eating cw #famine cw #i promise all my thoughts about empires s1 and fwhip aren’t like. deeply upsetting #a lot of them are but this series is a tragedy that’s not my fault #but like i like to have fun man. i promise #my writing

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blucifer08 · 5 months ago

Text

Though humble as he was, Themis was not stupid enough to discount the hard work he had put into his career. He'd spent many late nights at the Akademia studying for hours on end for exams, reports, presentations, club activities, musical performances--for the responsibilities he had were far too abundant to allow a normal sleep schedule. He had pushed himself to the brink and he regretted none of it. And though he could recognize his hard work, it made it no less surprising when he rose to the seat of Elidibus. But once he'd set foot in that gilded hall, he experienced for the first time what most would refer to as 'imposter syndrome.'

How could he be worthy of such a distinction? To stand amongst the Convocation and speak with them would have been an honor in itself but to be counted among them made his heart beat more rapidly than he can remember ever having happened before.

These are the people who guide the star. These minds hold more knowledge, more hope, more ideas and progress for the future than any other on Etheirys. How long he has revered them, how long he has dreamed of this day-- to become someone who can steer the star upon its course. And to be among their number...

Elidibus would soon discover that the Star's greatest minds didn't always get along, and the job of mediation soon fell to his hands. But how does one truly know what is 'right' and what is 'wrong?' When he studied in school, should he need the answer to a question he must simply open the right book and search for the right paragraph, the right sentence that would shed light on the issue. But the world is not written in ink, its diverse colors raise issues that he had never once considered beforehand. His budding relationship with Azem was proving this point even greater, for their path takes them places he cannot understand.

Continued on ao3 ->

#elidibus #themis #endwalker spoilers #ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #fic

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baenyth · 7 months ago

Text

Bethany's Bizarre Miraculous Reviews Episode 4-11: Guiltrip

Holy crap Lois! Juleka and Rose episode! Even if it involves the Worst Akuma!

Oh, there's Lila.

Damn nobody gives a fuck

Wouldn't Juleka normally accompany Rose to th-oh, right. Plot. Either that or that class rep thing that was only mentioned in one episode and then, like, never again.

And then Sissy keeps her long.

I... want to say something to that scene but I don't have anything. It's just giving secondhand embarrassment.

Ooh, new set!

Marinette, I'm not sure if @ing everyone is a good idea in the slightest.

-Is that another crudely-done live action edit?

And then they treat her differently.

Because she has friends, Hawkmoth. Unlike you.

Oh, so that's where that image used on the wiki comes from.

Wait, does Rose have an ahoge? I've never noticed that.

Yep. Here comes the secondhand embarrassment. AUEIUGHEIUGHEIUGHEIUGHEIUGHEIUGHEIUGHEIUGHEIUGH

Juleka's pissed. I don't think I've ever seen her genuinely pissed before. I like it.

pfffft all of them right at the door

EHEUGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGH

Somehow the most reasonable students are Chloe and Lila in this situation. Oh god.

Yeah, Hawkmoth is Lesbophobic. He always gives lesbians the ugliest forms, or in Vanisher's case, no form at all. Chloe doesn't count. She's still in denial and so is Hawkmoth.

The worst akuma now has her own extra-vile dimension. Revolting.

Eh. The transformation could be worse.

The self-loathing dialogue feels off, at least in the dub. Chat Noir barely sounds like he cares that he's about to off himself. Especially compared to Chat Blanc.

Damn, Rose would make a good magical girl! Without this Miraculous stuff too! Give her a non-miraculous transformation trinket and an oversized caterpillar! Not you Kyuubey. Fuck your contracts. I'm going to stick a power drill in your head and turn the drill on.

Wait, did Chat seriously not see or hear Pigella transform? Also that was a good transformation sequence. Five stars.

Motherfucker! It's clown-themed! Or are they all akuma-themed?

Hm. Interesting episode. As someone who knows too much about Doki Doki Literature Club and Smiling Friends, however, I have my doubts that Rose is completely positive and upbeat like that and also a good person. A while back I actually ended up coming up with my own headcanon:

Basically, the reason for all of Rose's positivity is Ladybug. Before Ladybug, before Alya, Chloe ruled the school with a gilded iron fist, and she loved to make Marinette and the other girls suffer, and while Rose still had her happy-go-lucky persona back then, it was a facade to try and make herself and others better. Nino was clearly very depressed in Origins before Ladybug was there, and Rose succumbed to Despair in the Heroes' Day two-parter specifically after Ladybug turned evil.

Also, as for what disease Rose has, since I am very dedicated and deep-feeling about details, while most people go with cancer, the fact that the class got into that much of a funk over a sneeze makes me doubt that. People don't associate cancer with sneezes. Here's what I have on the disease:

Doesn't seem to be contagious

Dangerous enough for the class to treat Rose like porcelain

Symptoms include headaches and possibly sneezing

Unpredictable, can spike up at any time

Does anyone know of any diseases that have all of these?

#miraculous ladybug #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous marinette #ml ladybug #adrien agreste #miraculous adrien #chat noir #ml chat noir #rose lavillant #miraculous rose #pigella #juleka couffaine #miraculous juleka #juleka disrespect #julerose

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terror-of-the-seas · 2 years ago

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Decided to spend July reading fairytale-adjacent books. I was going to set an order but I won’t read at all if I do so here’s a list of various books I might read this month

1. Witches abroad by Terry Pratchett (1/7/23)

2. Water song by Suzanne weyn (1/7/23)(does this even count it took an hour)

3. Beauty sleep by Cameron dokey(1/7/23)

4. Fire and hemlock by Diana Wynne jones (2/7/23)

5. Little thieves by Margaret Owen(3/7/23)

6. Painted Devils by Margaret Owen(8/7/23)

7. The Wild Girl by Kate Forsyth

8. The blue rose by Kate Forsyth

9. Night Dance by Suzanne weyn

10. Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine

11. Princess of the midnight ball(9/7/23), princess of glass(10/7/23), and princess of the silver woods (12/7/23) by Jessica Day George

12. Gilded by Marissa Meyer

13. North Child by Edith pattou

15. A court of thorns and roses (as a last resort)

16. Cinderella is dead by Kalyan Bayron

17. Book of a thousand days by Shannon hale

18. The goose girl by Shannon hale(31/07/23)

19. The world above by Cameron dokey

20. Deerskin by Robin McKinley

21. Beauty by Robin McKinley(2/7/23)

22. Belle by Cameron dokey (1/7/23)

23. Accidental cinderella by Emily evans

24. Accidental Snow White by Emily evans

25. An offer from a gentleman by Julia Quinn(25/7/23)

26. Hag: Forgotten folktales (8/7/23)

27. Half a soul by Olivia Atwater(12/7/23)

28. Ten thousand stitches by Olivia Atwater(13/7/23)

29. Long shadow by Olivia Atwater (17/07/23)

30. Girl, serpent, thorn by Melissa bashardoust (27/7/23)

#reading challenge #personal #fairytales

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 3 years ago

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Head over feet

ʚ Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader

ʚ Word count: 2033 words

ʚ Themes: Fluff | Soft

ʚ Summary : After catching the King’s interest, you have been invited to stay in his halls. What plan does he actually have for you?

Author's notes: This was inspired by the Alanis Morissette song, which I absolutely adore.

The sun was streaming through the windows when you finally opened your eyes. A new day had dawned in Mirkwood, and you feel lazy despite the cheerful sunshine outside. Someone hummed behind a screen. It must have been Elirien, your lady-in-waiting, preparing your bath.

"I still can’t believe I’m here." You toss your pelt aside and stare up at the gilded ceiling. "Me. Of all people."

Elirien smirked as she busied herself fixing your bath. "Shocked that you’re here, or shocked that the Elvenking invited you, out of all the others?"

"Both, truth be told," you sit and rub the sleep out of your eyes, taking a deep breath and sighing contentedly when wisps of orange fill your lungs. The incense he had sent over last night helped you immensely with sleep. "I mean, I was invited by him. Him." You whisper through your teeth as she comes over to you with your bathrobe. "Thranduil Oropherion! I want to pinch myself sometimes, to make sure that I’m not—owww!"

"Won’t leave a mark." Your handmaid inspected your arm. "And now you know you’re not dreaming."

Your eyes narrowed to little slits. "Oh, how I hate you."

"You say that my lady, but deep down, you know you love me and would be a lost cause without me."

You rub your arm, trying hard not to grin, "But why me?"

Why you, indeed? Thranduil had met several eligible ladies at a feast a few weeks ago but had only sought you out. He’d send little notes to you, little tokens and gifts just because. He even invited you to stay in his halls with him. That was something that he hadn’t done for anyone besides a select few friends of his.

"Maybe he’s smitten," said Elirien as she carefully laid out your outfit for the day. "Now, hurry up before your bath grows cold."

"But how can he be smitten, Eli?" The sigh of contentment rose from your toes the moment you slipped into the warm, fragrant water. "It’s only been a few weeks."

"That’s enough for some people," she said. "And the king is two thousand years old. I’m sure an ellon his age knows exactly what he wants."

She had a point. "Hmph." You play with the water, watching little ripples form every time your fingers move across the surface. "I guess that’s true. What should I do though?"

"Let him win you over." The grin came easily enough. "It’s what you want, yes? And please don’t lie to me, my lady. I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one is looking."

Your lady and her sharp eyes. "You know me too well, I think," you retort. "Anyway, what makes you think he wants to win me over?" you say defensively. "For all we know, Thranduil is just being a generous host."

"That’s because I have seen the way he has been looking at you, my lady," she hummed. "And the way he looks at you… mmm-mmm. I would give anything to have someone look at me like that."

Your protest dies on your tongue. You too have occasionally caught the looks, the winks that made your stomach get all tied up in knots and your heart hammer away in your chest. It felt as if the King had eyes for no one else but you. "Urgh. When you’re right, you’re right. "

How Elirien smirked in triumph. "I’m right because I’m always right. Why have you not realized that?"

That cocky grin you knew so well brought a smile out of you. "My goodness, woman, your arrogance is astounding."

Her retort vanished when someone knocked on the door. It was one of the King’s aides.

"What is that?"

"A posy," she said as she brought a crystal vase filled with cheerful blooms. All your favorite flowers. "And a note."

While she arranged the vase, you read the note.

My dearest,

I hope your morning has been wonderful thus far.

I have some free time during the next few hours, and I would like to show you around the gardens. You have not seen it yet, have you? It’s quite beautiful this time of year, and there is a little maze that I’m sure you’d love to explore.

Afterward, I was hoping you’d join me for breakfast in the library. It’s quiet there, and we can talk peacefully, away from the chaos of the day.

I’ll be waiting for you at the entrance of the gardens. Alphanar, my aide, will show you where it is.

Until then,

Namárië

"He. Is. Smitten." Said Elirien. "From lady y/n to dear y/n to my dearest in such a short spell?" She tilts her head and goes over the letter. "I’d wager it won’t be long before he starts calling you meleth and proposes to you."

"It’s a long way from my dearest to meleth." You retort. "And a much longer way from will you walk with me to saying I do. Besides, Thranduil can still change his mind."

"I highly doubt he’ll change his mind." She tuts and lifts your chin. "Thranduil has been introduced to many eligible ladies, yet he has only ever sought your company. I'm--"

You interrupt her and mutter. "Still odd, if you ask me."

"I’m not finished." Elirien shot back gently. She waits until you finish your grumbling. "You are the one he invited to stay here, in his halls, with him. He goes out of his way to ensure your happiness and comfort. He stops whatever he’s doing just to listen to you. He has eyes for no one but you. If those are not signs of his attachment to you, then I don’t know what is."

Thranduil would indeed go out of his way for you, sometimes rearranging his own schedules so he could spend more time with you. There are times when you’re not even sure if he’s listening, but he always surprises you in the end.

"Perhaps you’re right," you said, getting out of the tub. "Right. Let’s get me presentable for the king."

After getting dressed, you take a good, deep breath, to steady your nerves. When Alphanar stopped by, you follow him to the gardens.

🍂🍂🍂

Thranduil had been pacing near the entrance, just as nervous as you. Tauriel, his captain, watched him walk impatiently with barely disguised amusement. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"

Tauriel snickered and went back to an apple she was eating. "Very much, your grace. I mean, it’s not every day one gets to see the Elvenking all tied up in knots."

Tied up in knots. If only she knew. "Where do you think lady y/n is?" Thranduil asked with an impatient breath. "Do you think she changed her mind?"

She shook her head. "I doubt she has, your grace. Be patient."

He harrumphed and went back to pacing. Thranduil had been eager to show you the gardens. Because it meant spending time with you. Because he loved being around you. Because he...

Thranduil sighed and held onto the garden railing. "I'm done for, aren't I?"

"It's been obvious to us all, your grace," Tauriel said evenly. "For more than a few days now. You love her. It's plain as day."

The words made a wave of deep yearning wash over him. "I'm not as subtle as I thought."

"No, your grace, you're not." Tauriel looked up when she heard a door open. "And since your girl is here, you can stop your pacing. The grass will thank you for it."

"Thank you." Thranduil squeaked and narrowed his eyes. "Now scatter."

His captain chuckled and walked off after greeting you. "Your Majesty," you say as you try not to stare. The king had been garbed in red velvet and gold and looked resplendent this morning. He smiled and helped you to your feet. "Thranduil, please."

"Thranduil." Wait. Did he blush when you said his name?

Thranduil fought for composure. The sight of you was enough to make butterflies flutter in his stomach and his mind go blank for all else. He took several deep breaths to regain control of his already twisted tongue. You deserved a king, not a bumbling elfling. "Shall we?" He extended an arm, waiting for you to link yours through his before the both of you took off.

"How was your night, y/n?" He asked companionably enough. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well," you say with a smile. "The incense you sent was extremely helpful. Thank you."

"I'm glad." Beaming, the King led you along the paths that were so familiar to him. He hoped you too would grow to love the place he called home. "And how are your brothers? Did any of them succeed in that archery contest?"

You were stunned that he even remembered you prattling on about your brothers and their antics in your father's army. "Sadly, no. My best friend’s brother did. My own brothers wrote to complain about horrible bows and lousy arrows. The youngest kept complaining of the sun getting in his eyes." You stop and think. "Come to think about it, he always complains about the sun getting in his eyes."

Thranduil's chest rumbled even as he laughed. "I must confess, I too sometimes blame the sun, but my warriors don't hold it against me."

"The great Elvenking blaming the sun?" You laid hands on your cheeks and feigned shock. "What must your warriors think of you, sir?"

His laughter sounded so sweet to your ears. "A question that will keep me awake many a night, I assure you." Thranduil grew serious as he led you to the maze. He wanted to gauge how you truly felt about life in Mirkwood, as your happiness here was of the utmost importance to him. "How do you find life here, y/n?" he asked finally. "Is it-- is it to your liking?"

"I do," you said, looking around. The gardens were breathtaking, and the flowers provided a riot of colour that appealed to your heart. You could see yourself living here for good with Thranduil, but Thranduil had to ask himself. "I love everything here."

"Love it enough to live here for good?" he asked hopefully. "What I mean is, would you--would you consider living here for good-- with me?"

You look at him, discreetly pinching yourself to make sure you're not imagining things. The twinge in your arm convinced you that you were not imagining things and that the king wanted you to stay with him.

The king wanted you to stay with him. Did that mean he was going to ask what you think he was going to ask? "You want me to stay here with you?"

Thranduil groaned inside, for this should have been so easy. He grew incredibly nervous, even gulping so loudly that you actually heard it. "Thranduil is eve..."

He stopped, straightened his spine, and took your hand in his. He was no blithering elfling, and he wasn't going to act like one in your presence. "I love you y/n. I'm in love with you."

"I-- I have searched for my other half for longer than I can remember," he continued, his voice trembling. "And that night, when we were introduced, my heart rejoiced, for my search was over. My other half is you. It has always been you. I love you, y/n. I will always love you. Meleth," You gasp as he took the final step needed when it came to his feelings for you. "Will you-- will you have me for your own?"

Blue eyes looked into yours with such hope. You seriously consider what you were going to say. Marriage was a big deal after all.

And you’d be married to the Elvenking, it couldn’t get bigger than that.

Fingers tracing lines along your knuckles reminded you that Thranduil was probably expecting an answer. And he was. More than anything.

You look around you again. You'd be happy here. You could see yourself happy with him. You could definitely see yourself falling in love with him. Or perhaps, you already were?

"Yes." Overjoyed, Thranduil pulled you into a hug before giving you a kiss. "My answer is yes."

#who doesnt love soft thranduil #soft and fluffy #thranduil #thranduil imagine #thranduil x reader #the hobbit #elves #for the love of silver elven hair #a world of whimsy writes #creative writing #writing #fanfiction #writeblr

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after-witch · 4 years ago

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The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

Title: The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

Synopsis:

You’re not the first one he’s brought into the Goblin King’s Labyrinth. You’re not the first one to best him, to get to the center and beat him at his own game. But you are the first one to beat him and give in: “Fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.” What happens when the magic fades, and you’re left with is the muddled consequences of your decision?

Word Count: 2550

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, drugging, mentions of noncon

You hate the ballroom. You hate the gowns and the glitter and the music. You hate all of it.

How long have you been here? Time is fuzzy and of no consequence here, and the clock--you’ve planted yourself in front of it, staring--never behaves as it should. The novelty of the whites and golds and pinks of the ballroom, of the swirling dancers and their impossibly endless stamina, has long worn off. Well before this particular peach, well before this particular ball, spinning and swirling together like rainwater down a drain.

The gown that you once admired, that once had you blushing and twirling in its beauty and delicacy and shimmering glitter, weighs your shoulders down. The delicate glass-like heels refuse to budge from your feet, though no one will ever dance with you--a grin and a laugh is all you got, when you dared to ask--but they still feel sore from your wandering, your half-hearted spinning and attempts to lose yourself in the dream, all the same.

Everything, everything is sore. Your body and your head and your heart. The room feels fuzzy, not unlike the skin of a peach. Fuzzy and unreal and disorienting. And you’re so, so lonely.

The people here are dreamlike and blurry, talking amongst each other in giggling whispers, which is the most you’ve gotten out of them. Laughter. Do they mock you? Or are they trapped in some fugue-like state, unable to do anything but drink and dance and laugh?

Perhaps you’re not the only one here who has bitten peaches.

The clock in the corner strikes, but when you glance at it, its hands are winding aimlessly. There Is no hour and you’ve been here forever, it seems, and you might be here forever still.

All you can do is wander, your glass heels clicking against the ballroom floor, dodging the dancers who swirl or gather to sip champagne that flows freely. Wander and think, because getting lost in the haze makes you terrified that you might become one of them, unable to do anything but laugh and dance and your feet will be even more sore.

Which is more sore, you wonder--your body or your heart?

It doesn’t hurt much, anymore, to try to think about your friends and family only to realize that their faces and voices and actions are foggy and lost. They are loose memories that you can never grasp tightly onto.

But the loneliness is something you can grasp, and often do, feeling it keenly and sharp in your stomach. You feel his absence keenly, too, in the wake of no better company--here or there or anywhere. When you’re in the castle or in this ballroom or trapped in another fantasy.

When you’re in the castle (you admit, you miss its stone walls and the open windows of his throne room and even your room, oppressive though it was) you are often left to your own devices while Jareth does what he does. The goblins are stupid, and only want to roughhouse with each other. You aren’t allowed outside of the castle, so any entertainment or companionship you might obtain with others--assuming they didn’t hate you, assuming Jareth hadn’t killed them or tossed them into some oubliette to rot forever after assisting you into the center--is impossible.

And so Jareth is the only one you can have a conversation with; the only one who isn’t half-there.

Not that you openly pine for his companionship, either.

What started out as a nervous acceptance of his offer, a buzzing in your head and body that reminded you of your first sips of champagne, had dulled down too swiftly. You were his queen, yes. He was your slave, perhaps. But to a point--to a point.

You remember the first time he led you to your chambers, a near replica of your bedroom at home, albeit with a few twists: such as a closet stuffed with the most sumptuous clothing you’d ever imagined, some of them literal recreations of gowns you’d drawn in your notebooks or pinned to your wall.

It was beautiful and too much and all for you. And then he’d kissed you goodnight so gallantly and you’d sat nervously on the end of your bed. But when you tried to leave, the door wouldn’t budge. It was stuck, fast. You knocked. No one answered. You walked backwards to your bed and crawled under the covers and thought, maybe, this was a dream, and when I wake up I will be at home.

You woke up in your room, with the sequins of ballgowns winking at you from the closet.

When the door swung open and he stood there, dressed more modestly than you’d seen him before, you inquired about the door; ever so quietly, politely, unsure, nervous and realizing with the clarity of sleep that he was a goblin king and you were just some nobody who had agreed to give up the world and family and friends and your sister, safe at home he said, but did he tell you the truth? And he threw his head back and laughed ignored your question.

He told you to pick a gown for breakfast. A gown at breakfast seemed an impossible choice and perhaps he read your mind because he took one out for you, a pale green gown with sparkling puffy sleeves, and you hoped you wouldn’t get food on them. Did it matter if you did? The realization of who you were and where you were seemed to hit you again and again.

But as you dressed and as he adorned your neck with an emerald necklace, you were feeling better, a little less nervous, a little more excited. Your dreams--here they were, laid out in front of you like a feast. You were in a castle, you had anything you wanted apparently at your fingertips. And a king to hand it to you, his touch both gentle and firm as he took your arm like a gentlemen and led you into the hall.

As your own door shut behind you, you caught sight of it: a heavy, gilded padlock on the outside of your door, the padlock that had kept you from budging it the night before. Your stomach dropped.

“Why is that there?” You’d asked, looking up at him. He smiled, and it was not exactly a nice smile, you realized.

“To keep my queen inside her chambers. What else are locks in castles for?”

Your cheeks felt heated, and you’d blurted out--oh the memory of it makes you feel stupid, now--”If I’m your queen, you can’t just lock me up in my room.”

He stopped. His arm around you tensed and it made your heart speed up.

“Can’t I?” It was all he said, practically murmuring as he looked down at you. Then he’d continued, and you stumbled for a moment before following him in silence.

You had no words to answer him.

Fear him, love him, obey him; the words on loop echoed in your head as he led you to a dining chamber, bustling with goblins who tripped over themselves carrying trays and goblets to and fro. You barely remember sitting at the ornate, carved chairs in front of a haphazard meal--how well could goblins cook?--or the way Jareth insisted on giving you cup after cup of wine.

You barely remember the way the day seemed to jump by, and after dinner your head felt heavy and then there was a bed underneath you, his bed, large and sumptuous. The smell of peaches was in the air and your dinner gown, pink and velvet and scented like roses, bunched up underneath you as he was above you.

The days after that were often blurry. You asked to take it back, you asked to go home. He refused and locked you in your room. You asked to just be let outside the castle, at least, and inquired about the friends you’d made in the labyrinth. He refused and locked you in your room. He fed you peaches. He sat by your bed, petting your hair as your head swum in dreams, waiting to pull you out whenever he deemed it suitable.

Ah.

You’re lost again, lost in memories, when you’re suddenly in someone's grip and spinning, your back instinctively leaning as you twirl.

“Did you miss me?”

It’s Jareth, of course. No one else would touch you. He’s wearing a suit made of embroidered purple velvet, and when you glance up you see that he’s chosen makeup to match. And glitter, of course, always glitter. You swear you can see it flying off him as you dance, as he sparkles as much as anything else in the room.

His grip on you is familiar and firm, and when he spins you around the weight of this dream-like room seems to lessen. Your shoulders feel lighter and the glass around your feet doesn’t feel like it might break and shatter into a million pieces.

Your mind aches to talk to him. To have a conversation with a person, not a laughing caricature. To hear him ask about your favorite books, ones you didn’t own, so he could procure them. To listen to him tell you about those who didn’t make it through the labyrinth--though you hated these stories, grim as they were, and he stopped telling them. To cross your arms nervously and murmur out your fantasies at his behest, things you’d always wanted to see or do; unicorns and fairies (though you’d seen them before the castle, and they bit you) and jousts (not quite as gallant, with goblins as the knights) and anything else your heart desired.

You might tell him this. You might tell him that you did miss him, because without him you’re a heavy, aimless dancer stuck in this room that you hate with people that don’t view you as human and are they people at all? You might tell him that you do appreciate what he’s done for you, the gifts and gowns and dreams, but that you wish he wasn’t so commanding towards you, wasn’t so demanding of you. You might tell him that his passion confused you and his kisses were too intense and you don’t understand why he wants you, why anyone wants you.

You might tell him, yes, I missed you, please take me out of here and take me with you.

You might tell him this.

Stubbornness wins out.

“No,” you say, ignoring the ache in your feet. “I was just bored.”

He chuckles, but he’s not amused.

“And here I thought you wanted to join me in the castle.” He releases you from his grip with a final flourish, and the endless dancers around you begin to push in, separating you two in their increasing mania.

“Well, if you didn’t miss me, I’ll let you get back to your ball.”

The music swells with his words, as he backs way, disappearing among the nameless throng of guests.

It might be weeks before he shows up again, and instantly, stubbornness loses.

“Wait!” You push against the moving wall of people, their tulles and sequins scratching your arm, their heels stepping on your toes. Someone laughs, a barking, harsh laugh.

Through sheer force of will, you reach him, grabbing the end of a velvet sleeve and gripping it tightly with your fingers.

“Please,” you beg. “Don’t leave me.”

You see the glimmer in his eyes, a ghost of a smile. You bite your lip. Words are important here. Words are contracts and wishes and pitfalls all in one. “No, wait. I mean. Take me with you.”

He dips low then, taking your hand and pressing it with a gentle kiss. Someone in the crowd lets out a saccharine sigh.

“Whatever you desire.”

When his lips meet your skin, the ballroom collapses and inverts and you wake up in your bed with a slamming force that has you sitting so quickly that your head swims. You reach out and grasp the headboard and wait for the world to stop falling, wait for the pain of gowns and glass slippers to stop sweeping through your bones.

When you stand, slowly and gently, a discarded peach rolls onto the floor.

Your stomach curls when you remember biting into it. What can you do, when you’re locked up in your room with nothing to eat but what shows up on a golden tray in the morning? You’re stubborn and disobey him, and he locks you up in a room. In your room, you can only eat what he sends you. And he sends a peach, so you must eat.

And his peach sends you to the worlds of your dreams, worlds of ballgowns and princesses, glitter and lace, soft music and oh-so-much-prettiness. You scoff at the you that you used to be. The you that accepted the invitation into the labyrinth and in the end, capsized under the temptation of fantasy being reality. Of being his queen.

Though it’s hard to feel like any queen, even the queen of goblins and labyrinths and bogs of eternal stench, locked in your room, still dizzy from a peach.

When the door opens, he’s wearing something new. A costume change, because as long as you’ve known him (how long? He refuses to say, and time of course, no longer has meaning) he can never resist wearing something new.

It’s a gold suit this time, glimmering and shining. The gold glitter above his eyes seems to dance as his hands open and a large golden gown drops onto your bed. You look down at it and your heart aches. How you would have loved such a gown, before. How you do still love it, and you can’t hide the way your fingers slide over the fabric, earning a pleased chuckle from Jareth.

“What’s the occasion?” You murmur, fingering the delicate golden lace at the fringe of the sleeves.

He lifts you up and tugs at your night gown, and you obediently raise your hands this time as he undresses you. Layers and layers first, then the shimmering gown. He pulls matching shoes out of nowhere and you slip them on, sighing a bit when they’re comfortable and soft and not made out of glass.

“I’ve ordered our subjects to put on a performance.” He smiles, and if it’s not a nice smile, you push the bitterness down. “To celebrate the return of their queen.”

You allow him to take you by the arm, and you keep your eyes straight ahead this time. The door shuts behind you and you refuse to look back at the padlock.

“I trust you will behave,” he tells you, not stopping in your progress down the hall.

You nod and grip his arm tighter. At least he’s real. At least he speaks to you. At least you’re in the castle.

Tonight, you hope, his bed chamber won’t smell like peaches.

#yandere jareth #jareth x reader #jareth goblin king #labyrinth #afterwitch writes

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bakugohoex · 4 years ago

Note

Since no one is taking it, could I ask for NSFW prompt 1 with Hawks??

“you’re going to show the whole world who you belong too”

pairing: keigo takami x female reader

cw: nsfw (MINORS DNI exhibitionism, soft sex, female receiving oral, praise kink, nipple play, clit stimulation, creampie, degradation, kissing, bruises) and language

word count: 1900+

a/n: i’m like 80 followers away from 3k and i’m still doing my 1k event this is how you know i’m behind on everything

summary: in which you find yourself in a hotel room after your dinner with keigo, pressed against the glass window for the whole world to see

1k event masterlist

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His hand glided past your waist; eyes fixated on the ascending lit numbers that increased by the second. Your body ached for more feeling, to have his hands clasp around you forever, his mouth beginning to litter past your shoulder right onto your skin. It was supposed to just be dinner, that was the plan for this week’s date night but ever since you had come out of your shared bedroom, Keigo couldn’t keep his hands away from you.

The way your hips looked into the dress, or the way it fit you perfectly, as if it was made to make you look even more beautiful. He had found himself paying in an instant before grabbing your hand, giving it a soft kiss on the back of your hand and dragging you away. You had been led outside, taken to the nearest hotel that Keigo knew would be perfect for the two of you and here you were.

In the elevator with a very horny Keigo ready to have his way with you, his hands slipped against your body once more, originally placing his hand on the small of your back. He couldn’t resist but keep you pushed against his ever-growing cock. “Look what you’ve done baby, made me all hard.”

He nibbled at your shoulder, one of his feathers had moved under your dress gliding against your thigh. A shiver running down your spine at the action, it felt intoxicating as his hands and feather touched your body. He looked up at the elevator numbers, the way it became slower and slower the higher you got, till the 45th floor was in his grasp.

Taking your hand the doors opened as he swiftly walked out, instantly finding the room number and letting you in. Locking the door as he entered, the suite looked perfect for lovers, with a big king-sized bed with fresh sheets and the smell of vanilla filling the room. A bottle of champaign and a rose sat on the marble table as the bathroom looked fully equipped for two lovers to prance into.

Keigo watched as you looked around, already forgetting why you were in the room in the first place, his eyes remained on your body. How pretty you looked as you finally looked up at him, with those big doe eyes that would take all of him in an instant. He knew you, knew how you acted and how with one look he could have you on your knees. “Pretty.” He murmured beginning to walk towards your form, the way you seemed to get smaller and smaller at each step.

You were more than pretty to Keigo you were perfect, his prefect little girl and all he could think about as he licked his lips was having you begging for his cock to fuck into you. “Keigo…”

Trailing off as soon as his hands reached to cup your face he muttered, “let me have you for the night, let me”

“I want you…” You breathed out heavily, but at the sign of the agreement, he got to work. His feathers swiftly moving your dress upwards as he kissed you.

Tongue gliding inside as he kept a firm grip on your now uncovered hips, the straps having been pulled by the feathers as you stepped out of the dress. Keigo knew why he picked this hotel, the big windows that cascaded past one wall. You could see the whole city or better, yet the city could see the whole of you.

You expected him to take you to the bed, put you down and fuck you senseless. But he had other ideas, his hands moving to grabbing your throat as he pushed you towards the glass windows. “Look…” he moved your face with his fingers forcing you to look out into the dark sky, “that’s our audience baby girl.”

Your heart fluttered as he let go of you, his feather keeping your wrists pinned behind your back as you looked to him. The way you still felt pressed against the window even though he wasn’t even touching you, the sultry look he gave as he unbuttoned each button. You admired the way he looked tonight, having worn a black shirt with silver dangling earrings had always turned you on. But seeing him now, about to expose the both of you against a window was what got you really going.

“Excited are we?” He chuckled as his shirt fell to the floor, his trousers feeling tighter and tighter as walked towards you. Eyes focused on the way your clit filled with slick, his fingers moved between your thighs touching at it as he brought it to his mouth.

You gave a moan at the sensation, the missing of his fingers but most of all how his mouth sucked his fingers. “Taste good baby.” You didn’t know what you were expecting but as soon as his belt came off and trousers fell, you watched how hard he had gotten from the mere look of you tonight. His hands moved to your thighs as you shivered under his touch waiting to see his next move. “Tell me you want me again.”

“I…I want you…please Keigo…gi…agh…” Before you could even finish speaking Keigo’s arm had wrapped under your thighs pushing your back against the wall as he held you up with his arms. He stayed on his knees as your ankles rested against his back, you couldn’t help but feel turned on by his sheer strength over carrying you like this, but even more so how his mouth had attached right into your cunt.

His tongue gilded against your clit and he tasted your slick as your moans filled the hotel room as your hands moved to his locks of hair. You could barely hear him speak as he sucked and nibbled at your cunt, intoxicated by the sheer power and lust he had for eating you out. His tongue moved deeper and deeper inside of your cunt as you could feel your legs tense at his actions. “Fu…fuck Kei…please,” you tugged at his hair wanting to feel his tongue go further in. His feathers had moved towards your back, so the cool window didn’t hurt as much against your back but even then it only turned you on more.

His muttering was inaudible, but as he kept moving deeper and deeper, his hands became harsher and harsher against your skin. “Agh…Kei…” your moans could probably be heard through the thin walls as your other hand to your face, feeling flushed as you could barely keep your mouth closed at Keigo’s movements.

His groan made you weak, already feeling the coil in your stomach ready to burst and as he gripped your under thigh ever harsher, leaving nail marks in his way. “Keigo…Kei…I’m gonna…cum…” you could barely speak biting into your hand as you felt your cum gush out right into Keigo’s mouth. He seemed to happily accept his favourite offering. Finally looking up at you, the way your back remained pushed against the window, your hand with spit on it and the way cum still seemed to leak out of you.

“My pretty girl…” He moved his hands to let your feet touch the ground before standing up to tower against you. “Gonna be my good girl, gonna listen to me baby?”

“Ye…yes…” You could barely speak from your first orgasm, but you already knew what Keigo was planning as his hands moved to your hips pushing your chest against the window.

He scoffed as you both stared out of the window, taking his boxers off as one hand kept a hold of you. The flashing lights of other high buildings in view, the bridges with bright yellows and reds from cars zooming past. “You’re going to show the whole world who you belong to.”

It wasn’t a question instead as he gripped your sides pushing you further, his cock used your cum to slam itself into you. “Keigo,” your mouth had become agape in a matter of seconds as you moaned his name, his eyes flashing as he began thrusting into you.

You wanted to see him, wanted to face your love and as you tried. His hand moved from your side to your jaw. “Look outside…you want to be good? Let them see…let them see your stupid cunt,” your moans remained as his hand made you focus outside, how his own mouth had moved to your shoulder as he left kisses. His other hand moved to play with your clit as you both filled the room with groans and moans.

You could see the way the stars played in the sky, the way each one connected to another, meeting down to the river. How the cars flashed passed going onto the bridge in a matter of seconds or how if you could see into other businesses that towered the streets of Japan then they could definitely see how you were getting fucked. “Fa…faster Keigo…” he complied as he kissed your neck, his fingers becoming lazy on your jaw as you leaned your neck on his shoulder.

You were completely complying to your love, letting him have you. Keigo’s fingers continued to play and pinch at your clit as your whole body went into overdrive. You couldn’t help but look to the side and see how Keigo looked, the way his hair had become damp, his other hand on your bare chest and he flicked his fingers between your nipples. But most of all how Keigo’s eyes were barely open as if he felt on a high, his stifled moans through your ear not helping how wet you had become.

He thrusts became incoherent, as he wanted to cum right in your cunt but had to wait for you to cum first. Your pleasure would always mean more to him than anything else, so as he continued to thrust into you, groaning into your ear unaware at how even if the sky looked like a sight for sore eyes. The way he looked at you was so much more, as if you had seen the entire universe and what it was worth in the man that held you.

You could feel the coil in your stomach as his thrusts continued to be sporadic it was almost hard to tell if Keigo was in any right mind. He had become intoxicated by the way your cunt kept him firm inside of you, how each thrust led to even more lust.

But as you continued to look up at him, realising just how much adoration you had for him, your incoherent moans and his continued grip on you as he went faster and deeper lead to cum gushing out of you once more.

“I…I love you Keigo…” he hadn’t expected it but as you moaned out his name the feeling of your second orgasm coming through. Cum filled your cunt as Keigo’s thick cock stuffed it right back into you, not letting any drip down your thighs.

He spoke as he thrusted into you until he cummed right in your pretty little cunt, “I love you too.” You both stayed panting as Keigo took himself out of you, the way you remained in his arms as cum leaked down your leg.

He kissed your forehead before bringing you up into his arms, holding onto you as he took you towards the bathroom. And as he placed you into the tub, the mess of your body, with the scratches and marks littered across it all Keigo could think about was just how lucky he truly was.

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moononastring · 2 years ago

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132 books! Holy moly. I know it would be asking A LOT but do you think you could post a list of all books? If you don’t want to it’s ok. But wow….

HAHA I know it's nuts but I always have a book on me so I reread in between any free moment. It also turns out that it's 130 books since I double-checked on GoodReads!

I initially had a reading goal of 75 books then bumped it to 100. Throughout this year I've realized, I pick and choose between hobbies so if I'm reading, I don't do any other things. So I sacrifice time to play on my switch/watch tv/write because reading takes first place. Also, GoodReads does count epilogues and webtoons as books so I do as well lol. Which is how I'm currently on the 131st book 😂 But sure! I love talking about books so I will list them under the read more!

Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4) by Lisa Kleypas- 5/5

Mafia Bride (The Dilustro Arrangement) by C.D. Reiss - 2/5

Anchored Hearts by Priscilla Oliveras - 3/5

By Any Other Name (ARC) by Lauren Kate - 4/5

#FollowMe for Murder (Trending Topics Mysteries #1) ARC by Sarah E. Burr - 3/5

Storm of Chaos and Shadows (SCAS #1) ARC by C.L. Briar - 3/5

You Had Me at Hola (Primas of Power #1) by Alexis Daria - 3.5/5

Great of Nothing by Joy McCullough - 2/5

How to Fake It in Hollywood (ARC) by Ava Wilder - 3/5

The Littlest Library by Poppy Alexander - 2/5

A Rouge by Any Other Name (The Rules of Scoundrels #1) by Sarah MacLean - 3.5/5 | Reread

One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (TROS #2) by Sarah MacLean - 5/5 | Reread

The Wall of Winnipeg and Me by Mariana Zapata - 5/5 | Reread

Dream On (ARC) by Angie Hockman - 3.5/5

House of Earth and Blood (CC#1) by SJM- 4/5 | Reread

Good Girl Complex (Avalon Bay #1) by Elle Kennedy - 3/5

House of Sky and Breath (CC#2) by SJM - 4/5

The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons #2) by Julia Quinn - 4/5

The Viscount Who Loved Me Epilogue by Julia Quinn - 4/5

Just Like Magic (ARC) by Sarah Hogle - 4/5

FBAA #1 by JLA - 4/5 | Reread

From Lukov with Love by Mariana Zapata - 5/5 | Reread

The Un-Arranged Marriage (ARC) by Laura Brown - 2/5

KOFAF (FBAA #2) by JLA - 4/5 | Reread

TCOGB (FBAA#3) by JLA - 4.5/5 | Reread

TWOTQ (FBAA#4) by JLA - 4.5/5 | Reread

An Offer from a Gentleman (Bridgerton #3) by Julia Quinn - 5/5

An Offer from a Gentleman Epilogue by Julia Quinn - 4/5

Romancing Mr. Bridgerton (Bridgerton #4) - 3.5/5

Romancing Mr. Bridgerton Epilogue - 3.5/5

A Dowry of Blood by S.T. Gibson - 4/5

An Encore of Roses by S.T. Gibson - 4/5

Bravely (ARC) by Maggie Stiefvater - 3/5

King of Battle and Blood by Scarlett St. Clair - 2.5-3/5

No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (TROS #3) by Sarah MacLean - 3/5

Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover (TROS#4) - 4/5

To Sir Phillip, With Love (Bridgerton #5) - 3.5/5

To Sir Phillip, With Love Epilogue - 3.5/5

The Bodyguard (ARC) by Katherine Center

ACOTAR #1 by SJM - 4/5 | Reread

The Italian Job (ARC) by Kathryn Freeman - 2/5

For Butter or Worse (ARC) by Erin La Rosa - 3/5

A Sign of Affection Vol. 6 - 3/5

A Sign of Affection Vol. 7 - 4/5

ACOMAF (ACOTAR #2) by SJM - 5/5 | Reread

When He Was Wicked (Bridgerton #6) - 5/5

When He Was Wicked Epilogue - 4/5

Book Lovers by Emily Henry - 5/5

ACOWAR (ACOTAR #3) by SJM - 4.5/5 | Reread

Booked on a Feeling (ARC) by Jayci Lee - 2/5

Something Wilder by Christian Lauren - 1.5-2/5

The Dragon's Bride (A Deal With a Demon #1) by Katee Robert - 3/5

The Fine Print (Dreamland Billionaires #1) by Lauren Asher - 4/5

Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires #2) - 2.5-3/5

ACOFAS (ACOTAR 3.5) by SJM - 3.5-4/5 | Reread

It's in His Kiss (Bridgerton #7) - 3.5/5

It's in His Kiss Epilogue - 3/5

Bad Girl Reputation (Avalon Bay #2) ARC by Elle Kennedy - 2/5

Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) by Raven Kennedy - 3.5/5 | Reread

Glint (TPP #2) - 4/5 | Reread

Gleam (TPP#3) - 5/5 | Reread

Glow (TPP#4) - 5/5 | Reread

My Killer Vacation by Tessa Bailey - 5/5

Spy x Family Vol. 1 - 4/4

Spy x Family Vol. 2 - 4/5

On the Way to the Wedding (Bridgerton #8) - 3/5

On the Way to the Wedding Epilogue - 2/5

Violet in Bloom (Bridgerton 8.5) - 3/5

The Spanish Love Deception (#1) by Elena Armas - 4/5

The American Roommate Experiment (#2) - 4/5

ACOFS (ACOTAR #4) by SJM - 5/5 | Reread

Spy x Family Vol. 3 - 4/5

Spy x Family Vol. 4 - 4/5

By A Thread by Lucy Score - 3.5/5

Twisted Love (Twisted #1) by Ana Huang - 3.5/5

Twisted Games (Twisted #2) - 4/5

Twisted Hate (Twisted #3) - 4.5/5

Twisted Lies (Twisted #4) - 5/5

Thank You for Listening (ARC) by Julia Whelan - 3/5

The Fixer Upper (ARC) by Lauren Forsythe - 2/5

Spy x Family Vol. 5 - 4/5

Spy x Family Vol. 6 - 4/5

Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones - 3/5

Belladonna (#1) ARC by Adalyn Grace - 4.5/5

The Risk (Mindf*ck #1) by S.T. Abby - 4.5

Sidetracked (Mindf*ck #2) - 3.5/5

Scarlet Angel (Mindf*ck #3) - 4/5

All the Lies (Mindf*ck #4) - 4/5

Paint it All Red (Mindf*ck #5) - 5/5

Spy x Family Vol. 7 - 4/5

Spy x Family Vol. 8 - 4/5

Flowers for the Devil by Vlad Kahany - 3.5/5

Blide Side by Kandi Steiner - 3/5

Fangirl Vol. 1: The Manga - 4/5

Fangirl Vol. 2: The Manga - 4/5

Things We Never Got Over (Knockemout #1) by Lucy Score - 5/5

The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston #2) by Sarah Adams - 2/5

Hat Trick Heart (Thunderclap #1) ARC by Ella Market - 3/5

Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match by Sally Thorne - 1/5

Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright #1) by Sophie Lark - 3.5/5

Stolen Heir (Brutal Birthright #2) - 3.5/5

Savage Lover (Brutal Birthright #3) - 3.5/5

Blood Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - 2/5

Broken Vow (Brutal Birthright #5) - 4/5

Heavy Crown (Brutal Birthright #6) - 2/5

Edith, Season 3 (Webtoon) - 3/5

Reunion (Webtoon) - 5/5

Kingdom of the Wicked (KOTW#1) by Kerri Maniscalco - 4/5 | Reread

Kingdom of the Cursed (KOTW #2) - 4/5 | Reread

Kingdom of the Feared (KOTW #3) - 4.5/5

The Maiden & the Unseen (ARC) by Jeanette Rose - 3/5

The Naughty or Nice Clause (ARC) by Kate Callaghan - 1/5

In A Jam by Kate Canterbary - 3.5/5

King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang - 4/5

Spy x Family Vol. 9 - 5/5

Spy x Family Vol. 10 - 5/5

The Hating Game by Sally Thorne - 5/5 | Reread

The Bromance Book Club (#1) by Lyssa Kay Adams - 5/5 | Reread

Undercover Bromance (#2) - 4/5 | Reread x2

Crazy Stupid Bromance (#3) - 5/5 | Reread x2

Isn't It Bromantic? (#4) - 4/5 | Reread x2

A Very Merry Bromance (#5) - 4.5/5

Happenstance by Tessa Bailey - 3/5

Dating Dr. Dill (#1) by Nisha Sharma - 2/5

All Rhodes Lead Here by Mariana Zapata - 3/5

Tis the Season for Revenge by Morgan Elizabeth - 5/5

It ends up rounding out to 130 because I reread the Bromance books 1-4 twice this year lolol. Currently on my 131st read which is Romancing the Duke by Tessa Dare!

#gpost #2022 reads #books #this took so long LOLOL #I am happy to share my goodreads I just wanna know who I'm sharing it with before I do 😂#I tried to go in order of the way I had it on GR #asks #'nonnie #I was going to focus more on writing this year but...jokes on me! lol

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