#so: SWEET POETIC JUSTICE

[the-kipsabian]

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

my therapist on saturday: what happened to you is una putada (a shitty situation) so it's best to take it slow, and relax this week, don't do anything academia related, just chill.

me, today: receives my first positive answer from a foreign professor willing to supervise my phd proposal and writes them a wholeass essay as a reply email with around 10 attachements. and right after that i start looking for more phd options.

[wri0thesley]

cw: cunnilingus, not sfw, arranged marriage reader wearing a gown (no pronouns). based on this post from a few days ago. 3.1k

There's a pout on your pretty mouth that Wriothesley is utterly itching to kiss off. 

It’s an expression he’s grown rather used to on the face of his spouse; somebody as properly born and bred to society as you finds themselves a touch adrift when faced with Wriothesley’s own gruff manner, his inability to kowtow to the strictures that Fontainian society attempts to place on those who have ascended to its lofty heights. 

Unfortunately, when his availability had become common knowledge and eager parents had flocked to him in order to hawk their beloved children like so many lovely wares, he had found himself exceedingly drawn to you. To the stiff little way you held yourself and inclined your head, the way your voice had shook - the way that you hadn’t immediately tried to flutter your lashes and laugh at things that were not jokes. 

It had not hurt that your family, though fine of name and lineage, had fallen somewhat into financial difficulty. Some parents had withdrawn their offspring from the game of courtship when it had become clear that though Wriothesley now had the title of ‘Duke’, he was still at heart a former criminal, and not the genteel fawning aristocrat they had expected to find. 

(A title is not enough to take back over half a life spent in the fortress of Meropide, after all; not enough to scrub the memory of noses crunching beneath his fists, of what it feels like to end someone’s life even if it is for the greater good). 

Your family, though, had needed the boost; the Mora and the prestige. And so you had remained achingly polite and maddeningly prim and proper and so very obviously inexperienced that the sweetness of it all made the back of Wriothesley’s teeth ache. 

“Where are you taking me?” You ask him, in a soft whisper, as his hand fastens firmly but not bruisingly about your upper arm; as your husband maneuvers you away from the chatter of the ballroom. “You’ve barely greeted anyone--” 

He knows you are scandalised; that your parents have taught you to be the gracious party guest, to bow and chatter idly and wax poetic about crystal champagne glasses. But Wriothesley has spoken to Chief Justice Neuvillette (just as out of place and adrift here as Wriothesley himself), and he considers that his duty properly done. He has no desire to do the things that are expected of him. 

Not when that pout on your face - the way the light hits the glimmering petals of your lower lip - is begging to be kissed within an inch of its life, and the moonlight streaming through the windows is illuminating the curves of you in your pretty gown, and he knows that you will squirm and squeak and call him a dirty old man in that way he loves, your voice pitching with desire you’re still not sure about, the moment he has you alone at his mercy in one of the shadowed hallways of tonight’s party. 

“Just to get some air,” he says, giving a smile that’s all wolf-bared teeth to the closest gentleman who dares to give you both a briefly disapproving look. “Isn’t it just so horribly stuffy in there?”

Your nose wrinkles, between your brows creasing. Wriothesley thinks about kissing every place the flesh furrows on your face, covering you in them until you’re helpless to do anything but laugh. He always feels like a hero when he has managed a laugh out of you; you seem to give them so rarely, and it’s such a darling little bell of a noise. 

“It’s barely been ten minutes,” you settle on, the faintest hint of reproach in your voice. “It’s really not polite . . .”

What is not polite, he thinks, is the way that the run of his thoughts have turned to your dress, cut low enough to make people think indecent thoughts about you. There are no manners, either, to the fact he is thinking about the perfume he had watched you dab on this evening, and wondering how long he’d have to rut into you until the only thing that people could smell on you would be the musk of his ownership. 

“They’ll live,” Wriothesley says firmly, steering you out into the hallway. “You ought to know nobody here really wants my esteemed company.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Wriothesley does not want to be beloved of this particular roiling mass of humanity; the aristocracy, in his experience, is all artifice. He may spend his time with criminals, but at least the criminal underclasses are usually honest about what they want. They’ve been taught that ‘you do not get if you do not ask, do not try, do not work for it’ - these people, this gathering of society schmoozers . . . they get simply by being born. 

Of course, since he married you, there have been more invitations than before. 

Part of it is curiosity - what kind of spouse will the Duke of the Fortress take? One like him, who does not conform? Some of them want nothing more than to ogle at you and find out your secrets, poke you in your softest parts so they know if you will be a weakness that they can later exploit. Wriothesley finds these people distasteful - at least some of the invitations come from those who have already met you, who have been charmed by your pretty manners and sweet way of speaking, who are hoping that perhaps you will be some calming influence on your uncivilised brute of a husband. He still doesn’t like these invitations, of course (any event in which he is forced to put on a stiffly starched shirt and button it to his throat, to fuss with cravats and tailcoats when he’d rather stick to his own clothes, are not generally met with much pleasure for him), but at least you always seem thrilled to get them. 

It’s because of you he had accepted this one. When you had brought the invitation to him all bright-eyed and chirping, like a pretty magpie with a shiny coin, he had not been able to think of an excuse faced with you looking so utterly thrilled . . . and so he’d helped you choose a dress (he does so love you in black and red, and if he had chosen something cut low in the chest for reasons of his own, who is going to blame him when they see you?), and had travelled out of the Fortress in order to please you. 

He’d only lasted ten minutes, but perhaps after he’s pleased himself the two of you can go back out into the throes and he will have the memory of what you’ve just done to dwell on as he pretends to care about the difference between the fish fork and the dessert fork. 

“That’s just because you don’t let them see the real you,” you begin, but Wriothesley has seen what looks like a likely little hallway - secluded and dark, only one or two doorways leading off of it. He tugs at you, and though you offer a token resistance, you allow yourself after a moment to be pulled into the little alcove, and for your husband to cage you against a wall. Your breath catches, your lashes fluttering as your eyes flit to take in the breadth of him, the muscles, the way you are inescapably caught by him - and Wriothesley does not miss the desire that dances over your gaze. “Your Grace--”

“Mmm?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, lowering his face closer to yours so that he can see himself reflected in your eyes. His cock twitches at the way you bite your lip unconsciously, and he knows from the little gasp that you do not miss the sensation of it against you. “Am I doing something untoward again, sweetheart?”

He lets his voice roughen a touch on the word; the patois of the criminal flavouring it in a way that reminds you he is dangerous, and you pout so sweetly and let out the quietest little whine that he doesn’t know how he stops himself from having his way with you right then and there. There are many untoward things he would like to do to you; many untoward things he is planning on doing to you, right here, in public. 

“It’s indecent . . .” You gasp - but you still wrap your arms around his neck, and still pull him in to let him kiss you hot and hungry and fierce as a wolf. He cannot get enough of the way you taste beneath him; there is sugar that lingers on your lips even when he hasn’t seen you imbibe anything but a single glass of champagne when offered. He wants to devour you; to taste every part of you, until his mouth only remembers the lingering remnants of your own. 

You gasp, pressing your body - soft and impossibly pliable - against his wherever you can reach him, hard planes of muscle meeting the softer give of your flesh beneath your gown. 

“You seem to like it well enough,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to whisper it into the delicate shell of your ear, delighting in the way the words make you shiver. You try to school your face to sternness, but your own desire betrays you even as you try and pull your dignity around you like a cloak. 

“B-But, Your Grace, in public--”

“Mm . . . doesn’t the thrill of being caught make it seem all the sweeter?” He gives you a grin that shines like the sharks that sometimes float past the Fortress, serenely serrated. You squeak in a cross between dismay and longing as he sinks to the floor, and his big, scarred hands find the hem of your gown to begin pushing it up your ankles. 

The frills and fripperies of lace and ribbons look almost wicked, in those hands; fine, delicate concoctions of fabric and satin that were not made to be man-handled. You shiver at the thought of his grip ripping through them; of fine fabrics being rent asunder in his hands as you know he is capable of. 

“We shouldn’t--” You whisper, in that pitching whine of ‘don’t’ that is only a step away from ‘please don’t stop’.

His palms - he will not even grudgingly wear full gloves - feel cool, even through your stockings, as he slides them up your calf. His chuckle is a rough-spurred thing, and before you can say anything further he has disappeared beneath your skirts entirely, and you find yourself clinging to the moulding on the wall behind you to try and get some semblance of purchase. 

He tugs at one of the ribbons that keeps your stockings held up, and from the hot puff of air against your bare thigh, you know he has done so with his teeth. Your pulse flutters in your throat, your vision fair spotting with the mixture of feelings that Wriothesley’s actions are drawing forth from you - desire and shame and wanting and need and unsurety, all mixing together inside of you in a cocktail of arousal so potent you barely know how you stand it. 

A wet, open-mouthed kiss is pressed to the spot above your stocking, on your bare thigh. You feel the graze of his teeth against the soft skin, unseen by anyone aside from him. Unmarked by anyone aside from him (you have learnt that the Duke is very fond of using his teeth, during his bed-chamber escapades; you have learnt more at his mouth and his fingers and his mercy than you had ever thought that you would have cause to know). 

Wriothesley’s cock is so hard in his too-tight formal trousers that he can barely think of anything but the pulse between his thighs, but the moment he has his head beneath your skirts and he can scent your arousal on the air, all thoughts of tending to his own almost-painful erection instead turn to tasting you, smelling you, burying himself inside of you until you are a helpless mess. 

He knows that logically you taste, probably, of the oils and the powders and the lotions you use, on your skin and in your bath. Perhaps a touch of your own sweat - but to Wriothesley, the taste that lingers on the tip of his tongue as he takes his time kissing up your thigh, working towards the apex between them, is nothing short of ambrosial. He can hear his own breaths, hard and panting, but he has never been the kind of man who lets himself feel shamed for doing what he wants. 

“You’re dripping,” he grunts, and the muscles in your thighs jump, tensing, as if you’re cringing at what he has said - and though he cannot see you from his place beneath the skirts of your gown, he can gladly imagine the expression on your face. You’re darling. He wants to kiss you until you can’t breathe and fuck you until you can’t walk; but for now . . .

He settles by kissing over the softness of your mound, letting his hot breath once more fan out over that most intimate part of you. He hears you whine again from somewhere above him;

“Wriothesley, you’re being obscene . . .”

He lets his mouth fully envelope your cunt; lets his tongue lathe out across your folds, flickering against your clit in a way that makes you violently jerk. The moan that you let out is muffled - one of your own (gloved, as is right and proper in society) hands has flown up to your mouth. Though he will miss the sound of your enjoyment unencumbered, he supposes it is better for privacy if you at least make an attempt.

“So you want me to stop?” He growls, the taste of your slick lingering on his tongue, honey-thick and just as sweet. To drive in the point of what you would be missing, he lets himself give your clit - the swollen nub standing to attention, as if begging him for more - a kitten lick. 

“Don’t even think about it, you scoundrel,” you say, whisper-soft and gasping, and Wriothesley knows you cannot possibly fail to sense the curve of his lips against your cunt. 

“As you wish,” he says. “Never let it be said that I don’t take my duties as a Duke and a gentleman seriously.”

And he returns to his task with voracious excitement. 

He has done this to you before, but never in public - never with you standing, never with the threat of discovery looming over his head . . . he finds he does indeed quite enjoy the thrill, so he takes his sweet time exploring your folds with his tongue, letting himself be even wetter and messier than he’d normally be. 

The sound is indeed obscene, as he delves the tip of his tongue between your folds - as he finds your pulsing entrance and toys with it, slipping just a little of the flexible muscle inside of the channel until he feels you try and clamp down on it, before he returns to the wet circling of your fluttering hole. 

His nose presses directly into the softness of your mound, grinding against your clit with every slight adjustment of his head. Normally, you’d at least be able to tug on his hair as he did this (and he’s rather fond of that too - the way you do even that so neatly, so apologetically), but now you are entirely at his mercy and it is obvious from the tremble in your thigh, as if you are going to swoon to the floor at any moment. 

You shift to rest more against the wall and Wriothesley takes that as an excuse to manhandle you - he takes one of your thighs and slings it over his shoulder, unbalancing you but for a moment - but giving him far better access to the spot between your legs. 

Far easier, like this, for him to use thumb and forefinger to tease the lips of your labia apart and to settle his mouth around the pearl of your clit. 

You jerk in surprise again, more soft muffled whimpering coming from above. He can make out a few of the words - ‘scoundrel, rake, you filthy pervert, Wriothesley Your Grace please don’t stop--’

He is not a cruel husband, so he does not. 

Your clit, pulsing with need, is drawn into his mouth - and Wriothesley takes great pleasure in suckling upon it the way that one might a particularly delicious candy, his tongue lathing over and over and over. You squirm in his grip, and he imagines your face as it always is when you are close to the edge. You tremble and sweat and shake for him and Wriothesley needs you to fall apart like he needs air. 

He redoubles his efforts; his other hand clenches on your inner thigh, his forefinger finding the pulsing, clenching hole of your sex. As he sucks, he gently inserts just the tip of it inside of you, and oh, you are greedy for more than his mouth--

You come with a strangled cry that is not quite caught by your glove - a clamping of your thighs around Wriothesley’s ears, and a gush of wetness that Wriothesley is more than happy to let flow into his open mouth and down his chin, to stain the collar of his starched white shirt.

When your aftershocks are over - when you are trembling not so violently, and he trusts you to stand on your own two feet, he presses a kiss to your cunt before he returns your leg to the ground.

He disentangles himself from your skirts, his knees only aching a little - nothing, really, compared to the inescapable pulse of his cock where it’s longing to be pressed hot and deep inside of you. He does not bother wiping his mouth of your release - and when you see him, his face shiny and wet with the proof of your enjoyment, you huff in embarrassment and avoid his gaze. 

You’re the sweetest little thing, he thinks again fondly. Even though you had moments ago been rutting against his mouth like the most brazen and desperate creature in Teyvat . . . now, faced with the proof of what you’ve done, you’ve gone over all proper again. 

Deftly and firmly, he takes your chin in his hand and presses a kiss against your mouth, making sure your own taste lingers on the soft petals of your lips. He makes sure he takes full control of it; that it is a press of his ownership of you like his seal pressing into wax on the missives he writes down in the depths of the Fortress. If only you knew just how much of him you owned in turn. 

“I think,” he says, his voice thick, “I feel much improved. And you were right, sweetheart, about it being rude to leave a party so quickly. Should we return back to the ballroom?”

[yuoimia]

WELCOME TO MY HEART

summary: how has loving you changed him?

characters: neuvillette, alhaitham, diluc, xiao. (seperate)

notes: gn! reader, fluff, getting poetic in xiao, weird time skips. wc: 2k!

neuvillette

Hesitancy lingers like a translucent mist around Neuvillette. Thick, but also not thick enough to be indiscernible. As centuries tick by, soon enough, that protective mist wanes into nothing but a fragile facade that threatens to vaporise. That outcome is most unfavourable; simply visualising it already causes a spike in distress in his chest.

Fast forward a few 'scenic meetings’ later, Neuvillette wonders where that mist disappeared off to.

He needn’t put up a missing poster with a contact number because, shockingly, the Chief Justice no longer desired that prudential coverage.

You evaporated Neuvillette’s final layer of defence, stripped his rationality with unwavering strength of character, and erased any uneasiness within the language of love.

Throughout your shared timeline, every point marked with a memorable moment, there are many small aspects about each other that only the continuation of time can reveal. It’s as sweet as it sounds, unless, well, the other finds out about something you did try to conceal.

Sometimes you think to yourself: Who knew the Monsieur Neuvillette could be so…earnest in seeing you flustered?

Truly, there are only very few opportunities Neuvillette would starve himself from such delight. The other times, though, they consist of your rose-tinted cheeks and his charmed chuckle, florid promises ending with a trail of marks of his love down the slope of your neck.

Neuvillette is quite the bold one. Far too cheeky for his own good, really.

alhaitham

It was a warm memory. Still as vivid as ever, despite the years that have passed. A golden tattoo, activated whenever the dazzling drops of summer sunshine radiated down.

Three years ago, summer, the Akedemiya.

Heatwaves weren’t a rare occurrence in Sumeru. For weeks on end, the city of wisdom experienced boiling highs and dry, scorching winds. The streets were empty as shopkeepers resorted to staying under the cool of shaded roofs. That was the correct response, the only response to such situations.

Yet, there were still people willing to test your limited patience even more.

“We’re going to get a heatstroke,” you explained to each member of your darshan. “We can postpone the field trip to the desert some other day.”

“But this weather is indefinite, and knowing Sumeru, it is going to last a very long time. We can’t afford to waste time,” someone argued as nods of agreement travelled across the table.

Wow, you huffed to yourself, sitting yourself down. You were doing this for their own good, and partly yours.

“We should go ahead with the trip,” said the agitating, raucous noise again as a cacophony of voices arose in agreement. Maybe he should be in charge, then. As if you wanted to cancel this trip, you’ve spent endless nights planning the perfect itinerary! Also, the last time you remembered, you were appointed leader of this whole excursion.

“Facing the facts, there’s no traces of concrete evidence that our planned area holds the ruins,” you declared as the table fell silent. “Theoretically, we have more to lose than gain.”

“We’ve already decided,” came another voice. Archons, these people were going to be the end of you. “We’re still going to go next week.”

You came to the conclusion that, to knock some sense into their brains, you needed someone more intimating to interfere.

“…You want me to be pretend to collapse from a severe heatstroke?” the (acting!) grand sage repeated, not even attempting to conceal his bewilderment. “And, preferably, making it look as dramatic and exaggerated as possible?”

At the other end of his desk, you nodded with faux solemnity. “I’m afraid so.”

“Afraid so?” Alhaitham humours. “Everything from your…request to your actions betrays that.”

In the end, you didn’t manage to convince Alhaitham to put on a show showcasing the risks and dangers of heatwaves and heatstrokes, but he did agree to go out for lunch. To negotiate alternatives, of course.

After that lunch, he asked for your presence for dinner, and after dinner, you found yourself making breakfast at Alhaitham’s place.

“Since when did you come over so much?” you asked, sleep clearly clinging to your senses. “Last time I remember, I was waiting by your office door waiting to sneak in ten minutes of your time.”

The coffee he freshly brewed threatens to burst from the confinement of his mouth as he stares at you with a curious expression. “This is my house.”

The realisation spreads through your face like ink in water as you glance at the surroundings. “Oh yeah…that’s right.”

Alhaitham subtly rolls his eyes, letting out a lighthearted tsk as he disappears off into the kitchen. “Do you feel like going to Gandharva Ville in the evening?” he asks, the clatter of dishes echoing through the lounge. “You were groaning over how you hadn’t seen Collei and Tighnari in ages a few days ago.”

He remembered that?  You gawk to yourself, mouth and eyes wide open as you trod towards the sunshine of the kitchen . Moreover, he certainly wanted to go. Since when did Alhaitham suggest you leave the house for purposes such as catching up with friends?

“I’d love to,” you answer as you help him load the dishwasher. “You beat me to it.”

A soft smile imperceptibly brightens his face, casting you in slight awe. “What? You don’t think I disregard your desires just like that, do you?”

Alhaitham is the hopelessly romantic one. Those intricate plans he sets up for your happiness are nowhere as simple-minded as he plays them out to be.

diluc

There was always something peculiar about Diluc Ragnvindr. The snarky remarks about the Knights of Favonius’ poor service, which you found highly offensive in the presence of an employee (you), the genuine air of mystery he upheld, but the most interesting thing you were desperate to crack down on was his frosty distaste for the Cavalry Captain, your co-worker, Kaeya.

As far as you knew, Kaeya was a lovely co-worker. considerate, dedicated and reliable, he was an admirable worker. You didn’t understand why Diluc didn’t applaud him for his discipline renowned throughout the city, especially if he was continuously murmuring about the incompetence of the staff.

Amidst the possible explanations, you came to the conclusion that the unwelcoming atmosphere stemmed from something more personal. Jealously? Past disagreements? No, that couldn’t be. They didn’t appear the closest.

Little did you know that all you needed to do was ask. Not really, but you get the idea.

“You…want to talk to Diluc?” Kaeya spluttered, wide-eyed at your determined face, before moving his gaze towards Angel Share’s bartender with a smirk. “Ah, I see what’s going on.”

“You’re very far off, by the way,” you replied silkily, taking a sip of the apple juice. “I’m not interested in him romantically, if that’s what you were thinking.”

Kaeya raises an eyebrow. “If not romantically, then what could you possibly talk to him about?”

You shrug, making a beeline for the counter. “Thanks for the drink.”

Diluc had caught the words, ‘interested in him romantically.’

According to those four words he heard from you, the context of you and Kaeya’s conversation could already be visualised.

For someone who seemed to be interested in him, your choice of words regarding his interest in you were a little all over the place. So, he assisted you.

“How about we discuss this over dinner?”

Sometimes, you think to yourself, how did this ever happen?

For example, the weak beams of lighting from the east signify that it’s the birth of dawn, your neatly tucked in bed, except this bed isn’t actually yours.

The evidence lies with the person’s arms around your waist, tight and warm against the chills of early morning.

“Good morning,” a sleepy voice suddenly erupts from besides you. “Have I told you how even more striking you are in the sunlight?”

Diluc Ragnvindir is the passionate one—the one who would give you his heart if you asked. In some ways, he’s still as mysterious as the first time you laid eyes on him.

xiao

The moon is the muse for thousands of people. Whether it’s written in a rhyme, painted on a canvas, sung in a song or resonated with a soul, it has immersed itself in the complex depths of the sensitive human heart.

There’s a particular interpretation that has stuck with you since the first time you read it. A lyrical piece of literature from somewhere long lost. You were especially tired that night. A most unlucky dilemma, as it might’ve guaranteed to be one of the most critical and serendipitous nights of your life. Not that you knew at the time.

From that somewhere long lost, between the rolling tides of shadows, tucked away in the safety of peaking mountains, a mysterious figure observed with curiousity at your sentiment.

However, the discreetness of Xiao’s hiding spot was tested most instantaneously when you suddenly made a decision to look up. To the sky, or to him? Truthfully, you were actually aiming for the moon, but the pounding chambers of his chest crashed his steaming trains of thought.

He had to restrain himself from investigating further as your figure dissolved one by one into the night. Maybe you'll be there again tomorrow.

What started off as a little exchange of words soon blossomed into short conversations. Short conversations soon bloomed into a gap in time filled with occasional laughter and encouraging smiles. He learned your name, and you learned his secrets. Vicious, woeful secrets plaguing his dreams, or perhaps the title of nightmares suited it better.

On their own, the characteristics were incessant in disaster. Fusing those characteristics with centuries of solitude and emptiness, it assisted in further igniting the raging fire burning away his will.

The idea of somehow unravelling those years of pain seemed so clearly impossible, even if that person felt like they had a chance. Even if they felt just the tiniest bit more special than all the others.

“Some things are impossible,” Xiao had muttered as he watched you go through an assortment of books he lended from Verr Goldet, eyes flickering from your face to the yellowing pages. “It’s better to admit that than spend years searching for hope.”

Skimming through the columns of ancient literature, a strong feeling of suspicion arose as you distinctively felt like he'd seen you do this once before.

“But what if you find the hope?” you whispered gently, switching your attention to his avoidant gaze. “There’s always that outcome, too.”

That outcome. Of course he’s considered that conclusion, wished for it. But Xiao would never dare to believe that far.

“I read a poem a few nights ago,” you started again. “A comparison of us and the moon. Humans, just like the moon, need to wax and wane. We’ll grow and shine our beauty, but that can’t be achieved unless we remember to rest, to wane. After all, a full moon only lasts around three days out of a whole month.”

How can you just return to reading after you told him that?

That moon analogy was shared about a year ago.

It’s likely that you brushed it off, but for Xiao, it’s still freshly etched into the shelves of his mind. And it would be a lie if he said that he didn’t change in small, irrevocable ways because of it.

Particularly tonight.

An exhausted sigh escapes from your lips as you sink into bed. Lying like a starfish, a hollow expression is evident in your eyes alone.

“This project is never going to work,” you spoke, turning to stuff your face in a pillow. Adjacent to you, Xiao observed as you screamed, once again the same words into the fabric. Only this time, the words were separated by sharp heaves and quiet sniffs. Being a little inexperienced with scenarios such as this, Xiao could only reassure you with the same words and actions that you had endlessly showered him with in similar situations.

He knew you were listening, despite the softness of his voice, which was hardly detectable. He repeated the words you told him a year ago when he felt as if the world was about to end.

“Someone once told me humans and moons are alike,” he smiled as he saw your face lift just a bit, as if you couldn’t believe what he was saying. “We both need to wane before we can emit our light in full greatness.”

Xiao is the quiet one, whose love is often under-looked, but in truth, it’s expressed just as vividly, if not brighter.

[madwomansapologist]

So I saw you were asking for kyojuro requests,

what about Kyo coming home from THAT mission alive to Gn reader who hasn’t slept for days, worried that he would die like in the movie( maybe they had a nightmare of those scenes?) and that then tooth rotting fluff ensues of kyo comforting reader with hugs and snuggles and wraps them up in his haori?

one of these nights | kyojuro rengoku x hashira!reader

waiting. you fought, protected, killed, saved. for days on end, you contined with your duties as a hashira. but all it takes is one look at you to see the truth underneath it: you were waiting for him. waiting for kyojuro to come back to you. to come back at all.

cw: canon level of violence. conversations about death. demon being tortured. reader is filled with rage and violent intent. angst to fluff. happy ending. inspired by one of these nights by red velvet.

an: thanks for your request! really i just needed an excuse to write about him. kyo is such a sunshine ray, it hurts me to know he received the nanami treatment (guess i have a type). i even made a playlist for him.

Blood burned away from your lilac nichirin. Surrounded by darkness and ashes, you gazed at the head throwing offenses at you. You grabbed it by the hair, walking back to the sleeping village.

"I dreamed of him hours ago", you ignored all the whining. "He was bleeding. A hand deep into his chest, one of his eye long gone, his sword broken in two. Can you picture someone smiling in such a moment?"

"You stupid bitch! It was mine! That girl was mine! She would give me the strenght of twenty, no, fifty humans, and you took her from me! You gonna burn! You gonna die screaming and crying and begging..."

"I can", you answered your own question. "He won't die carrying grudges and regrets, no one will forget how my Kyo is sweet. Not the ones he saved, trained or had the chance of being changed by him. He deserves that. To be remembered."

Some lovers would tell you to have more faith. Hope. To accept that justice will prevail and goodness always is rewarded. Some would judge. How can you not trust Kyojuro to come back to you? How can you talk about his death? How can you love him when you act like that?

And for them, you asnwer would be: I am jealous of you. Jealous of how some have the privilege believing that poetic justice exist. Jealous of those that never noticed how easy it is to die. Jealous of the fearless.

Tonight, all you know is that you feel something wrong is about to happen. Something wrong, cruel and unnecessary. It's one of these nights you despise.

"He would've grant you a peaceful death, weak demon", you caressed his cheek. "Kyojuro would give you what he deserves, believing it must be the standart."

With a swift motion, your nail cut through his left eye. "Once he's dead, I'll turn my grief into torment and pain for your kind", one pull, and the gelatinous pieces fell on the ground. "I'll make demons dream about a world Kyojuro Rengoku survived."

Your tsuguko reached you as your fingers ripped the demon's lips appart. The wisteria you apply daily to your sharp nails was enough to make him to beg. You dropped the head on the floor.

Hands trembling, eyes wide open. You scared him. Another tsuguko that will runnaway from you. At least he lasted more than the others. "Report", you demanded.

"I attended her wounds", he started, voice oscilating. Not a man yet, not a boy anymore. He's growing stronger, faster than anyone should need to. "She insisted on cooking you dinner, Hashira."

He wasn't afraid of you. Of what he saw you doing to that demon. You chose him as your tsuguko because of how similar to you he is. He fight to protect, but he survives to punish. "Why are you so startled?"

"I saw his crow, Hashira."

Your tsuguko ran back to your mansion. The last part of his daily routine. You walked, so far behind you couldn't even see him. A distance you could cross in the blink of an eye turned into minutes of silence.

You're not ready to hear it. Not now. It's too soon. To live as a slayer is to be aware of how easily the balance between life and death can change. But Kyojuro deserves better than that.

Kyojuro deserves all the sunrises and sunsets this world can offer. He deserves sweet treats, salty soups, succulent meats. He deserves to see his father change, his brother grow, this country heals. Kyojuro deserves more than you could ever give him.

At least, if you're about to hear the news from his crow, that means you won't be the one to tell Senjuro. Cry now, you thought to yourself. Do it now so you won't do it in front of the kid.

Blinded by heavy tears, you followed the blur lights surrounding your mansion. Sanemi would've mocked your for acting so vulnerable at night. A newborn demon could end you now, and you wouldn't notice until their fangs were deep on your skin.

How didn't you noticed? If a crow was to warn you about his death, it would've fly straight to you. It wouldn't be his crow. And the path wouldn't smell like blood and sweat.

How didn't you heard as he gasped? How didn't you felt the air changing as he stormed towards you? How didn't you knew he would come back home? Come back to you.

"Why are you crying, my jewel?" Kyojuro evicted the silence following you home. His powerful voice ecchoed throught the night. His scarred hands held your face, fingers cleaning the tears. Softly, he made you look up. "Who made you cry? Tell me and I shall punish them!"

As your tears dried, you reached for him. Trembling hands raised, stopping right before you could feel his skin. Was it a dream? Did your fears came true and you finally went insane? "Kyo..."

He was there. Right in front of you. You could feel him. The scars on his hand. The warmth of his breath. The sweet aroma of orange coming from his hair. You could feel his fire. That bright soul only Kyojuro has.

And he was hurt. Wounds across his face. Blood dripping from his shoulder. He was in pain. He never went back to you like that. Looking so fragile. So vulnerable.

Your Kyojuro, your sweet Kyojuro, was hurt. More than you could ever imagine. And still, he managed to come back to you.

"You're back", you whispered. Your head was so light, no thoughts could manage to distract you from his burning eyes. "I thought... I-I had a nightmare. And the crow..."

Kyojuro sighed. His hold tighten, forehead falling into yours. Embraced by him, the rest of the world be damned. You couldn't care less about this wretched floating rock.

"Forgive me, flame of my heart", he whispered. Kyojuro whispered. That made you hold your breath, afraid of this being a product of your tired mind. "I promised to never make you cry."

You closed your eyes, hands on his broad shoulders. "I will always forgive you", you bit back the tears. "As long as you keep coming back to me."

"It was an Upper Moon."

You stumbled back. Kyojuro grabbed you, his fingers deep into the skin of your hips, haori floating between you two. "You survived a Upper Moon."

"No", Kyojuro smiled. "I killed one."

You laughed. Loudly. Until your cheek burned. You grabbed his face, pulling Kyojuro into the longest kiss you ever shared. You couldn't let him go. You would never let him go.

How you love being wrong.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

general taglist: @lovelyy-moonlight

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[freakassfemme]

MWAH wishing u a speedy recovery!!!!! listen u always do my requests sm justice YOU JUST GET IT, i will always crawl back into ur askbox i am patiently waiting while kicking my feet :3

original ask YOU ARE SO SWEET! I appreciate you. here u go, i have brought you a gift <3 unfortunately my only explanation to 'getting it' is that I am always having or striving to have filthy nasty lesbian and queer interactions. or I am writing or reading about it. my sole purpose on this earth is to curate queer experiences. hope that helps <3 btw I wrote this from 6 - 9 am so bare with me wc: 2.9k warnings: metaphorically consuming each other as a form of desire, yeah I know I switched present/past tense its a bad habit of mine but I *don't care* nor do I care about consistent capitalization, I'm crazy for this woman obviously, rough sex, f/f, vagina/breast anatomy, biting, overstimulation, crying, maybe I get a little too poetic about gay sex, proof read by only me one singular time and it was mainly to see if the music fit the vibe, penetration, scissoring, I love pussy, orgasm denial x1 (?), slight size kink and worship but really that's in all my fics

see how it shines [smut] ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ

playlist: it will come back / be / abstract (psychopomp)

(yeah we r bringing hozier into this </3)

eighteen fucking hours. that's how long you'd been clocked in at the medical bay for what seemed to have been maybe the third or fourth time this week, and it was only Thursday.

the truth was, medics and doctors were dropping like flies these days, going AWOL and leaving the remaining staff to work what would need twenty sets of hands with maybe seven or eight. with the seraphites becoming more aggressive everyday, the peace in the stadium and other bases for the WLF had been short-lived, and many understandably weren't holding up well to the pressure, especially with the way the cleanup crews had been hauling back nonstop truckloads of friends and loved ones, and requests to be stationed elsewhere other than the stadium and two were immediately denied at this point.

so yeah, you were pretty fucking tired. at this point in the staffing shortage, they were having to send the folks on watch on additional rounds just to bring food to medics, on duty or at home, because they were simply too exhausted to go down to dining.

no one even acknowledged you as your blood and mud-ridden boots skidded across the concrete floors, your eyes practically closed even as you walked through crowds to get back to your dorm. the soldiers, civilians and staff alike parted like water around you, making an avoidant path and trying not too hard to look at you or the posters on the wall, outright begging people to sign up for medical classes.

you kicked the food delivery box inside of your dorm as you unlocked it, hands fumbling with your forehead pressed against the cold metal. inside, you quickly stripped out of your uniform top and boots, and crashed out on the couch.

abby herself was exhausted when she trudged into your shared living space hours after you, having just come off of a 48 hour rotation. her eyes wandered over the little trail of belongings leading to you on the couch, the boots left a few steps after the other, your button up discarded over the railing and the abandoned delivery box just a few feet from the door, which she didn't notice until she nearly slipped over it, causing a loud thump that had her wincing.

her eyes flicked to you, where she could only see the back of your head, and when she decided you weren't going to stir, she let out a sigh of relief and began stripping herself of her own uniform.

on her way over to the bathroom, she stopped next to you, taking in your splayed out form. your hair was a fucking mess, and you still had drops of (hopefully) someone else's blood across your forearms, one thrown against the back of the couch and the other hanging over the side. your pants were halfway undone, like you had tried an attempt that you decided wasn't worth the energy, and you looked pale as a ghost.

as much as abby wanted to let you sleep, wanted to let you get the rest you needed, she couldn't leave you like this. it'd been at least three days since she last saw you for more than a fleeting lunch break, and she couldn't find it in her to take care of herself and not you, especially when you had been eating away at yourself providing the undying care to strangers who wouldn't want to return it even in several lifetimes.

she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before she nodded, crouching down and grunting from the soreness of her own body as she scooped you up.

when you groaned and gave a small shove back, she hushed you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"c'mon, sweet girl, it's just me. i got you."

you hadn't put up much of a fight when abby propped you up on the sink. you leaned the back of your head against the mirror as she shimmied your pants and socks off of you, stripping your shirt and undergarments next until your cold skin was left against the glass and stainless steel, and you began to shudder. abby was quick about turning up the hot water in the shower though, allowing the steam fill the room before she helped you to your feet, letting you lean against her and whisper weak protests as you climbed into the hot shower.

instantly, you relaxed against her, and she ran her fingers through your hair, fully saturating the dirty strands as you sighed, wrapping your arms around her firm waist to steady yourself.

you stayed like that for a while, pressed against your girlfriend's tone form as you slowly collected your own strength, letting her gentle hands and soft voice lull you back from your weak state until you could help her wash you both up, even if it took a bit longer than usual.

"lean your head forward f'me, angel," abby murmured, one of her large palms warming up your spine with gentle caresses as she held a half-formed braid of your hair in the other. you obeyed quietly, letting abby tie back your now managed hair into something similar to how she usually kept hers, though she left her own loose.

when she was done, abby shifted closer behind you in the bed, her arms slipping underneath your borrowed shirt to hold you against her. she buried her face into your neck, letting you curl into her until you were turned on your side and entirely wrapped in her strong arms.

her nose nudged yours, and your eyes weakly fluttered open to meet abby's soft gaze, her seafoam eyes almost hauntingly bright against the cool illumination of the moonlit windows. it spooked you a bit, in all honesty, to have her this close to you again after so many days, days where you had considered the other possibilities in which she may come back to you.

you weren't any less unnerving to her -- she could tell you hadn't been eating nearly enough since she had been gone, and in just a few short days you already looked withered enough to drop like a limp daisy. your skin was ghostly, its usual warmth dampened from a lack of sunlight.

still, she was your girl, and you were hers, even in your worn states. and god, she had missed you.

abby's pine soap filled your nose as she pressed her lips into yours, the warm skin hesitant under your cool, cracked ones, and you accepted her gratefully, even if just for a moment it was as useless as whiskey on a winter night.

but then, of course, like any decent drink, the buzz hits.

and even though your limbs are screaming against you as you do so, your fingers curl into abby's loose hair, and you turn your head just a bit more. when you kiss back, abby's shyness, her gentleness quickly melts away, replenished by a hunger matching your own as you desperately search for more of her, pulling her against you like you hoped to swallow her whole.

your teeth crashed against her soft skin, tugging at her lip and making a slot for your tongue to force its way into her mouth. instantly, she shuddered, groaning into you in a way that you could feel the vibrations in her chest. it was like an open invitation, a warm meal laid out just for you, and you accepted it greedily.

you pulled abby on top of you by her hair, whining back when she moaned against your lips again. her own hand snaked up your body, squeezing at your thighs and hips as she fell on top of you, then pushing your oversized shirt over your chest, exposing your chest and making a clear pathway for herself. still, as starving as she was, she tried to take her time with you, wrapping her fingers around your jaw to hold you in place, and only stiffening up when you parted your legs, wrapping them around her and shoving your bare cunt against her firm stomach.

"wait," she whispered against your lips, "wait f'me, baby. let me have some."

you whine and protest as abby's strong arm holds you down by your throat, her other coming down to pin your fighting, impatient wrists to your stomach.

"baby, baby please," you're crying between broken moans as her tongue runs up your neck, stopping just so you can feel her heavy breathing against the shell of your ear when she slowly begins to work her hips against yours, the fabric of her boxers smearing your arousal across her thighs.

"fuck, baby I know," she groans, and if it wasn't for the way she gritted her teeth, you'd think she was annoyed rather than desperately holding herself together.

"abby, I --"

abby's hand on your jaw slips up some so she can shove two of her fingers in your mouth, and she lets out a stupid, desperate moan when she feels you choke around them for a second. then your eyes roll back just when she looks up, checking on her little angel, and she can't help but grunt louder, slamming her hips into your core in a way that makes you keen and your back arch, your smaller fists squeezing underneath her grip.

"god, shut up," she's practically begging as her hips rut into you. "please just, fuck, be quiet for a second, shit -"

she buries her face in your neck again, trying to satiate herself and regain some of her sanity, but your legs are now locked around her, pulling her against you in a way that has her clit brushing deliciously against the seam of her boxers. her head spins every time, and she lets out broken whines as she feels herself already tipping dangerously towards that edge as your body fights to consume her.

and god, it's torture for her, but for you, you just can't get enough. your fucking beast of a girlfriend trying so futilely to hold it together from just this stupid game of dry humping, when you're so, so willing to give her so much more.

let me have you, let me have you, you're chanting in your mind, your ankles pushing at the hem of abby's boxers.

you swallow around her fingers, and that seems to do it for her, granting you some edge as her other hand releases your wrists and flies to the side to hold herself up as her back arches against you with a loud groan.

your hands rush on to her back, your nails finding purchase just below her shoulder blades and ripping down the muscle until her fingers tear from your throat to slam against the bed and she stifles a cry by biting down on the base of your neck so hard that for a moment, you're worried she might draw blood.

"fuck," you rasp out against the pressure.

abby's shaking in your arms, moaning between the prettiest sobs as she gives in. she's pliant when your hands slip down to grab at her ass, and she lifts her hips to help you slip her boxers off, kicking them behind her.

she leans back, her blonde hair dripping onto your exposed tits. the cold water makes you shudder, and you let abby shove her bare cunt between your legs and slotting one thigh over you.

your lips fall in a open-mouthed gasp and she swears as her entrance rocks against your throbbing clit, one of her hands coming down to steady your hips and the other to hold her shirt up over her stomach so she can see the way you're making a mess of her thighs.

she stays there for a minute, brutalizing your bundle of nerves for her own pleasure. your head falls against the mattress, and you let out ridiculous whines, your hands fisting and slamming against the sheets below you, even coming up to claw at her strong thighs that kept you pinned so tightly in place.

"fuck, fuck, 's too much," you're choking out, and now it's your turn for the waterworks while abby only chuckles, laughing breathlessly as she presses down harder.

"no, no baby," she coos between her own moans, running her tongue over her teeth as she shudders. She slips her hips down some until you're fully rutting against each other again, the sheer wetness making it that much more difficult for your brain to process. "'s not, sweetheart, you can take it. i know you can baby."

you shake your head, and abby rolls her eyes, quickening her pace until your cheeks rouge and your whining grows. your hips twitch beneath her, uncontrollably bucking up to kiss her pussy again and again and again despite your pleas.

"what's wrong?" she purrs, her hand coming from your hips to run itself down from your neck, to your chest, to the back of your thigh. "thought you wanted it, thought you were begging for it, baby."

you whine again, shivering under her touch as she leans down, her mouth capturing the meat of your thigh as she rocks against you. she bites harder with each push and pull, and your tired body can't take it. it's too easy to get worked up for her like this.

"abs, ohmygod, stop, 'm gonna-"

abby's all to keen, knows exactly what you're going to say before you can even finish your sentence.

"shit, fuck, no you're not," abby grunts, ripping away from you in an instant.

your arched back hits the mattress with a full on sob, and you can feel your unsatisfied arousal leaking onto the sheets, the sickness between your thighs and on your stomach, the smell of abby, abby, abbyabbyabby until you jolt back up, letting out a small cry at the sudden impact against your clit.

she does it again and again, slapping your swollen cunt until your body is on the verge of cumming just from this. you're already so pent up, so touch-starved that you'd probably cum just from her biting you again, and she knows it, knows you're both like that right now.

your arms prop you up as one of her hands holds open your parted thighs, and her lips are consuming yours again as she growls with every spasm and whine she pulls from you. she doesn't stop until she really thinks you might burst, when you're starting to lift your hips for more instead of trying to hide away.

"god, you're filthy, baby," she groans against your mouth, and you only nod dumbly, knees shaking as you try to catch your breath. she's kneeling between your legs, ready to worship her sweet slice of heaven, ready to piece you back together.

abby's hand comes down gently this time, just the tip of her middle finger tracing over the mess between your legs until she's prodding it against your entrance so delicately that your brain nearly short-circuits.

she looks back up at you, her chest heaving from some sort of late-onset restraint and with such devotion filling her dilated eyes that you almost can't move, can't breathe. her eyes rake over you, holding every detail for an extra moment to commit it to memory, and when it's clear you're too awestruck by her, too overwhelmed by the sight of her poised in reverence, she speaks for you.

"gonna let me in, pretty girl?" abby asks, the words dripping off of her tongue like a velvety chocolate. you nod stupidly, your head bobbing in a way that's a little too eager, but she doesn't say anything about it.

instead, she hums, licking her lips as she wraps a hand around your head, pulling you so that her nose bumps against yours. abby presses her lips against yours, and one of your hands shakes as it finds its way up to grasp at her bicep. she's much more gentle this time, much more cautious as the tip of her finger begins to delve inside.

you pull away from her lips with a gasp when she intrudes, turning your face to hide it in your shoulder. you can't help but squeeze around the single digit, your knees already trembling.

"uh-uh," she tsks softly, her raspy voice echoing against your ear. she kisses your temple, and her hand slides down some to turn your face back towards her.

"let me see you," she whispers, sucking in a gasp as she pushes her finger farther into you, curving her palm to fit snugly against you.

your eyes flutter up to hers, almost shyly as you feel your ears burn and your eyes threaten to water as she holds your gaze. she nods when you do, curling her finger inside of you as she praises you, the ridges of your walls clinging to her finger so tightly that she's taking small, shallow breaths now.

"that's it," she murmurs, holding your head in place so you have to look at her. "that's my girl."

you let out a small whimper, the embarrassment running straight to your core as she begins to work her finger in and out, guiding it further each time until the base of her thumb glides over your clit. when it does, she groans, and can't help but push her hand harder against you until she's practically shoving you into the mattress and you swear you can feel her in your throat.

stars flutter around the blurry edges of the halo that is her golden hair, and the tears in your eyes begin to slip again between the way she's carving a god damn signature inside of you and how she's holding you so tightly against her.

you open your mouth, trying to speak but hopelessly interrupted by a mixed sob and moan. she chuckles softly, but it's tender and sweet, and she nods, brushing her thumb over your temple.

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

[shalotttower]

To Make a Home Out of Bones

Title: To Make a Home Out of Bones

Fandom: BTD2 (Boyfriend to Death 2)

Characters: Ren Hana x Reader (female)

Summary: You were free. Free for real, and you couldn't believe that, staring at the open door. And then, by some twisted scenario, decided to keep him. It's tragic, really.

Word count: 2300+

Notes: yandere!Ren Hana, captivity (past Reader and finally in present not Reader :D) Reader is sensible though and there's nothing crazy going on on her part apart from the captivity scenario, mostly tired vibes/attempts to process what happened, unhealthy coping mechanisms, past torture, past manipulation, possessiveness, past dubious consent, past non-con, Reader doesn't know about Strade.

You don't talk. You never talk nowadays and it feels almost liberating, not having to converse. Ren doesn't look as intimidating as he used to. Maybe it's because of the collar, or maybe it's because he doesn't wear that damned jacket anymore, the one which seems to change his whole being into something unhinged and cheerfully vicious whenever he puts it on.

Is this what he felt, watching you tied to a pole?

No, hardly.

There was a very tangible sense of power in your captivity.

You, however, don't feel powerful at all.

You feel like an old tree: splinters, rotten wood, and bark waiting for the storm to come and snap the trunk in the middle.

Freedom is strangely anticlimactic.

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You don't know how long you've been here, stopped checking a wile ago because it didn't matter ─ to be dragged back from the basement on Wednesday or on Saturday. Days became a sequence of events, not dates, once you realized Ren planned to keep you indefinitely.

Have breakfast, tell him it was good. Do the laundry. Watch TV, let Ren cuddle up to you, ignore the presence of another in the same room. Smile every time he says something nice and expects to hear it back. Let your eyes glaze over during sex, try to remember what it felt like to have someone touch you without making you bleed. Wake up to a sleepy fox curled up on top of you. When Ren dreams his ears twitch.

It takes approximately five minutes for him to settle for sleep, tangled limbs and pointy nose buried in the crook of your neck, and he's surprisingly light for a grown man. With how tough Ren seems (or wants to), there's some sort of innate clinginess about him that contrasts so much with the image in your head: smiling through bloodied teeth while nailing your leg. At first you thought being nice was a way out of this, but kindness is a double-edged sword here: soon you realized how utterly you misjudged him ─ and how truly screwed you were.

Because Ren, while cooking you tasty meals for "being good" and letting you watch TV, likes kisses and hand-holding, and cute things. But Ren also likes the way you sob no less, and that's where the miscalculation happened. Being nice only guaranteed with some unsteady sense of security that he wouldn't kill you yet. That was all. He's sweet, snuggly, affectionate until he isn't, and no amount of good behavior or praise will stop him from breaking your fingers if he feels like it.

Your routine had been simple for months. Easy. Unbearable.

And now all the world which was limited to one single house for god knows how long expands again, but you don't really feel it, even after reaching the small front gate.

You could leave him there, you think. In the basement, and no one would ever know. Lose the key, never come back, just-

Not go back. And all of this will be behind you. You'll never have to see him again, never have to smile for him, never have to hear that shaky sound he makes when he cums, or witness his face turn from carefree to confused, and then to understanding, then to annoyed.

A death like this seems fitting for him. Cold concrete and silence; starvation is an awful, terrifying way to go. You noticed that Ren doesn't really like to be alone, and there's almost poetic justice in leaving him in the basement to slowly rot away.

Your fingers curl around the iron handle and with something akin to astonishment let go of it, then fall limply to your side. You're free, yet you stay rooted to the spot, because frankly speaking where does one go from here? Your rent must be long overdue, and your face is probably everywhere, plastered on missing person posters.

'Hey guys, I'm not missing anymore', you imagine saying to your co-workers, 'sorry for disappearing, I guess. Do you still need that Excel sheet done?'

Your employment contract had probably been terminated. The bank account should be fine, Ren took you right before the paycheck, and there's mom's house to crash at until everything goes back to normal, but that surely means cops getting involved, and lawyers, and media. Just the thought is exhausting.

'How did Mr Hana treat you? Were you intimate? Yes or no? Please, tell us more, miss. How do you feel? What about Mr Oleander, did you know him?'

The wind picks up, blowing leaves and ruffling your hair.

Ren will go to jail. Obviously — kidnapping and killing people equals prison time. The problem is that it doesn't bring you any kind of satisfaction. You don't want Ren here, but you also don't want him peacefully living his sentence while you pick up the pieces of your old life. There's no closure in that, but again...can there be any?

You sit down on the porch; cold wooden boards creak under your weight. Ren has a nice little suburban house.

What now? You have no fucking idea, just vague notions of an unclear future, and nothing substantial.

What now indeed.

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He fed you regularly, that's true; you stand at the basement door and watch him eat.

Ren allowed you free roaming within the house premises, an access to TV, books, hygiene products. Reading manga together felt almost domestic, yet...you keep him there. In the basement.

It's strange, seeing him like this, but he doesn't look surprised at the new turn of events, he looks almost resigned. A mirror of yourself in a sense, you think with a finger hovering over the button. Ren's ears are flattened, tail tucked between his legs, a submissive, harmless thing. You could let him out, allow him roam the house freely just the way he did. But you don't.

It sounds straight off foolish, and what's more important ─ scary. There're so many possibilities. That the remote won't work, that you'll be too slow to react, that he'll sneak into your room at night. Ren can be very quiet when he wants to. So you keep him there, and avoid him like plague unless necessary — feeding duty twice per day plus bathroom visits.

No chatter, minimal contact overall, but Ren starts talking anyways.

"You look tired," he says cautiously in between the bites.

He does it a lot, tries to gauge where you two stand every day or what's on your mind, and you suspect it's the result of past experiences, something that's hard to unlearn. Something connected with that body in the freezer. Upon finding it you initially assumed (not without a reason) that the corpse was his doing, but when Ren undressed before you for the first time, realized that it might not be entirely true.

The cuts, the burns, the marks and deep, jagged lines formed a familiar pattern. Someone had put a lot of time and effort into giving him those.

"I could make coffee. Or tea."

And that's another thing. He doesn't fight you, or attempt to lash out. Instead he makes those little offers here and there whenever you come down the stairs — dinner, help cleaning the dishes, washing clothes. He has been compliant and eager to please to the point of it being almost unnerving.

You don't reply, and that seems to bother him, judging by his expression. Understandable: silence is normally a bad omen, especially in situations such as this one.

"Are you going to-" he starts again, but you cut him off.

"Push the tray over."

Ren's ears twitch at the command and you briefly wonder if he expected something different to happen. The tray makes a metallic screech over the concrete floor, stopping right in front of your feet.

"Thank you," he says.

'Thank you for breakfast, thank you for lunch, thank you for dessert.' 'Thank you for the nail gun, thank you for holding my hand while I screamed, thank you for fucking me after.' You hate the words now, the way they used to roll off your tongue (thank you, Ren, thank you), because they never meant gratitude at all and felt bitter, like a moldy fruit.

Ren's eyes are trained on your face. There it is again: the strange uneasiness which settles in your chest whenever he stares with focus sharp enough to burn holes through flesh itself. His gaze travels lower to your arms exposed by rolled up hoodie sleeves. You had no clothes here except for cutsey underwear and pajamas which Ren insisted you wear, but those are long thrown away somewhere in the trash, so the only things available are his. There's also...other stuff you found in the locked bedroom on the second floor: cargo pants, combat boots, tank tops, all neatly folded. Far too big for you both.

"Is it mine?" Ren asks and leans forward.

"Is there a problem?" you ask back, then regret it.

Questions mean opening a door to unwanted dialogue. His cheeks turn a little pink.

"No. It looks good on you."

Your stomach churns in discomfort at the compliment and the carefully concealed delight Ren won't voice out loud, but drops indirectly from time to time. Not only this, but the familiarity, the implied "you're used to wearing my things by now" which, in essence, is true. It's either that or walking around naked. Ren must notice your reaction, because he quickly averts his eyes to the floor. Silence settles over the basement like a thick, heavy blanket of snow.

Stop feeding me with submissive bullshit, you want to say. I know what you'd do if not for the collar, I've seen it from the first row. Stop pretending to be harmless when we both know you aren't.

Ren fiddles with the hem of his shirt. The change is so drastic. He was a little scary at first when you met, then downright terrifying, and now...now he's just a whole another person.

You pick up the tray without a word and leave. Ren's ears droop once he realizes the conversation for today ended before it even started. But there will be tomorrow. And the next one after, and the next one, and the next one. He'll keep trying to talk, and you'll keep ignoring him until he finally stops.

You don't know what to do with him. You don't know what to do with yourself either.

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There's no distance wide or far enough to allow you proper sleep. You toss and turn under the covers despite exhaustion pulling at your eyelids and eventually settle for a late night movie or two. Ren's DVD collection is...well, to put it bluntly, weird for someone like him. Cheesy and romantic movies take around thirty percent of his library, while the remaining seventy is filled with horror flicks and anime. You go through the titles: Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura, Tokyo Mew Mew. Some of those you watched together, curled up on the sofa, others Ren had recommended enthusiastically whenever he caught your glances.

'It's really good! I think you'd like it.'

'This is my favorite.'

He remembered the details about each series, all the names, plot twists. A die-hard fan to the point you wondered why didn't he try cosplaying himself instead of dressing you up. He'd pass as some sort of a fox/cat character easily. Maybe he did cosplay before, who knows? It wouldn't surprise you.

The clock ticks 2 AM. Your mind goes back to the basement door and what lays behind it.

Ren knows that you sleep terribly. You know he does too ─ that's one more trait you two share except for the scars.

You click on the first episode of "Arcane Moon Whispers". The opening plays through the old speakers — happy, cheerful music; you wonder if he can hear it downstairs. The basement is soundproofed, but Ren has sharp hearing. It became clear early on, in the way his ears would twitch towards the noise of your footsteps when you still wore the collar.

The plot unfolds in front of your eyes: a magical team fighting evil with the power of friendship, love, and hope.

'They have an entire arc dedicated to time travel,' Ren explained while showing you the box sets, 'it gets a bit confusing halfway through but it's fun!'

It's been three weeks now. Three weeks since your freedom began and yet Ren lingers in your head as strongly as ever, like a ghost haunting your dreams and waking hours alike. It's frustrating to say the least: having him locked away yet seeing him everywhere — in the kitchen cabinets full of sweets he likes, in the bookshelf full of manga he read out loud sometimes until you couldn't bear it anymore and had to tune his voice out, and in the drawer you pull open every morning.

Ren is like a stain.

It makes you sick, actually. It makes your chest ache with something that feels dangerously close to guilt but can't be it. You're not guilty for what you've done, keeping him there is reasonable, understandable, and Ren...he deserves everything after what he put you through first.

You tried so hard to be nice to him.

You were nice.

But nice isn't enough when someone wants you hurt. Isn't enough to stop a knife. Nice is a useless commodity.

A few more episodes later you're still wide awake.

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

X

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

X

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

X

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

X

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

X

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

X

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Okay maybe this is a known thing and I’m just spouting nonsense or both Idek it’s half one in the morning and I was meant to be getting an early night but YOU GUYS I was just listening to my Soc audiobook and in chapter 18 when Kaz is remembering the coffee shop and the Hertzoon scam we learn that the first trade major trade Jordie and Kaz were privy to and I’m pretty sure Jordie put a little money into was A CHANGE IN THE SUGAR MARKET.

And of all the things Kaz might have been able to manipulate the market for to try and profit off Van Eck’s destruction at the start of crooked kingdom HE CHOSE SUGAR.

The failure of the Sweet Reef job doesn’t only represent, to Kaz, the foolishness at being hoodwinked by Rollins again that he describes as causing such anger within himself whilst at the Van Eck house but also LITERALLY REFLECTS AND PROBABLY SERVES AS A CLEAR CUT REMINDER OF THE HERTZOON SCAM. We know Kaz is a pretty big on poetic justice (see Fillip and the wind up dogs torture/murder, stealing from the bank that was involved in the scam, the use of Alby against Rollins, etc) and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what this was intended to be in his mind, but there’s also the possibility that this wasn’t an active decision he made and only occurred to him afterwards when he saw Rollins and had that strange “sense of doubling” and saw both situations and both failures so clearly reflected and

okay I may have lost my point here I’m very tired idk how to end this um ta-dah and goodnight

[enmasae]

Desire of the fittest - Part 1

Self Aware Genshin Alternate Universe - Guide AU (my own take on sagau)

Next

Warnings :

Adult content (such as violence, bullying, toxic relationships, cursing, angst, nsfw, and others) and yandere behavior (such as obsessive and possessive display)

Theories and lore informations

Since this is my take on an alternate version of Genshin Impact, I've taken the liberty to include elements that may not align with the game's lore but will make sense in this particular story.

Content : Kaeya and Diluc's wonderful sibling dynamic, Pantalone's charisma, Ningguang and Beidou making me question things about myself, Venti's poetic rumbles, Aether's sister issues

As it is a "x Reader", i use the pronoun "you" and wrote the protagonist as gender neutral.

In the city of contracts, one might never sleep admidst the lights adorning the starry night. The milliths exhibit strong commitment to the protection of their people and, to some extent, their alcohol. Priorities vary, with some indulging in their duty while others drink to their heart's content. For example, a reckless young knight in training sneaks in the few dim alleys the town might provide, a risky task considering his bright red hair. However, this detail doesn't dissuade him from neglecting his duties and following his own sense of justice.

"I hope you got a good excuse for this one, you know. I'm running out of ideas to give Varka and Jean to save our badges."

The knight's face betrays little surprise as he observes the other man leaning on his shoulders. The redhead stares at his coworker and gives him a forceful shove, clearly irritated by his mere presence. The other knight raises his hands as to surrender, a quirky smile growing on his features.

Seizing the man by his collar, the redhead forcefully pins him against the nearest wall. One hand silences the sweet talker, while the other firmly grips the weapon's pommel at his belt. Despite this, the knight's focus remains fixed on the pair strolling past the concealed alley. Only when the target disappears from his view does the redhead shift his attention to the restricted man.

"If you're so afraid to lose your career, why do you keep following me ? Tell me Kaeya, is it funny for you to stick your nose in my business ?"

Kaeya, as he's called, emits a dry laugh before forcing himself out of the redhead's grip. He brushes off his shoulder pads and arranges his hair to his preferred style, tidy yet with a hint of wildness.

"I care about you Diluc, is that so hard to catch on ? You're the only family i have left. You know ? Your brother ?"

The red hair is quick to rectify the man.

"Adoptive brother."

Unfazed by the knight's irritable mood, Kaeya crosses his arms and nonchalantly toys with his nails. Diluc, rolling his eyes, shifts his attention to the pair he's been tailing. He silently curses upon spotting them entering one of the numerous restaurants lining the main street.

"Fantastic, just splendid. Now, either you willingly return to Varka and the Tianquan, or I'll simply knock you out and leave you here until I'm done."

"Or, I could help you get to the bottom of your self-assigned heroic mission, because I know troubles come when you get impulsive like that."

Diluc grunts in his breath, accepting the situation as it is, much to the patched eye knight's delight.

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　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

In the Liuli Pavilion, customers savored their meals in tranquility, engaging in cheerful conversations about their day and the latest gossip. However, an air of tension hung over the staff tonight. While some attributed it to the festivities taking place, little did they know that the luxurious VIP room, a privilege only accessible to a select few in Teyvat, had been reserved for the evening by one of the renowned harbinger.

Raising his wine glass, the ninth harbinger subtly toasts the occasion with his present partner. Sipping the drink, he places it meticulously on the table, ensuring his actions meet the standards of the person sitting across from him. As his lavender eyes gracefully meet yours, he can feel his smile growing fondly.

"Now that I think about it, you never gave me one of your intertwined fate, hum~?"

His comment makes you scoff in slight mockery, amused by his phrasing.

"You know very well that's not how it works."

Sadly for you, he isn't one to back down easily, he tends to lean more towards negotiation. Despite having performed numerous deeds for you, the unfortunate truth is that you've settled every debt owed to him. Your shared appreciation for fairness is a quality he respects. Even if he loathes the lack of any blackmail's materials he could use against you, it's very unlikely that he will take action to remedy this fact.

"Even if I generously provide the goods~?"

Setting aside your chopsticks, you emphasize your point. Normally, engaging in a debate with him would be enjoyable, but at the moment, you don't have the mind for such mental games.

"Pantalone."

Considering his personality, you should have known that such a small display won't faze him.

"[Name]."

You sigh and focus your attention on the meal he graciously covered for you. Though you could have easily afforded it, you appreciate the care. While savoring your food and avoiding prolonged eye contact, your pointed ear twitches at a sudden yet subtle sound.

"Is something disturbing you ?"

Glancing discreetly at one of the open windows, you reassure the man, hoping to lessen his keen interest in your every move. His meticulous gaze is bound to make you uneasy. It would be in your best interest to change the subject.

"A war is brooming."

The revelation doesn't appear to surprise the man greatly as he gestures for you to carry on.

"Hum ? And, what kind ?"

"I cannot see what the future unfolds, Pantalone, I'm no seer. It could be harsh, fierce or treacherous, I wouldn't know."

Chuckling, the man runs his finger along the rim of his glass before indulging in another sip.

"I'm gonna need more information, my dear. I'm afraid I can't do much with only an assumption."

Seizing your food in a more aggressive manner, you point your chopsticks towards the man's face.

"It's far from a possibility, it will happen."

Pantalone leans to eat the food held between your utensils with a rather teasing smile. He finishes his mouth while whipping any condiment that might have clung to his lips.

"Hm, quite salty if you want my opinion. Anyway, how come one who can't grasp the future like you, your words not mine, seems so convinced that a war will occur, hum~?"

As a way to turn back on him, you snatch a portion of his food directly from his plate. Deliberately savoring each bite at a slow pace, your resentful gaze remains fixed on his. You're not one who likes to share.

"I didn't know you could be childlike, it's quite cute~."

Clearing your throat, you refuse to get embarrassed by such words.

"As I was saying, I am sure it will happen because it concerns my kind."

As you finish your plate, you fold your hands together, creating a makeshift headrest. You catch the curious gaze of the harbinger as he gestures you to pursue.

"They have started to show an interest in this world. And believe me that it will get ugly once they come here. After all, Teyvat and its people are one of a kind."

Pantalone appears to think for a moment, his usual smile shifting in a subtle frown.

"I understand now the kind of problems such scenery could cause... What about you ? What would you do if- I mean, when the time comes ?"

You smile brightly, seemingly eager to answer this specific question. The man cannot help but notice the subtle glimmers of light shining softly around your head. While you may view it as an annoying flaw, he appreciates the element's reactions to your mystical presence. These manifestations are a giveaway on your feelings, making it easier for him to read.

He chuckles to himself while reminded of that one time steam literally came out of your ears.

"I already planned everything to the last minus detail, you don't have to worry about me."

Pantalone returns your smile and not so subtly extends his hand toward yours. He smoothly intertwines his fingers with yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh I'm not worried, I know you're capable~. I was merely curious if you would be more... open at the thought of fulfilling your role as a guide, especially in this context. After all, you still lack a main vessel, don't you ?"

You swiftly withdraw your hand from his grasp before standing up. Your gaze shifts to the open window where a little wick of red could be seen next to a soft looking lock of blue.

"Our time together was pleasant, but i'm afraid you'll have to excuse me."

As you take your leave, Pantalone's smile fades as he too stands up from his seat. It seems he took things too personal again. He approaches the staff member, seemingly waiting for the dinner's payment, and gives him the right amount via a lavish bag full of moras.

"H-hope to see you again, s-sir."

Disregarding the pitiful display, he leaves the establishment , wondering when he might have the opportunity to see you once more.

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　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

"Ningguang, please, i beg of you to listen to reason. This kind of threat doesn't loom over Mondstadt alone, all of Teyvat is at risk."

The grand master of the Knights of Favonius searches fervently for any signs of concern in the reddish eyes of the woman before him, yet her smile remains calm and unfazed. Her presence commands respect as she speaks to the man in an eloquent tone, dismissing his concerns with a flick of her fan.

"I am well aware of the situation in the north and the peril it poses, Varka. However, I feel the need to remind you that our capabilities are limited in addressing this issue."

The towering man forcefully slams his fist on the woman's desk, causing some paperwork to flutter down gradually. Under normal circumstances, Varka isn't someone to easily lose his composure. Yet, with the recent surge of problems, even his usual calm begins to falter.

"Stop beating around the bush !"

Displeased with the man's tone, Ningguang rises from her seat and strides toward the irritated knight. She seizes the man's cheeks, causing him to grunt from the pressure made by her claw-like jewelry.

"The Qixing and I are currently deeply engaged in the construction of the Jade Chamber, i cannot allow half of the millith's forces to join the knights of favonius in a perilous mission doomed unsucessfull. Do i make myself clear ?"

Varka attempts to free himself from Ningguang's grasp by reaching for her hand, but the noblewoman prevents him from doing so by stepping back herself. Seated elegantly on her desk, she discards her fan to take a slight inhale from her pipe, attentively observing the resentful gaze of the man.

"I came to Liyue believing that the Tianquan would be the most understanding. Unfortunately, it seems that selfishness plagues all nations."

"Cut her some slack old man, not everybody is willing to die for some greater good. Here, have a drink."

Varka looks at the half-naked woman slouching on the expensive couch while presenting him an opened flask, most likely containing alcohol. The man averts his eyes, embarrassed by her shameless behavior.

"Oh archons, please, have some decency."

The woman slowly rises from the couch and approaches the man with an unusual sway. As she walks towards him, she struggles to maintain balance on her two feet. Her body moves uncontrollably, resembling the unsteady motion of a boat. Stopping uncomfortably close to Varka, to his displeasure, she fervently pokes his chest.

"Well, look who's talking! You're the one who barged in uninvited in the middle of the night while this elegant lady and I were enjoying a wonderful night of passion."

Ningguang observes the interaction closely but takes no action to intervene as the woman keeps on intruding the man's personal space. However, her passive behavior changes abruptly when her loved one begins to slide her hand under Varka's uniform.

"Beidou, i must advise you to refrain from teasing him, the gentleman appears to be on the brink of mortification~."

The sea woman gives the man some space without making a fuss, returning to the couch. Flopping onto it crudely, she sips her beverage while muttering inaudible words to herself. Ningguang lets out a sigh as she glances at the drunk woman pouting.

On the other hand, Varka straightens his knight's uniform, choosing to close the topic and avoid dwelling on it any further.

"Your nocturnal escapades are not on my list of interests and i'd like to keep it that way. Spare me the details and we'll all sleep a little more soundly, thank you."

Just as Beidou was about to voice her mind, the door to the private room burst open. Two young knights hurriedly entered, slamming the door shut as if sealing themselves off from a pursuing threat. Judging by Kaeya's heavy breathing, he seemed as if he had just sprinted for his life. Diluc, though equally exhausted, maintained a more composed demeanor.

"Care to explain where you two were ?"

The brothers instantly straightened from their slouching forms, standing at attention, fists over their hearts. Varka folded his arms, seemingly awaiting a response. Diluc broke the silence, his eyes challenging the Grand Master's gaze as he spoke first.

"On duty."

Kaeya scoffs dismissively, adding a sardonic remark to punctuate his disdain.

"I'm not sure discretely following a harbinger and a guide, getting discovered and almost dying on the spot was part of the mission we were assigned to."

The Tianquan's ears perk up at the mention of such individuals by the young knight. If his statement proved to be true, then troubles were brewing right under her nose. The prospect doesn't sit well with her.

Diluc quickly retorts with a tone laced with disdain, his brother's attitude getting on his nerves more than it already has.

"Would it kill you to shut your mouth once in a while ?"

"Would it kill you to respect the knight's code once in a while ?"

Beidou erupts into a loud laughter as it slowly fades into amused chuckles. In her inebriated state, the interaction between the two unfolds as a hilarious spectacle. Varka doesn't appear to find the situation funny as his facial expression twitches with carefully concealed anger.

Interestingly, Diluc appeared to share a similar state, albeit for different reasons.

"You don't even know what you're talking about."

Kaeya makes a concerted effort to maintain formation as he turns his head to look at the redhead.

"Oh, forgive me ! All you ever do is chase your damn heart's desires in the guise of justice, and that's precisely how you put not just yourself but everyone around you in danger ! You're downright inconsiderate and recklessly hot-headed."

Sensing a headache starting to form, Varka decides to finally intervene.

"That's enough, both of you. Childish bickering is unbecoming of knights. Now, I want to know where you were and what you were doing. Keep it brief."

The bluish knight keeps his eyes shut and mouth silent. His brother decides to confront the Grand Master, seemingly unimpressed by his towering composure and the fact that he could send him flying with a flick of his wrist.

"It doesn't matter what we witnessed, you couldn't possibly do anything about it anyway. Just like your expedition in the north, they won't amount to anything in the end."

The fiery attitude of the knight briefly snaps the drunk woman out of her clouded mind. She cheers with her nearly empty bottle before sleep reclaims her once more.

"Ah ! The kid got some spunk ! Reminds me of... what was his name again...?"

Diluc coughs as smoke wafts into his face. He glances at the woman responsible, who smiles while inhaling from her pipe again.

"It would be in your best interest to learn what to keep to yourself and what should be shared, boy. If a guide is indeed involved with a harbinger, something serious is looming. Trust me, you don't want the weight of people's lives on your shoulders."

The knight ignites the remaining essence inside the pipe, allowing it to burn and depriving her of anything else to smoke. The woman scoffs at the man's use of his Pyro vision. It's akin to witnessing a child throwing a tantrum for not being taken seriously. Yet, unlike the hollow threats of a kid, the fire in his eyes dared the Tianquan to change his mind.

Surveying the remaining people, he briefly locks eyes with Kaeya. Sensing his concern, yet dismissing it, he storms out of the room.

"I know what i must do, and it doesn't concern any of you."

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　　　.   　　˚　a few years later 　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

A loud shattering noise brings Diluc back to his senses. He glances at the culprit and frowns upon seeing the local bard laying on the floor with a broken wine bottle. Giggling to himself, the drunkard appears to be in his own world, thoroughly enjoying himself. The bartender grabs him by his shirt, hoisting him back onto his stool.

With the late hour upon him, Diluc finds himself with only the lonesome bard as a customer. Eager to begin his journey home and well aware of this specific client's penchant to be annoying when it comes to alcohol, he decides to employ a different strategy than his usual approach.

"So, when do you think i should kick you out ?"

Venti continues to giggle slightly, leaning on the bar counter. He toys with the glass Diluc so gracefully served him, mischief forming in his eyes as he glances at the redhead. Strangely enough, he doesn't seem to be that drunk anymore.

"Let's say... If you tell me why you were lost in such a thoughtful row, i might let you know~."

The bartender dismisses it with a simple shrug, clearly not in the mood to satisfy the bard's curiosity.

"I was just reminded of something."

As the breeze softly wafts through a small crack in the bar's window, Venti's smile takes on a more knowing gleam. He slides his empty glass playfully along the counter, a silent request to get a refill. Unfortunately, Diluc only takes the glass to clean it, refusing to pour more alcohol for him.

As he resigned on getting more of the sweet beverage, Venti sighs and settles on trying to decipher the bartender's thoughts.

"Well, I don't mind to guess~."

Diluc scoffs, skeptical of the drunkard's boastful claim. While he doesn't feel the need to engage in Venti's game, a hint of curiosity lingers. Who knows, perhaps the bard might have something intriguing to say.

"I've caught wind that the traveler's back from their journey. We haven't crossed paths, but rumor has it that their tale isn't quite cheery."

As Venti's concern reflects in his eyes, Diluc can only wonder what's hidden behind those poetic rumbles.

"I've known about their return in Mondstadt for quite a while now, but i haven't gotten the chance to meet them yet."

The bard contemplates the redhead's words with a thoughtful hum. Determined to get under his skin, he retrieves his lyre, creating a gentle tune that pierces the silence in the tavern. His expression bears the weight of sorrow as he poetically expresses his thoughts.

"Let his story be a lesson.

One learned from past takes,

To steer clear of repeating mistakes.

Beware of ones who claim as guides,

for their path conceals deceptive tides.

As stories have shown,

they cannot be trusted to bring you home.

Truth easily brushed aside with vows so sweet,

Yet, remember, once humans, their hearts did beat.

Let their story be a lesson,

Unspoken, like an untold confession.

One that shall not be named,

so it may never repeat again."

As the melody gently fades away, satisfaction spreads into the bard upon witnessing surprise on the man's features.

"Hehe, told you i was good at guessing~."

In his silent contemplation, Diluc gazes at the sword that once symbolized his knighthood, now relegated to a mere wall ornament. There was a time when he wielded it with pride. These days, when confronted with his nocturnal 'duties', he opts for heavier armaments. Regrettably, without his claymore in close reach, his former sword remains the sole option should the need for self-defense arise.

"Such strange beings... Aren't they fascinating ? While not being from these lands, it feels as if they've existed here long before life itself."

Venti follows the redhead's gaze, unbothered by his cautious demeanor. After all, he, too, once felt intimidated by the mere mention of guides. Nevertheless, his past fear primarily stemmed from his unfamiliarity with them. Having personally witnessed their exceptional powers, he understands that while one should avoid provoking them, it's quite simple to earn their favor.

"Some cruel, some benevolent, they only share their pride. Powerful yet feeble, to survive, they are reliant on what they term a 'vessel'. To their host, they may seem divine, yet in truth, they're nothing but a parasite."

Observing the bard rise from his stool, Diluc steps away from the counter to obstruct the main entrance of the tavern. Crossing his arms, he challenges Venti to take another step, his pyro vision blazing brightly as a silent warning.

"How do you know so much about them ?"

Amused by the situation, the not quite inebriated individual appears unfazed by Diluc's fiery demeanor, lifting his arms in mock surrender. His eyes emit a faint glow as a gust of wind forcefully opens the window, extinguishing all the candles illuminating the tavern. Irritated by the incessant noise of the window slamming against the wall, Diluc promptly closes it. Turning his attention back to the bard, he furrows his brows upon realizing that Venti hasn't made a hasty retreat. It's peculiar since the bard is renowned for employing cunning tactics to escape undesirable situations. Venti nonchalantly shrugs in response to the accusing gaze from the redhead, as if he weren't the one responsible for the sudden gust of wind, despite the 'anemo vision' resting on his belt.

"That's a tale for another day~. What's more important is why you seem to hold such an interest in them."

Realizing the bard has no intention to utter another word, Diluc sighs and clears the path to the exit. He gestures to Venti with a nod, signaling him to leave while he allows it.

"I have my reasons."

Entertained by the fact that he didn't need to be forcibly kicked out, the bard chuckles to himself before making a swift departure, leaving his parting words to resonate in the air.

"Hehe, fair enough. But if you do wish to learn more about them, heed my advice. Fools seeking aid from those with selfish desires rarely find anything good in return."

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As waves gently caress the shore, a symphony of memories, both ancient and recent, courses through them. The gentle cadence of the sea does not drown out the melody hummed by the young man standing in the water. Unfazed by the sea reaching his knees or the cool night breeze, he stands with eyes open but vacant, bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight.

With utmost care, he places on the water's surface a leaf-crafted vessel bearing a delicate arrangement of flowers, a tribute to his sister. As the final notes of his haunting melody linger in the night, a lament of anguish and sorrow, he releases the makeshift boat to be carried away by the current.

Soft tears flow down his face as his voice gently wanes. Upon arriving for the first time at this shore with a solemn vow to reunite with his sister, his ignorance veiled his eyes. Admidst the new sights this world had to offer, a strange familiarity embraced him. As the wind tousled his hair down to the way the soil felt beneath his feet, it was as if he had returned home.

He reflects on his past as a soldier, an obedient one who never questioned orders, devoid of a sense of morality, discerning neither good nor bad. He was merely following commands.

He recalls about her once gentle nature, a soul averse to causing harm, adorning herself not for personal satisfaction but for others' admiration. Her explanations of right and wrong were delivered calmly, never raising her voice.

They both changed so much, left with nothing but themselves and memories to nurture. Their relationship was at the time a delicate balance, with even the smallest mistakes sparking intense fights.

With time, she developed a stronger personality, becoming more reserved and secretive. He, however, found a way to articulate his feelings, expressing himself in ways he couldn't comprehend before. She loved to tease his newfound soft side.

But someone had robbed him of that. When he encountered her again at the end of his journey, he realized he was too late. In their final meeting, although her body was still breathing, there was no soul inhabiting it, no mind radiated from her mortal shell.

As she was no longer herself, he had no option but to end her suffering.

"Well, it's not often i get to meet with you alone. Where is that little fairy friend of yours ?"

As he feels tender hands cupping his face, a smile graces his features, whispering your name. To him, it has been too long since the last time you two shared such a peaceful moment. The infrequency of your meetings only heightens the value he places on them.

"Paimon is currently receiving care from the sisters of Mondstadt's cathedral. She got quite injured during our latest adventure. As for why i am here, I needed some time alone to bid a proper farewell."

He opens his eyes, savoring the sight of yours. Their intricate hues bear untold secrets that he longs to unravel. The patterns on your skin accentuate the natural bioluminescence of your body, preserving tales from times long past. Gently, he raises his calloused hand to your own, relishing in the comfort. As he senses your delicate fingers wiping away the tears from his face, more flows out.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

As his guide, he understands the price to pay for the honor bestowed upon him. Deep down, he understands the strength and knowledge you provided were for your own survival. The love he receives depends on the satisfaction he brings to you. He doesn't care if you use him as a vulgar puppet, as long as he remains by your side. He can't lose you, not you too.

"My sister liked to say that home is wherever we are together. Since we were all that were left of our home, i guess it was true."

His voice is parched and laden with sorrow as he clings to you like he would for a lifeline.

"She was the one determined to find somewhere for us to settle. But everywhere we went, troubles came. Either we had to flee or we were chased away. Times were hard, but at least we had each other. She was the only one I could rely on."

"But times have changed; you don't have to flee anymore, you don't have to follow orders, you don't have to live in her shadow. You can listen to your heart's desires."

In the silent exchange of glances, Aether notices the profound emptiness in your eyes, a void untouched by the shared sadness or comfort he seeks. The weight of realization descends upon him, as denial attempts to cloak the newfound awareness. The touch that he craved for earlier radiated no warmth. A sense of betrayal settles over him, sending chills coursing through his body.

"... you knew."

With the guilt slowly making itself evident on your face, he pushes your hands away from his. Stumbling on his feet, the world around him spins as if he has just awakened from a profound dream. The thought of you betraying his trust unsettled him. After all, the bond you shared wasn't a trivial pinky promise but a deep connection where he lived for you, and you for him.

"... you knew it would happen... you knew and yet... you did nothing ?"

He retreats slowly toward the shore, and as you follow, your hands gently signal him to calm down, much like one would soothe a frightened animal.

"It was already too late the day i saved you from that shade."

His heart aches as your words sink in. Closing the distance between the both of you, Aether decides to listen. He allows you to take his hands in yours, feeling the squeeze accompanied by a sudden cold. It's a familiar chill that he's come to associate with your moments of sadness.

"Then why did you save me ? Why didn't you save her ? Why. Me."

You guide him gently to the dry sand, ensuring his gaze follows your movements. As you start drawing shapes on the ground, they soon come to life in a light green hue, dancing around both of you. Aether recognizes himself in one of them and reaches out to touch it. Luminescent particles spread apart at his sudden movement, only to reform elsewhere near them. The scene changes, depicting the fateful day he lost Lumine.

"... you were both destined to die. I chose you because you reminded me of my old self."

He witnesses the divine being capturing his sister only to target him next. Aether perks up by the appearance of another shape. He observes how you protect him from the deity before the scene changes once more. Nostalgia fills him as he watches you forge the bond between the two of you. A soft laugh escapes him at the sight of Paimon being fished out, breathing life into your dynamic.

"You were quite stupid and ignorant."

Beads of sweat flow down his face as the shapes replays some of his past mistakes. In an attempt to avoid further embarrassment, he raises his hand to dispel the particles. You intervene by gently seizing his hand and guiding it to his heart.

"Yet, I could sense your determination to protect what you hold dear."

His ethereal counterpart proudly raises his blade against the final obstacle in his journey. It appears fearless, prepared to confront what he believed would be its greatest foe. However, that confidence crumbles when the monstrous shape morphs into the likeness of his sister. He observes as his particle self thrusts its sword through her, taking her life. As the particles slowly disperse, he meets your gaze, bitterness filling his throat.

"If I were to apologize for all the secrets i kept from you, that would be a lie. For all I did was solely to protect you."

You embrace the boy one final time before fading away. Aether's arms linger in the air before he wraps them around himself, trembling slightly. Shivers run down his spine as he comprehends what you've left behind. He gingerly picks up the small gemstone on the sand and clenches his fist. Anger wells up within him as he gazes at the cracked little starshaped orb, a symbol of your shattered bond.

You abandoned him.

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"Ugh, are you done yet ? Witnessing your sickening sweetness with him is making me nauseous."

Upon opening your eyes, you sense cramps crawling through your body, as if emerging from a deep coma. You snatch the helmet-like device off your skull and shove it away. The man attending to you utters an annoyed "watch it" in response.

"Deal with it."

The man assists you in exiting the machinery, disconnecting various tubes and electronics that monitored your health and body state. He grunts upon witnessing your attempt to straighten up quickly, and he gently compels you to lay back. Muttering additional curses, he likely expresses irritation at your impulsive actions, fully aware of the associated risks.

"Do you really need to go to such lengths? First, you toyed with his memories, and technically, you're the reason why he lost his dear 'sister.' And now, after all the efforts you put into him, you're just giving up ?"

You forcefully pull his hands away from your body and swiftly rise to your feet. Letting out a grunt, you massage your temples as a headache begins to intensify. Moving slowly, you skip a few steps, struggling to stand on your own but determined to reach a proper bed for some rest.

"I know what i have to do and i don't need your concern."

Depriving you of the chance to take another step on your own, the man hoists you onto his shoulder and carries you like a sack of potatoes. With no strength left, you acquiesce, but in silence, you mentally note to make him pay for this humiliation.

"Ugh, guides. I would never understand your kind."

You snarl and swiftly retort to his remark, delivering a quick hit to his hips.

"I am nothing like them."

The man appears unfazed by your punch, softly placing you on a very comfortable bed. He sighs at your angry gaze and flicks your forehead. It perplexes him how careless you can be when it comes to taking care of yourself, yet how gentle you are when it comes to your vessels.

"And yet, here you are, acting like one."

"And yet, here you are, taking care of me."

You lock eyes with the man, urging him to look away, but he continues to relish the moment. He neatly folds the cozy blanket atop you and tenderly traces the features of your face with his fingers. Despite his harsh and unyielding tone, his facial expression reveals another narrative, one where he could have been more sincere about his feelings.

"We just have a common enemy, nothing more."

Frustrated by his contradictory tenderness and attitude, you opt to usher him out.

"You never know when to shut your mouth do you ? I wonder where you got that."

The man scoffs and exits the room, clearly offended by your words. Finally relishing a peaceful moment, you close your eyes and envision the starry sky you've come to know by heart, one you hold dear, even if it's a mere fabrication. You identify a few constellations and recollect which ones align with your favorites.

After spending countless years in these lands, your meticulous preparations are on the verge of paying off. All the accumulated resources, weapons, and artifacts are about to prove their worth. Finally, you'll have the opportunity to engage in a game that truly fulfills your desires. One marked by chaos and unforeseeable events, where rules are broken and laws cease to matter.

Anticipation builds as you look forward to witnessing the expressions of newcomers when things deviate from their expectations, struggling to survive in a world they believed they knew.

It's going to be a gameboard where, finally, you hold the advantage.

Doesn't it sound fun ?

{Words : 5629}

Thank you for reading the first part of the series !

I hope you enjoyed :D

Next

[gretahayes]

Favourite tim drake recs? :0

Assuming you mean fanfic recs, I've got probably the most for him and this is long, so it's going under the cut;

This is genuinely one of my favorites, it's set post-Red Robin, and deals with Tim's vigilante stalking habits, his family finding out, Cass realizing there's no photos of Tim, them setting out to take/find some of him (a much harder feat than you'd think) and finally, Tim seeing the photos. It's amazing and sweet, and I can't recommend it enough. (I especially like the Bruce & Tim and Tim & Damian in this)

This is by the same author, also set post-Red Robin. This is Damian and Tim focused, Damian POV, in which Damian sees Bruce's contingency plans for him and the rest of the family, and with nobody else to turn to, runs for Tim. Canon divergent in the way Bruce doesn't have a contingency for his children, neither does Tim for his team, or them for him, but it kinda makes sense in this setting. Their interactions are amazing here, and seems so real.

In this, Tim gets a tonsillectomy. An elaboration in the form of a long fic. A must-read, I feel. It's funny and has so many feels and such good characterization.

!!! Can't believe I almost forgot about this one! Tim is Bruce's assistant, not son, and never became a vigilante. He's incredibly overworked, but no less dedicated to the Waynes. It's heartwrenching and sweet and funny and—words can't do it justice. It's a must read. The Al Ghuls make a cameo but Tim knows how to deal with them. Tim's deeply sad but next to nobody knows and those that do just accept it (including him). Kon is the MVP. Cass. Damian and Tim have an odd bond built of mutual respect and disdain for everyone around them. Luthor tries to recruit Tim every year and fails.

This is funny and amazing—Tim lands in a universe where he's technically considered a drug addict, since coffee is a drug and in the regular universe everyone drinks it.

The YJ fic Ever. I've recced this at least three times, and I will continue to. It's amazing characterization all around—both YJ and batfam—and genuinely is so fun. I love everyone in this. When an unknown enemy threatens Robin, Gotham's vigilantes come together to keep him safe. Unfortunately, they're protecting the wrong Robin. Or: Tim Drake plans his own rescue. Things get complicated.

This is Tim & Damian—Tim gets his overprotective big brother moment :) love love LOVE the way everyone is written here.

This is short and hilarious—Tim has amnesia after a head wound (can only remember back to his YJ days) and tries to bullshit his way out of anyone noticing. He might have succeeded if not for Cass.

This is a time loop fic, switching POVs. Tim's stuck in a time loop in which Jason always dies. The loop before the one this was set in, he accidentally kills Damian out of stress and too-fast reflexes. He breaks down when he sees Damian again, the whole thing unravels, and they resolve to help him out of it.

THIS SERIES MAKES ME FERAL. Jack, Tim and sometimes Dana, set when Jack made Tim quit from Robin. Horror-type elements and beautifully poetic, but centered around Jack's POV of the son he realizes he doesn't know, and him realizing he may be a shit dad. Dana's the best stepmom ever, and Tim's far nicer to her than he is Jack. This is the first work, in which Jack tries and fails to understand this Tim, and realizes that this Tim is Robin, not Tim. This is the second (and last) work in the series, in which Tim hasn't fully quit the lifestyle even though he's not going out as Robin, but Jack has no proof he hasn't. Just a hunch and a few odd occurrences that us, the readers, who are familiar with Tim's hero life will find obvious, but Jack does not. Dana makes Tim happier, more Tim than Tim-Robin, than Jack does, and Jack hates it. Near the end, he starts calling Tim Robin, not Tim. I LOVE it. Even if you hate Jack (like I do) you need to read this, for the Tim characterization if nothing else. Outsider POV, except he shouldn't be an outsider. But he is.

This is so fucking funny. Tim gets a matching tattoo with Kon, and hides it from Bruce. When Bruce—and the rest of his family—find out, all goes to hell.

Remember when I said the Jack and Tim series was only slightly horror? This is horror. Bruce's got a habit of picking up monsters, and this one is about Tim. If you're sensitive to horror, please read the tags and maybe avoid it, because this is delightful but not for everyone.

In this, Tim becomes an unintentional sugar daddy to the caped community. It's a bit iffy in some places, but hilarious.

This is Dick and Tim (surprised it took me this long to rec one with them as the main focus tbh) and it's Dick checking up on his little brother. Pure fluff, and genuinely amazing.

This is Tim & Bruce but also Tim & Tam in some places. Bruce forgets Tim is the majority shareholder for WE and is thus invited to shareholder meetings, Tim finds this very amusing and is generally a menace. You can FEEL the teenager in this Tim. Amazing.

Tim's de-aged to a kid in this, and re-meets his family. Fluff and feels ensue.

This is Bruce and Tim. Bruce isn't prepared for his newest Robin's neuroses.

This has Tim & Cassie meeting at an archaeologist event as kids and having to fight a monster thing :) it's cute

GODDD this fic? This fic ruined me. Beautiful Tim characterization, a gorgeous look at Bruce and how much he fucks up despite caring, and Dick being a stressed but amazing big brother with gorgeous writing. I love their brotherly affections here, and Tim's weird neuroses being shown here. Tim & Bruce is how it starts, and it's very much centered around their relationship, but it tapers off into Dick & Tim, which I'm not complaining about. Kon (and Bart!) makes a cameo and is an amazing friend. Can't rec this enough. If you read none of the other fics, please read this one.

This is Dick and Tim again. Dick forces Tim to go undercover with him to an Elvis convention in a thinly veiled attempt to spend time with the brother who he doesn't think knows how much he loves him. It's set in Tim's POV, though, so until Dick says this, Tim doesn't know. Hilarious and short.

This is Dick and Tim (who's surprised? Nobody) where Dick goes to Robin!Tim's science fair because Tim mentioned it and well, nobody else was going. Short and sweet.

This deals with the batfam finding out about the shitshow that was Tim's BruceQuest. If you're a stickler for canon I'd recommend you skip this one, but if not, it's a great read.

This is Dick and Tim again, and it's amazing. Tim's alone on Christmas Eve. Dick finds out, and does something about it. It's Robin!Tim, so this is Dick, Babs and Tim. This author is amazing at writing their interactions, plus inside Dick's head is a tricky place to write and they nail it perfectly. Mostly Dick & Tim, but since he invites Tim to Babs' holiday party, Babs makes a good number of cameos.

This is Tim talking a jumper off the ledge while Damian watches. Then they talk about it. Tim from Damian's POV is always interesting, but this especially is amazing.

This is a core four fic, Tim's POV! Pure humor. Tim finds a dildo in the dishwasher and he drags them for a team meeting so he can sus out whose it is.

I've recced this before, I think, but I'll do it again. Red Robin canon divergence fic in which Bruce is actually dead, and Tim calls Dick to tell him he thinks he may have been wrong. Dick's POV, short, but the emotion in this is outstanding.

In this fic, Damian has trouble with the transition from Dick's Batman to Bruce's Batman. Tim, who's also had both, is surprisingly helpful. This has so many Tim and Damian feels that I'm literally bursting at the seams. Melancholy, camaraderie, and all the good stuff. Damian's POV, and since he sucks at so much as guessing at what's going on in Tim's head, it's all the more great.

This is Dick and Tim, a soft Christmastime fic.

This is Bruce and Tim. Bruce and Tim have a sort-of game that started when Tim was thirteen. Initially, it was Tim stealing sips (or occasionally whole mugs) of Bruce’s coffee, back when he was too young for Alfred to allow him to drink it. Now, though, Bruce is getting his own back, and steals Tim’s coffee when he can. Sweet and fluffy.

Here, Tim gets a headwound and only remembers back to his Robin days, and forgets to be awkward around Dick and Damian. Tugs at the heartstrings. Dick's reminded of how much he misses this Tim.

This is really funny. Remember that time during the YJ days where the adult heroes were de-aged and the kid ones grew to be adults? Tim didn't reach six foot. In this, he's mocked ruthlessly for it.

Here, Tim goes to high school again after dropping out :) it's core four and hilarious

In this, Tim accidentally kills his dad in self defense—or rather, thinks he does, Jack's still alive but he doesn't know that until Dick shows up—and scrambles to call Dick. He calls Jason instead. Dick eventually gets called and shows up, and the brotherly feels in this are amazing. Tim's in shock for a good portion of it, and it's his POV, so you've got to piece some stuff together. Bad dad Jack, as in worse than canon bad dad Jack. Tugs on the heartstrings, and have I said I love Dick in this? Because I do. Bruce shows up near the end, and to everyone's surprise, doesn't absolutely fuck things up and/or fail as a parent.

Here, Tim is sick and alone. Dick, after not hearing from Tim at all for three days, goes to his apartment, finds him sick, and takes care of him. Eventually he gets dragged to the Manor for some actual r&r. It's sweet, and this writer has an amazing way with words and an intriguing flow.

In this, Bruce knows Tim. They have a routine, have habits, they know each other. This is so so touching, and I love it so much.

Here, Tim and Steph give Bruce a headache. It's amazing.

I..can't even begin to describe this. Bruce is fresh from the timeline, and this is a sort of introspection/character study type thing about him and Tim and how Tim's changed. Mostly, though? Mostly, Bruce just gives his son a hug.

Here, Kon is Tim's work husband. Bruce suffers. Pure fluff and humor, with a touch of feels.

Here, Bruce takes Tim to get his wisdom teeth out. They're both worried, but together, they're alright. Tim cries while doped up on the drugs. He cries a lot.

Here, 90's!Tim Drake wakes up in his Red Robin body. Exhausted from a YJ mission, he chooses to focus on getting through a normal day so as not to disrupt things for his future self. But, y'know, his way. Hilarious and so in-character, if exaggerated for comedy.

This is Tim and Damian—Damian gets hit with truth serum on patrol, and a pissed off Tim has to come and get him. Damian resolves to not tell Tim he's been hit with truth serum. They get closer as a result. Love their dynamic in this.

This is core four again, but just general teenager superhero chaos. Can't rec it enough

Here, Tim tries to build a LEGO Gotham, but his family just can't leave it—or him—alone. He calls a family meeting to tell them to knock it off, and they do not. Fluff and humor.

Here, Tim has appendicitis and gets his appendix removed. The best mix of fluff, feels, and good old complicated family dynamics ever

In this, Bruce tries to navigate giving affection to his odd son, Tim. Touching and funny.

This is Tim and Damian—Damian crashes on Tim's bed in the Watchtower when injured, Tim finds him. They talk, and maybe bond a bit, even though they'd never admit it.

Here, Bruce hugs Tim. Really nothing else to it.

Another fic where Tim wakes up with amnesia and pretends to know his family so he's not rude. He's found out when he correctly deduces Bruce is his dad, but makes the mistake of calling Bruce dad.

This is Dick and Tim again. Tim gets de-aged into a six-month-old, and Dick takes care of him. Soft and so so sweet.

In this, Tim's trying to work in his apartment when his siblings keep showing up to distract him and get him to take a break. It's sweet of them, if very annoying.

This is Bruce and Tim. Tim's injured and lying in bed, Bruce gets him takeout. Feels fuzzy and just...good. You've got to read it to know what I'm talking about, no summary does it justice.

Here, Damian tries to make amends with Tim. He does it very oddly though, so Tim thinks he has a crush on him, and avoids him all the more for it because ew-gross-ew-ew.

In this, Tim gets his teeth knocked out and grabs Dick as a mediator so he tells Bruce. Short and funny-sweet. You can tell this is in Tim's Robin run, due to all the little hints dropped.

This is Tim and Kon, funny and nonsensical. Tim calls Kon in the early hours of the morning, drunk. Kon thinks he deserves sainthood for this.

In this, Tim has road rage and most of his family find that out in the most hilarious way possible.

Bruce and Tim—a test sort of fic? Interesting, definitely.

This is timkon, Tim has memory loss and is amazed by Kon all over again.

Core four go to a gala :)

This is Dick and Tim, Tim breaks into Dick's house, accidentally interrupts his nap, tries to leave out of guilt, and gets wrangled into hugs. So so soft and so so sweet.

Another de-aged Tim fic, but this time with six year old Tim and Bruce taking care of him. This is so melancholy and...ugh. I love them.

Here, Tim and Dick are thrown into an alternate universe and have to try and get back with no other support system and no way out. They meet this world's version of Bruce and Alfred, though.

CEO Tim, and hates it. He makes that Luthor's problem.

Timkon, in which Tim plans all his dates VIA corkboard and Kon is so attracted to that.

CEO Tim (again), except he's still a teenager and people end up thinking he's a communist. This is short and hilarious all the way through. Also, Bruce is there.

This is The kid!Tim fic ever. Tim, having found a weird hole after a storm, decides to go exploring ignoring the fact that This Is Gotham and They Probably Have Cursed Stuff Down There.Luckily, it was just a cave system that spans the entire Gotham underground. Unluckily, Tim is a very curious child. Tim's a sorta eldritch being at the end?? Amazing, 100 would recommend.

In this, Tim finds out he isn't his parents' biological son. This changes everything. This changes nothing. Can't say anything else without spoiling, but I can't rec it enough.

In this fic, Bruce is back in time in Drake Manor, and meets baby Tim. It's like you're frozen in time, and all that matters is Bruce and his infant not-yet-son.

Here, Kon and Tim date. Tim's a cryptid stalker that refuses to be photographed, Dick is a big brother that loves his little brother, and it's cute.

Sorry it took me so long to compile this list anon, happy reading!

[spacelessbian]

thoughts on Agatha All Along FINALE

Full spoilers ahead, 100% don't read if you haven't seen episodes 8 and 9.

I really enjoyed the finale, both episodes had a lot to offer and overall I am quite happy with how the show concluded. Things that I liked in no particular order:

The REVEALS. There is simply nothing better than a reveal that recontextualizes everything. And we didn't get just one, but two! Personally I found Agatha running a con and murdering women for centuries the more fun one, but Billy actually creating the Road was also really good and even though I've only seen the show once (unlike many people on here, no doubt), I can name many points in the story and in the dialogue where this is worked in and suddenly makes sense. Really great stuff.

Agatha and Nicky. I was dreading this part a little bit because I know Nicholas Scratch is some sort of big name in Marvel comics and I truly couldn't care less, so I'm pleased with what we got – a genuinely sweet yet tragic story of a mom and her son, destined to death even before being born. I was surprised (but in a good way) by Agatha's quiet reaction to Nicky's death because we know his death hurt her badly, but that's just how it is sometimes.

Agatha and Rio. I won't say I'd always had fate in Marvel to not mess this up, so yay! I don't think they did. This relationship is the heart of the show (and it is black and beats for the queers) and I think the writers did it justice (apart from one thing which I will get to in the next section). The kiss was intense, sexy, beautiful and also tragic and both Kathryn Hahn and Aubrey Plaza did a fantastic job with every piece of dialogue and every expression. I want them to play doomed lovers in five more projects, at least.

The coven. I already blogged about Jen but man, is it funny. Even this was Agatha all along, but she is such a menace she hasn't even realized that. I'm truly happy for Jen making it through and getting her power back. I'm glad we saw Alice's last moment and I liked how much Billy cared about her, Lilia and Sharon.

Agatha's death. I can't help myself, I need to go to that moment again. I was destroyed by that. It was so beautiful, both thematically and also visually and all. The flowers and mushrooms? The sun coming up? I kept thinking about Hozier's Work Song: When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. No grave can hold my body down. I'll crawl home to her. (whadup, Rio reference)

Agatha and Billy specifically in that last battle scene. She was blue you guys, she was just completely blue and in the exact same blue that Billy wears in his silly Marvel costume. And Billy just offered her his power, without questions and without wanting anything in return! And she didn't kill him! (Writing that down, the bar is on the floor for Agatha lol.)

There are other small things (like the Subaru lol), but I am ready to go to the bad section now. Two things I did not like (hidden for lenght but also because not everyone wants to read negative stuff):

Agatha's ghost. I'm gonna say it. Agatha as a ghost looks fucking terrible and her existence itself diminishes her death scene. I do understand why they did it and even why she looks like that (Agatha in the comics, as I understand it, is Wanda's mentor and also an older white haired lady, so they wanted to keep that but it didn't make sense with Wanda anymore), but I just hate it. Especially the wig.

The Marvel stuff. Yes, I realize this sounds stupid, it is a Marvel show after all. We wouldn't get a stupid gimmick like ghost Agatha joining Billy to look for his brother if this wasn't a starting point for the Wiccan. And I like Billy, I do, I also (obviously) love Agatha, who was first introduced in WandaVision (I realize the hypocrisy), but it just doesn't work for me. I would rather think about the beautiful death scene with it's poetic tragedy than about white haired Agatha floating on a washing machine, I'm sorry.

That being said, I really really liked the whole show and I am happy to say I hooked in my best friend (if you are reading this, you are contractually obliged to like the post, you know how it is) and that I actually know other people irl who watched it and enjoyed it. I'm sad it's over and even sadder that in this day and age, noone will talk about it in about two to three weeks. Anyway, it was lovely.

[white-poppie]

Hello!! Can you do a Chrollo x reader where his S/O has a death note just like light yagami?? :O

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒  ⭒ chrollo lucilfer.

(Since this is HxH we are gonna presume that the Death Note is made by using reader's nen)

Content type: hcs + scenario

Okay, so I've said this before but Chrllo himself has this twisted sense of morality and god complex.

I think he disagrees with your ideology of justice, because he himself is a criminal, and just doesn't think a person should play devil's advocate. (he only thinks that because it affects him, he's a hypocrite.)

But that's just how he is, the day he meets you, he is trying to include you into the trope, your power is so helpful and versatile.

So somehow he ends up coaxing you into the trope with his sweet words.

He is so curious about your ability, he has to know everything! The weakness, the flaws, the time, the loopholes, he has to have it all figured out!

He is just observing you silently like a hawk for the longest time.

Also kinda enamoured by the fact that your and his abilities are similar to some extent.

He's not someone that cares about looks, so no matter how you are if you're an entertaining person (smart, independent and have a beneficial ability) then he's yours.

If you are even slightly similar to how Light thinks, my guy is smitten.

He is well aware of his feelings, and he knows when the interest turns into denial, to acceptance to crush to pining to infatuation.

No one except Chrollo himself knows.

He treats you just like other members, maybe slightly better, but you can't notice

Honestly, Chrollo is a very romantic person.

Say for example if he hears you talking about anything that you might desire or want, he is gonna steal and gift it to you.

If you question he is just like," It's a reward for your good work, keep it up."

EVENTUALLY, The troupe starts noticing, especially Paku and Phinks.

Shalnark teases you when he finally figures out, they all are like 'oh it's boss' favourite.'

He is the embodiment of poetic rizz.

He would ask you out when Paku persuades him tho, she is like "Please you two are killing us with the tension in the room."

So eventually he agreed. He slips a note or letter into your notebook and asks you to meet him first if you agree.

HE HAS PLANNED EVERYTHING.

The soft thundering rain brings down such a loving blanket of comfort in the atmosphere.

You walk upto the window and open it a little to breath in the petrichor aroma as your eyes fall on your 'Death Note' kept on the window-sill and has a small piece of paper sticking out of it.

'Dearest Y/N, I really do hope you see this note before the rain stops because there is something just so intimate about rain that no weather can mimic. So when you see this, meet me on the rooftop, I have something for you. ~ Chrollo

Alright so you leave your Death Note there, cause the rest of the trope is there and obv you can trust them with your belongings. (They share knowing looks lol)

And when you reach there you see Chrollo in his glory.

Chrollo stands on the roof, waiting for you, he is rather drenched as he has his eyes closed and head tilted towards the sky, enjoying the faint pattering of the rain against his skin.

His onyx hair is stuck to his forehead as his ears perk at the sound of your footsteps. He lets out a sigh of relief.

"You came," he mumbles and finally looks at you, his eyes strutted in a way that has you melting despite the cold weather.

You walk closer to him as he looks into your eyes.

"Y/N, I think you already know what happens when two people meet rain," he chuckles and shakes his head, "it took me long enough to say this, but I-I like you, a lot."

There is a huge spurge of butterflies in your stomach at the knowing smile on Chrollo's face.

"I like you too," you whisper and he smirks softly as he tucks in a stand of your wet hair.

"I know, sweetheart," he says and closes the distance between the two of you and kisses you gently.

Congratulations please invite me to your wedding.

- Hunter x Hunter - Fanfictions

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[lurkingshan]

Hi! I love reading your opinions and I have just started The Sign. What are your opinions on the show and what route are you hoping it would take for the second half of the show? Take care and happy new year!

Hello anon! You picked such an interesting moment to send this ask. We’re halfway through the show and I think its strengths and weaknesses have become fairly clear. Let's talk about it!

Strength: The Chemistry

I think this is the thing that had all the girlies losing it right out of the gate: Phaya and Tharn are hot and their interactions are hotter. The pull and chemistry between them is palpable and the set up for their romance is compelling. Kudos to whoever found Babe and decided to pair him with Billy: you, sir or madam, are incredible at your job and deserve a fruit basket. We are all dying for these two to finally fuck.

Weakness: The Pacing

Which is why it's kind of frustrating that the show is dragging its feet on letting their relationship advance. The first four eps were delicious tension-building, but as the show starts to stall and use dream sequence fakeouts to provide smut without actual relationship development, the audience is clearly getting antsy. The show's pacing is all over the place in general, with wildly varied episode lengths and inconsistent action and plot advancement from week to week. And the desire to drag out the romance without a compelling alternative plot to fill the show in its absence is causing some damage to the characters, most notably Tharn, who is just starting to seem unreasonably antagonistic to a person we know he likes, not to mention unperceptive in his continued inability to notice what is going on around him.

Strength: Production Values

This show is absolutely gorgeous; you can tell most of the money went into making every frame of it beautiful. The strength of the production values and hard work of the crew to create the look and feel of the world was evident from the first episode with all those beautiful training sequences on the beach. And this is used to particularly strong effect whenever we visit Phaya and Tharn's past lives and see the magical world that exists around them come to life.

Strength: The Supporting Cast

The show also has a great ensemble, with Yai especially a standout character who brings a lot of fun to the show, along with his girlfriend Sand and the police squad bros. This is not surprising, as big, messy, chaotic, endearing queer friend groups are an IdolFactory staple. As of last week, we officially have a lesbian side pairing! Tharn and Phaya also have interesting family histories with sweet grandmas and loved ones who lend depth to their characterization.

Weakness: The Copaganda

It was perhaps too much to expect that this bl about cops would have a more sophisticated perspective on law enforcement, institutional corruption, and the so-called "justice" system, but that does not stop me from groaning out loud every time they pause the story to let these characters wax poetic about the nobility of their jobs.

Strength: Thai Folklore

This show is teaching all of us some things about real Thai folklore about the garuda and nara, including local customs associated with celebrating these tales, and the depiction of these stories in the show is just beautiful. Despite it basically being a tourism advert (complete with couple shirts for no reason??), I really enjoyed the episode that took us to Nong Khai and the Mekong River to see how modern Thai folks interpret and celebrate the myths at the center of this show’s story and ground us in something real.

Weakness: An Underdeveloped Take on Toxic Masculinity

This show uses violence quite a lot in its story, including violence in interpersonal dynamics, and it sometimes seems to want us to be alarmed by uncontrolled male anger, and sometimes impressed by it. At this point, Tharn and Phaya have both struck each other in anger during personal disagreements, and there hasn't been any real reckoning with the fallout of that. On top of that, the show has given us some crime cases that highlight the harm of toxic masculinity while also seeming to glorify and revel in it, most notably in the framing of a man who kidnapped and retraumatized sexual assault victims as a hunky folk hero. It's a confused take, to say the least, and I'm not sure the show has the depth and precision necessary in the writing to take on some of what it's throwing at the wall.

Strength: Villains

All I can say is Heng was born to play an evil snake god. The show has done a good job at making him feel like a real threat and building the antagonism between him and Phaya to the point where Phaya has been isolated from support and made to look crazy in front of Tharn. Dr. Slow Motion is very good at this.

So, what's the TL; DR? This show is a lot of fun, but has some obvious weaknesses in the writing, so do your best not to take it too seriously if you can. I am ready to see Phaya and Tharn get together and finally start working as a team, for the full backstory and epic battle they are waging to come out, and for the motivations of the rest of the cast of characters to become clear (I just know there are some additional past life reincarnations waiting to be revealed). It's a great time if you don't think about it too hard, and I really hope the back half will pick up the pace so that we can all just enjoy the ride.

[cherriegyuu]

seventeen as brazilian words

a/n: there are some brazilian words that have no direct translation in english and the translation doesn't actually capture the essence of the word, what we mean when we say it. something to know is that brazil is huge so maybe a word means something to me, here in rio, but it might mean something else to someone somewhere else in the country.

• seungcheol ➝ cafuné ↳ the translation would be “to pet someone's head”, “to caress one's hair���. It doesn't have the same ring to it, it's not as pretty, it’s not as poetic if you may. now tell me if you can’t see this man with his head on your tights as you cafuné him, or you’re in bed and he pulls your hand to his head because there's no way he's going to sleep without his cafuné

• jeonghan ➝ trambiqueiro ↳ this one has possible direct translations but none of them do the word justice. the translation would be a hoaxer, trickster, a bluffer. and sure, those are fine but jeonghan is a trambiqueiro, doing trambiques whenever he can, just because he can and he never apologizes for it

• joshua ➝ lábia ↳ a good translation would be persuasive, but it’s not the same though. he is a sweet talker, you’re laughing and having fun and he is nice and charming and next thing you know you’re naked in his bed (a common topic here, as you’ll see)

• jun ➝ xodó ↳ it’s like baby, sweetheart but also the feeling of being close to someone, kind of in love, when everything is sort of hazy, hugging and kissing. it can also mean favorite as well. jun is your xodó, who you love and kiss and cherish

• soonyoung ➝ borogodó ↳ it’s like irresistible, again, a sweet talker. and people can go, oh but he is shy, trust me if he puts his mind to it, dude can make anyone do anything. it’s like saying to a friend to be careful because that guy has borogodó.

• wonwoo ➝ desbundado ↳ i laughed while writing this one because it can mean two things: 1) when someone is sort of lost with what’s happening, or when someone gets kind of shocked but not as bad?; 2) someone without ass. and i’m sorry to say this, but wonwoo has no ass, he is a desbundado

• jihoon ➝ saudade ↳ this is such a basic one, it’s like to miss someone or something. i just feel like jihoon has this sort of aura or something that screams saudade, like there’s something that he is longing for? idk

• seokmin ➝ malandro ↳ could be mischievous or cunning, but here is someone like joshua, you’re like “oh this guy is so much fun, he doesn't take himself seriously”, next thing you know you’re letting him do unspeakable things to you and you’re loving it

• mingyu ➝ malemolencia ↳ the best way i can describe this is swag but it doesn't even come close to what it means. it’s like he knows he’s all that and he works it in his favor and it’s attractive in so many ways. if you have ever seen a carioca (someone born in rio) who finds himself hot, and good looking and sexy you’ll know what i mean. it’s a sort of behaviour and it’s intoxicating in the best way possible. cariocas are dangerous

• minghao ➝ capricho ↳ it can mean something frivolous and it can be something done on a whim, but also someone who can be very mindful of what he’s doing, someone who’s diligent and if there’s something minghao is is diligent

• vernon ➝ tabacudo ↳ recently i’ve learned a new meaning to this word, and it’s like a little crazy and weird and you never really know what to expect from him, his jokes are kind of dumb and niche and sometimes you’re like, wtf

• seungkwan ➝ abestalhado ↳ it can be someone kind of dumb, who can make a lot of mistakes, who can be sort of a fool but cute

• chan ➝ dengo ↳ it’s very similar to xodó, but to me, it’s sweater, tooth-rotting sweetness. don’t get me wrong, chan is not just a sweet guy, but a dengo can lead to soooo much more

taglist: @wonwooz1, @mirtaspace, @feat-sun, @belladaises, @mayashu, @immabecreepin, @miriamxsworld, @aaniag, @k-drama-adict, @maiamorrrrrrrrrrrr, @roguesthetic, @sofix-hc7, @scarlet789, @moonlightgrleric, @mixling-blog, @haowonbins, @slut4donghyuck, @shuabby1994, @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan, @plumings, @shuasdrafts, @aaasia111, @bouclesdefeu

if you enjoyed reading, please reblog or leave a comment, it really does mean the world to me and i would love to know your thoughts. thank you! 💕

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[redsummermoon]

Hello! I love your writing, to start. I know you said you only like to write for Charlie, buuuut sense you also asked for ideas, I thought I’d mention this one I had! So I’m the odd man out and actually have a fascination with Richard Cameron. I know, don’t hurt me. But I was thinking of a scenario with a female reader and a sort of “enemies to lovers” fic with Cameron? Basically where they’re complete opposites. Maybe the reader is popular and rebellious, and of course Cameron is himself. They’ve got nothing in common except the poetry meetings they like to go to, and they really just make snarky comments back and forth the whole time. Then finally (sense it’s fall) they end up going to a Halloween party. (Perhaps there’s drinking involved?) And Cameron ends up seeing the reader in her costume, that by 50’s standards might be a little risqué, and he’s like “how tacky, girls shouldn’t dress like that”, but secretly he ends up like … 👀❤️ And then smooch

Anyways, that’s my idea. Feel free to ignore. Thanks, love 💗

Of course my first request is cameron😒 (IM KIDDING) 

Thanks for requesting!! I hope I did your fascination justice❤️

Something More

Richard Cameron x reader CW: use of Y/N, female reader, blonde hair reader, underage drinking, making fun of nervous stuttering [2.9k words] 

Cameron had never understood Y/N.

Sure, she was smart. Probably too smart for someone who spent most of her time breaking rules with Charlie Dalton or getting involved in Neil Perry’s theatrical antics. Cameron could almost tolerate Charlie’s rebellious streak. After all, they were roommates, and you had to pick your battles. But Y/N… there was something about her that made it impossible for him to simply look the other way.

It wasn’t that he hated her. At least, Cameron didn’t think it was hatred. Maybe it was the way she always seemed to one-up him. Like when she managed to sweet-talk her way out of trouble for sneaking into the theater building late at night, or when she got away with challenging the headmaster’s every word without consequence. Charlie thought she was brilliant, and Neil seemed to gravitate toward her, especially during their impromptu play rehearsals. But to Cameron, Y/N was the embodiment of everything he wasn’t. Free-spirited, fearless, and… reckless.

He sighed, adjusting his tie in the reflection of the small dorm mirror. "Rivals," he muttered under his breath. That was what he’d settled on. They were rivals. Even if he didn’t quite understand why it bothered him so much.

Cameron knew he was no rebel. He liked rules, structure, and order. It was what made him who he was. But then came Neil’s ridiculous idea of reviving the Dead Poets Society. Neil had made it sound poetic and adventurous, a hidden escape from the suffocating walls of Welton. It was, of course, the exact sort of thing Charlie and Y/N would love.

Naturally, Cameron wanted no part of it. Sneaking out after curfew, wandering into the woods, all for the sake of reading poetry in secret? It was a direct violation of school policy, and Cameron wasn’t about to jeopardize his future over some poetry club. At least, that’s what he had been planning to say when Neil invited him.

But then, of course, he overheard Neil mentioning Y/N would be there.

He had no idea why that changed things, but suddenly, Cameron felt a knot tighten in his stomach. She’d be there, laughing, breaking the rules, and Cameron knew exactly how it would play out. She’d have that smug look on her face, as if she’d won some unspoken battle between them. She’d act as if she was braver, bolder, and once again, she’d leave Cameron in her dust.

"Fine," Cameron said to Neil, trying to hide the nervous edge in his voice. "I’ll go."

He hated the way his palms started sweating the moment he agreed, and the anxiety that knotted in his chest only tightened as the hours passed. Sneaking out wasn’t his thing. But he couldn’t let Y/N have this. Not this time. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of thinking she was more daring than him.

Later that night, as Cameron made his way through the shadows of Welton’s halls, he tried to calm the rising tide of his nerves. His heart pounded in his chest, each footstep feeling heavier than the last. This was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. He shouldn’t be sneaking out to the woods, shouldn’t be joining some secret society that defied everything Welton stood for.

But when he thought of Y/N, laughing and teasing him about being too scared to join them, he gritted his teeth and pressed forward.

The night was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed against Cameron's ears, heightening his anxiety as they made their way into the woods. Neil and Charlie led the group, their low murmurs and laughter breaking the stillness every now and then. Cameron lagged behind, mentally cataloging every risk, every infraction, every possible way this could go horribly wrong.

Then there was Y/N.

She darted ahead of the group, her footsteps loud as she ran through the leaves, laughing as she threw her arms out wide. “This is it, boys! The start of our revolution!” she shouted into the night air.

Cameron winced. “Shut up,” he hissed, jogging up to catch her. “We’re still too close to the school!”

Y/N only grinned, glancing over her shoulder at him with a playful glint in her eyes. “Relax, Cameron. No one’s going to hear us out here.”

“They will if you keep yelling like that.” He grabbed her arm, tugging her back toward the group. “Do you ever think? We’re supposed to be sneaky, and you’re—”

Before he could finish, Y/N spun around, eyes wide in mock innocence. “Me? You think I’m the problem?”

“Yes!” Cameron’s voice cracked slightly, his frustration rising. “You’re always so loud—”

Y/N leaned in closer, yelling, “Am I?”

He groaned, placing his hand over her mouth to stop whatever retort she had coming. “Just... quiet.”

For a moment, Y/N’s eyes locked onto his. They glimmered with mischief as Cameron rambled on about the consequences if they got caught. She wasn’t even listening. She never listened. Then, without warning, she licked his hand.

“Ugh!” Cameron pulled back, wiping his hand on his blazer.

Y/N smirked. “Thanks for the taste, Cameron!” She winked, then darted ahead, disappearing into the trees.

Cameron stood there for a moment, seething as her laughter echoed back at him. “That damn girl,” he muttered under his breath, before hurrying to catch up with the others.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

A few weeks later, they’d settled into their usual spot in the woods, the group began their poetry readings. Neil always read with confidence, Charlie with charm, and even Knox, when not obsessing over some girl, could manage to stumble through his lines.

Then there was Cameron, who dreaded his turn.

“I-I think I’ll go next,” Cameron announced, clearing his throat as he stood up, gripping the poetry book a little too tightly.

Y/N leaned over to Neil, whispering loud enough for Cameron to hear, “Brace yourselves, boys. Here comes another thrilling performance from Mr. Perfection himself.”

Cameron’s face burned. He shot her a look, but Y/N just smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes in mock innocence. He started to read, his voice wavering on the first line.

“Wh-Whose woods these are I think-I think I know. H-His-his house is in the-the village though.”

Y/N leaned in closer, whispering to Charlie. Cameron figured she would be making fun of his stuttering.

Cameron shot her another glare, stumbling on his next line. “H-He will not see m-me stopping he-here.”

Charlie snorted under his breath, but Neil shot Y/N a warning look. She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and leaning back against a rock. Still, the damage was done, and Cameron barely made it through the rest of the poem without losing his nerve.

Later, when Knox started talking (again) about his girl troubles, Y/N took it as her cue to play matchmaker. “You just need to be bolder, Knox! Girls love confidence. You’ve gotta show her you’re the one!”

Cameron sighed, rubbing his temples. “Y/N, can you not? We’re trying to read poetry, not solve Knox’s love life.”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong, Cameron? Jealous? I can help you with your stuttering and your girl problems.”

He scoffed. “I don’t have girl problems.”

“Oh, really? Then why is your face red every time I’m around?” Y/N shot back.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

Lately, Y/N has been… different. She’d still tease him, but it wasn’t with the same sharpness, the same eagerness to provoke a reaction. Her jokes seemed half-hearted, like she was holding something back.

One evening, after Cameron had finished reading his poem, without stuttering for once, he looked up to see Y/N staring at him. Not smirking or rolling her eyes, but actually staring. For a second, Cameron thought he might’ve imagined it, but when he caught her gaze, she quickly looked away, focusing on the ground.

What was that about?

“Hey, Y/N,” Cameron asked after the meeting had ended, the others already making their way back toward the school. She stopped, turning to face him, the moonlight casting soft shadows over her face. “You… didn’t make fun of me tonight.”

She blinked, a slow smile creeping onto her lips. “Would you rather I had?”

Cameron shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. “No, I just… I noticed.”

“Maybe I’m getting soft. Or maybe you’re getting better,” Y/N shrugged. “See you at the Halloween party tomorrow.”

Before Cameron could reply, she brushed past him, her arm grazing his as she walked by. He stood there for a moment, confused, flustered, and less irritated than he usually was after one of their encounters.

That damn girl.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

Cameron adjusted his soldier's uniform for the tenth time, nervously scanning the cafeteria. The decorations were tacky but festive, with paper bats hanging from the ceiling and pumpkins lining the tables. People had gone all out with their costumes, and the music blaring from the speakers set the perfect atmosphere for the Halloween party at Chris’s high school.

Cameron wasn’t usually one for these kinds of things, but tonight, he was trying to make an effort. His friends were really excited and that kind of energy was contagious. He spotted Knox and Chris almost immediately. Knox was beaming, dressed as Batman, and Chris, right beside him in a Batwoman costume, clung to his arm like they were in their own little world.

Knox caught Cameron’s eye and waved him over. “Cameron! You made it!”

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” Cameron said, though his eyes were still darting around the room. “You guys seen Charlie or Y/N?”

Chris and Knox exchanged a look before laughing.

Cameron frowned. “What?”

Knox shrugged, grinning. “You don’t want to know.”

Cameron’s confusion only deepened. “What do you mean by that?”

Neil strolled up at that moment, wearing a Dracula costume that, somehow, actually suited him. His cape billowed dramatically as he greeted them. Cameron wasted no time.

“Neil, where’s Charlie and Y/N? They said they’d be here.”

Neil shook his head, chuckling softly. “Trust me, Cameron, you don’t want to know.”

Before Cameron could press further, the doors swung open, and Charlie made his grand entrance. Dressed as a pirate, complete with an eyepatch, a fake sword strapped to his waist, and a slightly tipsy grin, Charlie swaggered into the cafeteria.

“There he is,” Knox said, laughing as Charlie made his way over.

“Cameron!” Charlie greeted him loudly, saluting to his friend. “Good to see ya, soldier boy!”

Cameron’s nose crinkled. “You’ve been drinking already?”

“Sir yes, sir!” Charlie smirked, holding up a cup of punch. He shoved the cup into Cameron’s hand. “Here, have some. Courtesy of me and Y/N.”

Cameron eyed the cup warily but took a sip. His throat burned slightly from the spike of alcohol, and he shot Charlie a look. “You spiked the punch?”

Charlie wiggled his eyebrows. “Of course. It’s a party, Cam! Loosen up!”

Cameron sighed, lowering the cup. “Speaking of Y/N... where is she?”

Charlie’s eyes lit up with mischief, and he let out a low whistle. “Oh, just wait until you see her. She’s… well, you’ll see.”

The noise of the party seemed to dull as the doors swung open again, and in walked Y/N, dressed as Marilyn Monroe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as she moved through, her heels clicking against the floor, and every head, boy and girl alike, turned to stare.

Y/N wore a tight, black dress that shimmered under the dim lights, with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. The back was almost entirely see-through, revealing glimpses of her skin with every step. The dress ended high on her thighs, adorned with frills that swayed as she walked. A long strand of pearls hung from her neck, falling gracefully down from her ruby-red lips as she held a pearl between them. Her hair was perfectly styled in soft, platinum blonde curls, pinned in a way that mimicked the iconic Marilyn Monroe look.

Cameron could only stare. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt his cheeks burning. He should’ve known from Charlie’s reaction that Y/N would come dressed to impress, but this… this was something else.

“Holy...,” he muttered under his breath. “Girls shouldn’t dress like that.”

Charlie elbowed him with a grin. “Come on, man. Just enjoy it.”

But Cameron couldn’t. Or rather, he couldn’t stop himself from looking. As Y/N made her way through the crowd, it was as if the entire room was drawn to her. She moved with confidence, a playful smirk on her lips as people whispered and gawked at her.

Charlie nudged Cameron again, this time a bit harder. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I…” Cameron stammered, quickly downing the rest of the punch in his cup. The alcohol did nothing to calm his nerves.

And then, she was there. Right in front of them.

Y/N smiled, looking between Charlie and Cameron. “Hey, boys.”

Charlie gave her a whistle again. “Y/N, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Y/N gave a little twirl, the frills of her dress bouncing playfully. “You like it?” Her eyes landed on Cameron, and her smile grew wider. “What about you, Cameron?”

Cameron swallowed hard. “I, uh... well...”

Before he could gather his thoughts, Charlie cut in, laughing. “Cameron’s jaw was on the floor the second you walked in. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she turned her full attention to Cameron. “Really?” Her voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in her expression that made Cameron’s face heat up even more.

“I-I wasn’t—” Cameron started to protest, but he felt his cheeks growing even redder, and he knew there was no denying it.

Y/N’s smile widened, clearly pleased. “Well, I’m glad you approve.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm. “I think your costume is great too, by the way. Very handsome.”

Cameron opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He nodded quickly, feeling more flustered than ever, and Charlie burst out laughing at the sight of him. Cameron couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the heat rising in his cheeks, but either way, he was in over his head.

As Charlie walked away, giving Cameron a playful wink before disappearing into the crowd, Y/N stayed by Cameron’s side. The music had shifted to something slower, softer, and the energy in the room had mellowed. Y/N turned to Cameron, her smile softening as she caught his gaze.

“So,” she began, taking a small step closer, “what do you say? Want to dance with me?”

Cameron blinked, taken aback. “Dance? With… me?”

Y/N laughed, nodding. “Yes, you. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Still confused, Cameron hesitated. “Why are you being so… nice to me?” He glanced down, feeling the weight of her attention more than ever. “I mean, we’re not exactly… friends.”

Y/N’s smile faded slightly, but there was a tenderness in her expression. “I guess something’s changed,” she said, shrugging lightly. “I don’t want to be rivals anymore. I don’t think we need to be.”

Cameron’s brow furrowed. “You don’t?”

“No,” Y/N said simply. She looked him in the eyes, her expression sincere. “I don’t want to argue with you all the time. It’s exhausting. I think we could be something else. What do you think, Cameron? Is that okay with you?”

Cameron felt his heart race. She was being so open, so honest. He hadn’t expected this. “I... yeah. That’s okay with me.”

Y/N’s eyes twinkled as she took another step closer, her voice dropping to a soft, almost teasing tone. “Good. So... what do you think we should be, then?”

Cameron swallowed nervously, unsure of how to answer. “I... I don’t know. What do you want to be?”

Y/N’s smile grew wider, playful but warm. “Well,” she said, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm, “maybe this can be our first date. You know, to figure out if we should just be friends... or something more.”

Cameron’s mind went blank for a second, but deep down, he knew what he wanted. He had always been drawn to her, even through their bickering, even when he told himself it was just rivalry. The truth was, it had always been something more.

“I think…” he began, his voice a little shaky but determined. “I think I’d like to be something more.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up, her smile becoming something softer, more genuine. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Prove it.”

Without thinking, Cameron closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tentative kiss. The world seemed to disappear for a moment. The party, the music, the people; everything faded into the background. It was just them, standing in the middle of the dance floor, sharing something neither of them had expected.

When they pulled apart, Y/N was smiling, her cheeks flushed. “Well, that’s a good start.”

Cameron smiled back, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “So... does that mean we’re not rivals anymore?”

Y/N laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the center of the dance floor. “Nope. From now on, we’re on the same team.”

As they began to dance, moving in time with the soft music, Cameron couldn’t help but feel like this was the best first date he could’ve imagined. Y/N, with all her teasing and fire, was someone he’d always admired, and now, she was something more.

(Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost included (one of my fav poems))