#stone wash basin
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deceramicantiles · 6 months ago
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Immerse in Elegance: DeCeramica's Luxurious Wash Basins
Find your vision of a dream space come alive with De Ceramica✨
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muzammils · 4 months ago
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Marble Wash Basin | Stone Wash Basin
Build your luxurious wash basin with A.S Marble Handicraft. A luxurious wash basin showcases cleanliness in your washroom. A.S Handicraft provides both marble and stone wash basins. Get your Handcrafted / Personalized Marble or Stone Wash Basins from A.S Handicrafts. Contact ashandicraft.com to know more...
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acsbathrooms · 9 months ago
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How to Care for and Maintain Your Stone Basins
If you're among the many who have fallen for the charm of stone basins, you’re in good company. These stunning fixtures add a touch of sophistication and class to any bathroom or kitchen. But, like any beautiful piece, they require proper care to maintain their pristine appearance.
In this blog, we’ll discuss caring for and maintaining stone wash basin for kitchen to ensure they remain a focal point of beauty in your home.
1. Regular Cleaning
Stone basins are known for their durability but can be sensitive to harsh cleaning products. To keep your stone basin looking its best, use mild soap and warm water. Avoid abrasive cleaners or scouring pads, as these can damage the surface. Instead, use a soft cloth or sponge to clean the basin gently.
Tip: Rinse thoroughly and dry with a soft towel to prevent water spots and streaks.
2. Sealing for Longevity
Stone basins, especially those made from natural stone like marble or granite, benefit from regular sealing. Sealing helps protect the stone from stains and moisture, which can cause discolouration over time. Depending on the type of stone and usage, you may need to reseal your basin every 6 to 12 months.
How to Seal Your Stone Basin:
Clean the Basin: Ensure the basin is completely clean and dry before applying the sealant.
Apply Sealant: Use a stone sealant recommended for your type of stone. Apply it evenly across the surface.
Wipe Off Excess: After applying, wipe off any excess sealant with a clean, dry cloth.
Allow to Dry: Let the sealant dry completely before using the basin.
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3. Dealing with Stains
Despite your best efforts, stains can sometimes occur. A mixture of baking soda and water can be effective for minor stains. Apply the paste to the stain, let it sit for a few hours, then gently scrub with a soft cloth. For more stubborn stains, a specialised stone cleaner might be necessary.
Avoid:  Using acidic or alkaline cleaners, as they can damage the stone.
4. Preventing Damage
To avoid damage to your stone basins, be mindful of what comes into contact with the surface. Avoid placing hot pots or pans directly on the basin, as extreme heat can cause cracks or discolouration. Additionally, be cautious with heavy objects that could chip or scratch the stone.
Protective Measures:
Use a Basin Mat: A mat or rubber protector can help shield the stone from impact and reduce wear.
Coasters and Trivets: Place these under items that may cause damage, such as toiletries or hot items.
5. Addressing Common Issues
You might encounter common issues like hard water deposits or minor scratches, even with regular care. Hard water deposits can be cleaned with white vinegar and water, but be sure to rinse thoroughly to avoid any potential damage from the vinegar.
For minor scratches, a professional stone restoration service can often polish out imperfections. However, you may need to consult a specialist to ensure proper repair for deeper scratches or cracks.
6. Embracing Sustainable Choices
Maintaining your stone basins fits perfectly into this trend as we move towards more sustainable living. Stone is a natural, long-lasting material that reduces the need for frequent replacements. By taking care of your stone basin, you preserve its beauty and contribute to a more sustainable and eco-friendly lifestyle.
Conclusion
Incorporating a stone basin into your home brings a blend of style and durability that few other materials can match. With proper care and maintenance, your stone basin will continue to enhance your space for years. From regular cleaning to sealing and preventing damage, these steps will help keep your stone basin in top condition.
By understanding and applying these care tips, you ensure that your stone basins remain a stunning feature in your home, embodying elegance and practicality. Here’s to the lasting beauty of stone—an investment in aesthetics and sustainability.
Source From: How to Care for and Maintain Your Stone Basins
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ubsteels · 9 months ago
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fleurbly · 1 month ago
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FOREVER, EVER.
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summary: heartbroken and lost after remmick’s sudden disappearance, you're left to mourn the quiet life you shared. but when he returns days later in the dead of night, something about him is wrong — colder, darker, not quite the man you remember.
warnings: non-con, dub-con, coercion, power imbalance (?), mentions of blood, angst
DNI IF THIS UPSETS YOU
pairing: dark!remmick x reader
words: 10k+
based off this req
You stopped waiting at the gate on the fifth night.
The first four, you'd sat on the old stone fence just past the apple tree, chin resting in your hand, eyes trained on the path that cut through the hills. Hoping. Always hoping.
The lantern you kept lit burned down to its wick every time, and the neighbor's dog barked at nothing well past midnight. You’d go to bed with your dress still wrinkled from the wait, your hair loose and tangled, smelling like smoke and sweat, throat tight from swallowing every fear you’d never dared to name.
But by the fifth night, something in you stilled. Not in the peaceful way — not in the trusting way either. Just… dulled. Like your bones were too tired to hope properly.
Remmick had been gone nearly two weeks.
He’d only gone to help a traveler — a stranger passing through, said he’d lost his horse down by the bog. You hadn’t seen the man’s face clearly, just his boots as he stood outside your gate and asked for help in that strange, silken voice. You’d been at the basin, elbows deep in washing, and Remmick had leaned against the doorframe with that crooked smile of his and said, “Back in an hour, love.”
But he didn’t come back.
Not that night. Not the next. Not the one after that either.
The village didn’t offer much. A few shrugs, a few mumbled guesses about Dublin work or wrong turns. Someone said they’d seen him near the grove two days after, speaking to no one. But no one really knew anything. No one seemed to care like you did, not even close.
And you — you were unraveling in silence.
Your hands still reached for two plates at supper, even though you only managed a few bites. His shirts were still on the line, starched stiff by the sun. You slept on his side of the bed and dreamt half the time that the mattress shifted under his weight — that his breath tickled your shoulder, that his hand slid up your thigh like nothing had ever gone wrong.
But the bed was always empty by morning. And you stopped setting the table for two.
The house was quiet in a way it had never been, even before him. You hated it. Hated the way the wind pressed against the shutters like fingers trying to slip in. Hated the sound of your own voice when you called for him without thinking. Hated the silence more.
And the heat — Christ, the heat didn’t help. The summer refused to die, clinging on like a fever, like something sick in the lungs of the world. Even though the leaves were curling at the edges and the fields outside had turned to brittle gold, even though the sky went orange far too early and the cicadas screamed like they were begging for the end — still, it stayed. Heavy. Wet. Oppressive.
It pressed down on you like a second skin. You couldn’t move without feeling the sweat pool in the bend of your elbows, your thighs, the hollow at the base of your spine. The nightgown you wore to bed — one of his favorites, he used to tease you about how soft it was — clung to you like it had teeth, plastered against your breasts, the backs of your knees, the dip of your stomach.
You barely slept. Not really. Just lay there, night after night, your limbs too hot to be still, heart too frantic to rest. Sometimes you’d drift — never for long — and always wake with a start, breath stuck in your throat like something had gripped it. You’d wake clutching the sheets, wild-eyed, convinced you’d heard his voice calling from outside the window, soft and slanted and sweet the way only he said your name. But there’d be nothing. Just the open air and the humming heat and the wind through the eaves like a breath that never finished.
You stopped eating too. At first, it was because you couldn’t keep anything down — the nausea sat heavy in your gut, sour and mean — but then it became something else. Like forgetting. You’d boil water for tea and let it cool untouched. You’d leave bread out until it stiffened. The butter melted to nothing in the dish, but you didn’t move to put it away. Everything was too still. Too loud. Too much. You walked through the house like it was someone else’s, like you were waiting to wake up in the right one again, the one where he came through the door at dusk smelling like cut hay and sweat, grumbling about supper and kissing you before you could speak.
That night — the night he came back — was no different.
You’d given up trying to sleep hours before, the mattress too warm, the sheets too tangled. You’d taken to the floor, cheek pressed to the boards that still held some whisper of coolness. Your body was damp with sweat, the cotton of your gown twisted and wrung around you, and still you didn’t move. The house was quiet but not peaceful. The silence felt thick, like the walls were holding their breath.
The scent of him — linen, warm and clean, and that old citrus soap he used to lather all the way up to his throat — lingered faintly in the air, though you hadn’t touched the basin in days.
You tried to tell yourself it was in your head, that it was just the last remnants of a memory you weren’t ready to let go of. But some nights, it was stronger than others, and you swore the air itself felt thick with him, as if the very walls of the house carried the imprint of his presence, as though his scent bled out through the floorboards, lingering in the spaces where his footsteps had once been. It clung to the edges of the night, curling around you, unwelcome but familiar. And you couldn't seem to shake it.
The lantern burned low, the flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across the room, soft and golden against the walls. The wick had started to gutter, sputtering faintly with each breath of air, and the light seemed to shrink in the small space, leaving more darkness in its wake.
The heat of the summer was still thick in the room, the sticky humidity inescapable even in the cool of night. Everything felt close, as though the air itself was pressing in on you. The shadows danced, stretched across the room like fingers reaching for something, and you hovered in that strange, drifting place between sleep and something else — not quite awake, not quite dreaming. It was a liminal space where time didn’t seem to exist, where everything felt like it might slip away at any moment.
Then the knock came.
It was soft. Three taps. Nothing urgent. But something about it made you stop.
You didn’t move at first. You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the sound, your mind slow, the fog of exhaustion still clinging to your senses. You thought maybe it was a trick, your brain playing games with you after so many restless nights. After all, who would be out here now? The village was far, and no one came by this late — especially not in this kind of heat. The knock was so gentle, like a whisper, like someone uncertain. It should’ve been nothing. But there it was again, a ripple in the stillness.
Then it came again.
This time, slower. Heavier. Familiar.
You didn’t think — not at first. Not until your feet began to move without you willing them to. You rose on unsteady legs, your nightgown twisting around your legs as you took each step. Bare feet skimmed the cool wooden floorboards, the sound of your own breathing loud in the otherwise empty house. You crossed to the door, and the air was thick around you, sticky with something like anticipation — like the stillness of the moment had expanded, stretching everything out just a little too long, holding its breath.
Your heart hadn’t started to beat faster yet. It was too stunned, too unsure of what to feel. It was like you’d been frozen in time, suspended in something you couldn’t quite define. Your body moved without your permission, like it knew something you didn’t. You reached for the door, hand trembling just a little as you wrapped your fingers around the cool wood, but you still couldn’t quite bring yourself to open it. You felt the hesitation — your mind, still too slow to catch up with what your body already knew, already feared.
Another knock.
This time, the air felt different. Something heavier hung between the beats of silence, like the world itself was waiting with you.
Your breath caught in your throat, and you hesitated for a moment longer, but then you slowly pulled the door open, the sound of the hinges creaking loud in the quiet night.
The light from the lantern flickered against the doorframe, casting strange, long shadows as the night air washed over you, thick with the scent of earth and warmth. The breeze carried with it a distant hum, but it was nothing compared to the silence that surrounded you, enclosing you in its grip.
Standing there, on the threshold, was a figure. A shape you knew all too well.
You froze.
At first, you couldn’t even bring yourself to speak, because what was there to say? Your mind struggled to process, to find words that made sense, that could explain this moment — but none came.
Instead, you simply stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, your breath shallow as you stared at the figure before you.
He stood there, just outside the door, looking like he’d just stepped out of bed — though anyone who’d seen him at his most disheveled would’ve known better. His shirt was perfectly buttoned, sleeves neatly rolled up, not a wrinkle in sight. His trousers were so pristine they looked like they’d never touched a speck of dirt, not even the tiniest fleck of mud clinging to the hems.
It was like he’d never been gone, like he’d just stepped out of some painting, his sharp jawline cutting through the warm glow, the steady rise and fall of his chest a mockery of the sleepless nights you’d spent wondering where the hell he was.
He looked... perfect. Untouched. As though he’d been lounging on the other side of the world, waiting for the perfect moment to stroll back into your life. His hair was slightly ruffled, but it was the kind of ruffled you only get from running your fingers through it when you're trying to look like you’ve just had a wild night of passion — not from anything remotely chaotic. His expression, however, hadn’t changed at all. That same, cocky tilt to his lips. That same glint in his eyes that you’d once spent so many hours getting lost in.
He opened his mouth like he was about to say something — but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, taking in your reaction.
You stepped forward, your heart suddenly doing that mad thing again, racing in your chest, but he didn’t move. No hurry. No rush. He was too damn calm.
“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice trembling in spite of yourself. “Jesus, Remmick, where—?”
At the sound of his name, he flinched. That was the first thing that hit you — the first real sign that something wasn’t quite right.
You reached for him, instinctively, your hand brushing the doorframe as if to anchor yourself. His eyes snapped to your fingers, and he blinked slowly, like he’d just noticed them. Like he'd just remembered how to blink, or how to breathe. His lips curled into that trademark smirk, the one that made you want to both kiss him and strangle him all at once.
“Well, ain’t you lookin' all kinds of worried,” he drawled, his voice thick and hoarse, rolling over each word like melted honey. It should’ve been comforting, but there was something so off about it. His throat worked like he was forcing the words out. “I’m sure you’ve been wonderin' where the hell I’ve been, huh?”
You couldn’t find the words to answer. You just stared at him, waiting for something — anything — that would explain this. He was too damn calm. Too perfect.
He tilted his head, still standing there like he hadn’t been gone for weeks. Still looking like the man you remembered — and yet, not at all. “But listen, sugar,” he said, voice a little softer now, “there’s one little thing I need before I can explain any of this. You’ve gotta invite me in. Just a little ‘come on in,’ and I’ll tell you everything you wanna know.”
You blinked. “What?”
He chuckled, low and rich, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. No, those eyes were something else now. Something distant. Like he wasn’t really here. Something far away, watching you through a pane of glass, maybe.
“I know, I know. You think I’m jokin’, don’t you?” His lips twisted into a smile that made your insides twist. But you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. “But I ain’t. It’s simple, really,” he added, dropping his voice just enough to make your heartbeat a little faster than it should’ve. “You just gotta let me in, and I’ll tell you everythin’ you wanna know.”
The sarcasm in his voice should’ve been enough. Should’ve been all you needed to shut the door and run, because what the hell was this? But no, something about the way he stood there, the casual arrogance, the way his eyes never wavered from yours — it was so him. And in the back of your mind, the part you couldn’t quiet, something told you this was no longer the man you had married, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Not yet.
You didn’t ask why. You should’ve. You wanted to. But you didn’t.
Instead, you stepped back, your hand falling instinctively to the door, your fingers curling around the old wood. You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper as you spoke.
“Come in, then.”
And just like that, he did.
His boots met the floorboards with a slow, deliberate rhythm — not loud, not quiet, just enough to echo faintly in the stillness of the room. It was a sound you’d come to know too well, a sound that carried the weight of both absence and presence.
Every step reverberated in the air like a reminder of the days he’d been gone, a reminder that he was here now. The hollow tap of his boots scraped against your thoughts, making the air feel thick, almost oppressive. Familiar. Tangible. But this time, it sent a shiver down your spine, deeper than it ever had before, like his very presence was waking up something deep within you, something locked up tight these last few weeks. 
It kicked something loose in your chest — a mix of dread and relief, something you couldn’t put a name to. And yet, you couldn’t pull your eyes away, couldn’t look anywhere else but at him, even as that feeling twisted around inside you, coiling and unfurling.
He crossed the threshold with a steady, measured stride, like he’d never left. Like nothing had happened. As if two weeks had somehow faded into nothing more than a passing moment. No apology. No explanation. Just him, here, in the doorway — the same way he always had. Like no space had grown between you, like no time had been lost. Like the silence that had stretched on endlessly in his absence didn’t matter. But it did. You could feel it. 
The room had changed, the house had changed. And you? You had changed. The air around him seemed to buzz with an energy that hadn’t been there before, but it was subtle, hiding beneath the surface. Even as he walked into that familiar space, it felt like he wasn’t just walking into the room — he was walking into everything that had happened while he was gone. Every moment. Every second. And yet, his gaze was calm, almost too calm, as if none of it mattered to him at all.
His eyes moved through the room the same way they always had, like they were cataloging everything in their path. A quick, quiet sweep — slow but unhurried. Measuring, thoughtful. Calculating. Like he was mentally clocking what had changed in the room, the small details, the things he hadn’t seen in the time away. The rearranged furniture. The dust on the counter. The cracks in the walls that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge any of it. It was as though nothing could surprise him.
 Nothing could rattle him. And yet, as his gaze slid over the room, you could feel him noticing everything without ever giving it away on his face. He’d always been like that — careful, observant, measuring every move, every flicker of life in the space around him. But this time, the gaze wasn’t just detached. It felt more deliberate, sharper, like he was seeing things he hadn’t noticed before. Things that hadn’t been there when he left. Things that had changed.
Then, just as you started to breathe again, his eyes landed on you.
And something flickered. Just for a split second. It wasn’t enough to give away what he was thinking — not enough to let you know what he felt, what he was seeing — but it was there. A momentary pause in the rhythm of his movements, a subtle change in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his focus sharpened. He took you in with a slow, deliberate gaze, his eyes tracing the lines of you like he was committing every detail to memory, cataloging the parts of you that hadn’t been there before, the parts of you that had.
The way your nightgown clung to your skin, a little too thin against the chill of the air. The hollows under your eyes, deeper than they should have been, shadows that had settled there from nights of worrying, waiting, wondering. The way your shoulders slumped under the weight of it all — the weight of him, the weight of the silence, the weight of the uncertainty that had been crushing you for far too long. 
You hadn’t even realized you were holding yourself like that. Not until the way he looked at you made you painfully aware. His gaze didn’t linger in the way it used to, with that softness, that familiarity. No, it was sharper. More focused. More calculating. He noticed it all — the small things that would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else, the things you had no choice but to live with. And for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he saw you the way you saw yourself now — broken in places, frayed at the edges, and wearing a mask that didn’t fit anymore.
“You look like hell,” he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. It wasn’t cruel or mocking — not even judgmental, really. It was just a simple observation, something he’d been meaning to say. Like it needed saying, and now it had been, and that was all. The words lingered in the air, hanging between you, but they didn’t cut. They didn’t have the power to hurt, not anymore. You already knew.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, the bitter taste of his absence still on the tip of your tongue. Your fingers tightened reflexively around the doorframe, as if it might somehow steady you. The weight of his gaze was like a hand pressing on your chest, and you hated how small you felt under it, how fragile.
“I waited,” you said, the words feeling tight, like something heavy stuck in your chest. “I—every night, I—” Your voice faltered, like the years you’d spent with him were still too much to process, too big to put into simple words. How could you explain the long, slow unraveling of yourself, the endless hours you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was dead, if he was coming back at all?
He sighed, a deep, worn-out sound, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to shake off the weight of something heavier than the air around you. “I know,” he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that same underlying edge of exhaustion.
“Then why—?” The question almost caught in your throat before you could get it out. It wasn’t just the ‘why’ of his disappearance. It was the ‘why now,’ the why after everything.
“Don’t,” he cut in, not sharply, but with an edge that cut through the air between you. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t warm either. It was just... tired. “Not yet.”
You stared at him, blinking against the sudden wave of emotions you couldn’t sort through. His words didn’t make sense, but that was nothing new. Not with him. “You can’t just walk in here and expect me not to ask.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. But what else was there to do? How could you stay quiet after everything?
“I’m not expecting anything,” he muttered, the words rough, like they didn’t quite fit his mouth. “I’m telling you I need a minute.” He said it like it was simple, like everything could be boiled down to that one sentence, but the air between you felt heavier now, thick with all the things he wasn’t saying.
The words should’ve stung, should’ve pressed against the anger burning in your gut, but they didn’t. They didn’t hurt the way you thought they would. Instead, they just sank deep into you, settling into the ache that had already been growing there. A quiet, hollow ache. A place where everything else had slipped away.
“I thought you were dead,” you whispered, the words so soft, so fragile, it felt like they might break apart in the air. “I thought—” You couldn’t finish. It didn’t matter. He’d heard it, and that was enough. That was everything.
His jaw flexed — the smallest movement, but it didn’t escape you. The flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? You couldn’t be sure, but it was there, and it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He didn’t look at you, didn’t speak. He just kept his back to you, his posture stiff, like the weight of your words was too much.
“I know,” he said again, quieter this time, almost... softer. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, his voice unsteady now, like he was dragging the words out. “It wasn’t supposed to go like that.”
“Then how was it supposed to go?” You didn’t mean for the question to come out so sharp, but it did. Your own voice sounded foreign to you, distant, like you didn’t recognize it anymore.
He didn’t answer. Not immediately. He just bent down to toe off his boots, the movement slow and deliberate, as if he was giving himself time to think. Or maybe just time to avoid you. To avoid answering. He set them neatly by the door, as though it was just any other night. Then, without a word, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, the motion dragging his shirt tight against his chest, the muscles beneath it shifting in a way that reminded you of the man you used to know — the one who could move through a room like he owned it.
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” he said. The words were soft, almost a whisper. “Not yet. I need a wash. And some damn sleep.”
You opened your mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to beg, maybe to demand more. But he was already moving down the hall, his shoulders stiff with something you couldn’t place, like the tension in his back was enough to pull the rest of him away from you. The heat of him lingered in the air for a moment longer, heavy and unspoken, before it started to fade.
“Remmick,” you called, the name slipping out before you could stop it. He didn’t turn around, didn’t even pause. But he didn’t completely ignore you, either.
He slowed, just enough to let you know he’d heard. The silence stretched between you.
“I should be angry,” you said, voice trembling, more to yourself than to him.
A beat passed — long, drawn-out. Then he spoke, his voice barely a murmur. “You should be,” he said, but there was something strange about it. Something unreadable. “But not tonight.”
And with that, he disappeared around the corner, his figure melting into the shadows of the hallway. The sound of water running came a few moments later, too sharp, too loud in the otherwise quiet house, breaking the silence that had settled like a weight between you.
You stood there for a long time, long after he was gone.
Your hand still pressed against the doorframe, your fingers numb, as if you were holding onto something that was already slipping away. The scent of him — soap, sweat, earth, and something that was just... him — lingered faintly in the air. It curled around the room like the ghost of the man who had once been everything to you. And even though he was there, so close, you could feel the distance between you, stretching farther with each second that passed.
You finally pulled yourself away from the doorframe, the pressure in your fingers dissipating slowly. The sound of the water running—loud, steady—told you he was in the shower.
Without thinking much, you made your way up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. The stillness felt a bit too much, like the air was holding its breath, waiting for something that hadn’t been said.
You entered the bedroom, the familiar scent of the sheets and the faint smell of his cologne still lingering in the room. For a moment, you just stood there, your eyes tracing the space like you were seeing it for the first time.
You sank onto the edge of the bed, the coolness of the sheets surprisingly comforting. It felt strange, being in here alone once again, but the exhaustion was too much to ignore. The bed was warm, the kind of warmth that felt right, even though things between you two didn’t feel that way anymore.
You stretched out, letting your body sink deeper into the comfort of the mattress. Without meaning to, your eyes fluttered closed, the soft hum of the water below lulling you into a quiet space of your own. Thoughts drifted, but the pull of sleep was stronger.
And before you even realized it, the exhaustion had taken over. The tension from earlier faded, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the distant sound of water running.
You were asleep before you could even stop yourself.
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You didn’t wake all at once. It came in pieces, slow and disjointed — a vague sense of wrongness settling in before your body even caught up. The kind of stirring that made your brows draw together before your eyes opened, as if some part of you already knew something wasn’t right. Like your body remembered a warning your mind hadn’t yet caught onto. It wasn’t the dark or the silence that did it. It was just... a feeling. A weight in your chest. An ache you couldn’t place.
And then — sharp. Sudden. At the base of your neck.
It wasn’t just pain. It was dragging, hot and deep, like someone had sunk something beneath your skin and left it there to fester. You drew in a breath too fast through your nose, air catching in your throat as your hand moved, half-conscious, to the source of it. Fingers brushed skin that was warmer than it should’ve been, too sensitive, and damp.
Not with sweat.
Not with tears.
When you pulled your hand back, you saw it even before your eyes had fully adjusted.
Blood.
Smearing across the pads of your fingers in thin streaks, tacky and fresh. Your breath stuttered. It didn’t make sense. Not at first. Your mind fumbled, still heavy from sleep — still hoping for something reasonable. A nosebleed, maybe. A bad dream. Anything that didn’t explain why your neck felt like it was pulsing beneath your skin, hot and raw.
But the moment your fingertips found the punctures — two, clean, unmistakable — that shaky hope snapped.
You sat up, not fast, not slow — just enough to know your body didn’t want to cooperate. Your spine felt weak, your shoulders heavy, like you’d been drugged or drowned or left to unravel. The fog in your mind hadn’t cleared, not fully, but it parted just enough to register the absence beside you.
The bed was empty.
And not just empty — cold.
His side of the mattress had no trace of warmth. No indentation, no shifting blanket, no smell of him lingering on the pillow like it usually did. Just stillness. And space.
Your stomach dropped in that quiet, breathless way that only came when something inside you recognized danger before your brain could name it. Because this wasn’t new, was it? That bone-deep panic, that flash of he’s gone—you’d lived it before. And still, even now, the idea of him vanishing again hollowed out your lungs.
You sat up straighter, hand still pressed to your neck, your pulse knocking unevenly under your palm.
“Remmick?”
Your voice cracked when you said his name. Not loudly — barely above a whisper — but it still felt like it shattered something. Like it didn’t belong in the room the way it used to.
Silence.
Not the safe kind.
The kind that pressed back.
You waited. One second. Then two. Then ten.
Still nothing. No answer. No creak of footsteps. No familiar drawl or shift of weight or even the soft drag of breath beside you.
And that was when fear bloomed. Quiet and wide, like ink dropped in water.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, trying to steady your hands, your thoughts, your pulse. The ache in your neck burned again, and you bit down hard to stop from crying out — half from the pain, half from the mounting realization that you didn’t know what had happened.
You were just about to rise when a sound broke through the thick stillness — soft, so subtle you almost missed it.
A creak. Wood shifting under weight. You turned sharply. 
And your breath caught. Remmick was sitting by the window. Still. Half in shadow, half painted in pale moonlight, just enough for you to see him clearly — or at least enough to see what mattered. 
He wasn’t looking out the window. He was looking at you. He was watching you.
Not startled. Not guilty. Just still — like he had been for hours, like he hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d left your side. The chair beneath him creaked softly as he shifted his weight, but even that felt deliberate. Intentional. The kind of quiet that didn’t happen by accident.
One arm rested across the side of the chair, the other draped loosely over his lap — casual, composed, but there was a tension in him now, something unreadable coiled beneath his skin.
And then you saw it.
The blood.
It caught the light as he turned just slightly, glinting red against the pale of his jaw. It smeared along the corner of his mouth, wet and stark and so out of place. He hadn’t wiped it away. Hadn’t tried to hide it. It was yours.
A breath snagged in your throat, sharp and quick. Your pulse skipped — or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was something else now. Something slower. Something changed.
Your hand flew back to your neck — faster this time, not careful, not hesitant — and this time, you felt the truth in full.
Two points.
Sharp. Precise. Still tender.
Still fresh.
Your fingers pressed against the small wounds, and even that tiny pressure made the ache flare again, deeper now, pulling at something beneath the surface of your skin. It was like touching a place that wasn’t fully yours anymore.
Your blood. On his mouth.
Your breath caught, and your eyes locked on him again.
He hadn’t moved.
Just sat there. Watching.
His eyes were different now. You didn’t know how you hadn’t noticed it before — maybe the dark had masked it, or maybe your mind hadn’t wanted to see it. But they were colder. Calmer. Less human.
You opened your mouth — maybe to speak, maybe to scream — but no sound came.
That’s when he said it.
Soft. Measured. Like he already knew.
“Hey baby.”
Two words, quiet as dust settling, but they shattered something in you anyway.
Because you had woken up in panic — empty bed, aching body, blood on your fingertips — and for a moment, you thought he’d done it and left. Like before. Vanished again into the dark like he always had. But he hadn’t.
He’d stayed.
And maybe that was worse.
Your voice came back slowly, a rasp barely held together. “What did you do?”
He didn’t answer. Not right away. His eyes never left yours, and he didn’t look sorry. Didn’t look afraid. Just… resolute. Like whatever line he’d crossed tonight had been waiting in the sand for a long time.
Finally, he spoke — and this time, his voice held something else. Something heavy.
“I couldn’t lose you to what I am now.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — too full — of everything he wasn’t saying. What he’d done. What it meant. What you were now.
Your gaze snapped to him — sharp, panicked, disbelieving — and the horror that had been simmering beneath your skin finally cracked wide open across your face. Your chest heaved, breath catching in uneven stutters as your hands began to tremble, fingertips smeared with your own blood, still wet against your throat.
And he just sat there.
Watching.
Still.
It wasn’t the ache in your neck that made your voice break — it was the realization settling like ice in your bones. The finality of it.
Your fingers shook as you held them up — bloodstained, trembling, helpless.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” you choked out, your voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Remmick, what—what did you do?”
It wasn’t just fear in your voice. It was grief. Rage. Betrayal.
Your throat closed up around the last word, and your vision swam. You could feel your pulse thundering in your ears, but not in the way it used to — not in the way that made you feel alive. It was distant now. Hollow. Like something inside you had been scooped out and replaced with something colder. Hungrier.
He still didn’t move. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, posture calm — almost reverent. The only thing that betrayed him was the faint tension in his jaw. Like even he didn’t quite know how to explain what he’d done.
“I had to,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
You flinched.
“No,” you breathed, shaking your head so hard it made your vision blur. “No, you—you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to—fuck, Remmick—”
Your voice broke again, and this time you didn’t try to stop it. The tears came without permission, hot and sudden, streaking down your face as you stared at him like he was someone you didn’t recognize.
Like he wasn’t him anymore.
Or maybe this had always been him.
“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
Still, he didn’t rise. Just watched you — a war in his eyes, but no regret on his face.
Only inevitability.
You noticed it the second you moved — the way his eyes locked on to you, tracking every small tremble in your limbs as you rose from the bed on shaky legs. There was no concern in his expression, no guilt. Just a quiet, intent focus that wrapped around you like a snare. He didn’t flinch at the sight of your blood, or at the way your breath caught in your throat, or even at the disbelief etched so plainly across your face.
If anything… he looked calm. Unshaken. Like this had always been the plan.
His gaze followed the stutter of your steps, the way your hand still hovered near your neck as if trying to protect it from him — from what he had already done. A glint flickered in his eyes then. Not regret. Not sorrow.
Possession.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was low — steady in a way that made your blood run colder than anything else.
“You really think I’d let you live out the rest of your days like that?” he asked, his tone almost casual, like he was surprised by the very idea. “Still human? Still breakable?” He scoffed faintly, shaking his head, and took a slow step forward. “Like hell I would.”
He paused, watching you. Letting it sink in. Then his voice dropped further, rougher, the edge of something else — something darker — slipping beneath every word.
“You think I’d walk away forever, leave you behind while I disappeared into something you’d never understand?” His lip curled, not quite a smile — too sharp, too cold. “You think I’d let you grow old without me? Let you forget me?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and the silence stretched, thick and humming with something terrible.
“No, darlin’,” he said, his voice soft now — too soft. “No. That was never gonna happen.”
He took another step, and this time you could feel the air shift around him, like the whole room was holding its breath. “I made sure of that,” he continued, and the words dripped like oil from his lips. “I had to. The second they turned me — the second I felt what it really meant to hunger, to need—”
He let the sentence hang there, unfinished, heavy.
“That was when I knew,” he said, quieter now. “I couldn’t leave without you. Wouldn’t. Not when every part of me still belonged to you, even after death. Especially after.”
Your knees nearly buckled at the intensity in his voice — not shouted, not frantic. Just certain. Like he was telling you gravity existed. Like he was telling you the sky was blue.
He stepped closer still, until the distance between you was no more than a breath. He looked down at you, eyes dark, but lit with something that made your skin crawl — reverence, obsession, devotion twisted into something monstrous.
“I took the choice from you,” he said. “Because I knew you’d fight it. Knew you’d beg me not to. And I couldn’t let that happen. Not when the thought of you out there without me — without this — felt worse than hell itself.”
His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach out but knew it would break you completely if he did.
“You’re mine now, always have been,” he breathed. “In blood. In life. In death. There’s no going back.”
He leaned in, so close you could feel the chill of him, and whispered like it was a promise stitched straight into your soul.
“You ain’t ever leavin’ me, sweetheart. Not in this life. Not in the next. We end where we began.”
You staggered backwards, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought against the rising wave of nausea threatening to overtake you. The blood on your hands, the feel of it still fresh and wet, clung to you like a confession — one you couldn't escape. You couldn’t focus on anything else, not the cold air seeping in around the edges of the room, not the way his gaze followed you like a predator sizing up its prey.
“You made a choice for me, is that it?” The words ripped from you like a scream, raw and jagged, a desperate plea for control you knew you no longer had. Your voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it, yet you still pushed forward, each step farther from him. As if distance could undo the horror of the night. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for any of it!”
You could hear your breath coming in ragged gasps now, your body trembling as if every nerve was alight, your fingers pressing into your sides like you could somehow squeeze the truth out of your skin. “I ain’t wanna live forever,” you spat, the words dripping with a mixture of fear and rage that burned like acid in your throat. “You sick fuck... you thought you could just make that decision for me? Just change everything about who I am, who I was—for what?!”
His silence, that cold, relentless stillness, only made the anger surge deeper. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — just watched, those eyes of his dark with something far too hungry for comfort. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to run, to get out of this — to get away from him before whatever he’d done to you fully took hold. But there was nowhere to go. Not anymore.
“Why?” you cried, your voice breaking, shaking as the tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You couldn’t stop them. You didn’t even try. “Why did you come back?! You should have just stayed wherever the hell you came from!” The words felt like they were choking you as they left your lips. They were too sharp, too brutal, but they were all you had left. “Why drag me into this? Why do this to me? You don’t even care what I want, do you?!”
The sobs caught in your chest, short and ragged, but the fury burned hotter with each passing moment. You swiped at your eyes, trying to clear away the tears, but it felt pointless. He had taken something you couldn’t ever get back, something far more important than just your body. He had taken your choice. He had stolen everything from you. And the worst part? He didn’t even see it as wrong.
Your heart was hammering in your chest, the ache in your neck now a distant throb compared to the tidal wave of betrayal that had you on your knees — metaphorically, physically, you didn’t know anymore. Your body was moving without your permission, words spilling out that you couldn’t take back.
“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?!” you screamed, your hands shaking so violently, you couldn’t hold them still. Your mind felt like it was spiraling, everything you thought you knew about him — everything you thought you knew about you — coming apart in pieces too small to gather back together.
But he just stood there. His face unreadable. His eyes locked on you, like he was savoring every word, every tear that fell. A strange, twisted satisfaction in the way you collapsed before him — not physically, but in every other way.
The silence stretched long, too long. It felt suffocating, like the air had turned dense, thick with the weight of what had just happened, what was happening, and what could still come. Your mind scrambled for some sort of answer, something that would make this make sense, but all you could see was him — Remmick, standing there, the man who had just destroyed everything you thought you knew about yourself.
He didn’t speak at first. He just stared at you, those dark eyes taking in every sob, every shake of your body, as if he were trying to commit it all to memory. A predator, studying its prey.
Then, finally, his voice came. Low. Dark. Almost as if he were enjoying the chaos he had stirred.
“You think you’re the only one in pain here, darling?” His words slid over you like cold venom. “You think you’re the only one who has had their choice ripped away?”
You froze. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, each movement carrying with it an almost cruel calmness. His eyes never left yours, his gaze narrowing just slightly, something dark and possessive creeping across his features.
“You think I wanted this?” he asked, his voice like gravel scraping against metal. “I didn’t want this any more than you did. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?” He took another step, closing the distance between you, and you could feel your legs trembling beneath you, as if your body was betraying you, unwilling to stand firm in the face of the terror he had brought.
“I didn’t come back for me, you know,” he continued, his voice taking on that same low, obsessive tone. “I came back for you. You’re mine, and now you’re going to understand that. I made you like me because I had to. You think I’d let you go on pretending you were something other than what you are now? What we are? We belong to each other, whether you like it or not.”
Each word hit like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. Your stomach twisted, nausea threatening to spill over again, but this time it wasn’t from the blood on your hands. It was from the venom in his voice, the surety in the way he spoke, like this was his world now — and you were nothing but a piece of it.
“You really think you could just walk away from me?” he muttered, taking another step closer, and this time, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken threat. “You think you can just run? You’re not leaving me. Not now, not ever.” He paused, and his eyes darkened. "I gave you this gift, and you'll learn to appreciate it, whether you want to or not."
The fear, the panic that had been simmering beneath the surface, broke free like a dam shattering. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.
Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. You turned, stumbling towards the door, your breath coming in short, frantic gasps. Get out. Get away.
But you didn’t make it far. Not nearly far enough.
Before you could even reach the door, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair with brutal force. The pain was immediate and sharp, the pressure of his grip causing a cry to break from your throat. You tried to struggle, to yank yourself free, but his hold was like iron.
“No,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous, as he yanked you backward. “You’re not running from me. Not now. Not ever.”
Your body collided with the bed, and before you could recover, he was on you — heavy, suffocating, with an air of finality you could feel deep in your bones. His grip on your hair didn’t loosen, dragging you further onto the bed, pinning you down as if you were nothing more than a doll in his hands.
“Let go of me!” You shoved at his chest, weakly, your hands trembling with desperation. Your words came out in a broken, panicked rasp, your voice barely recognizable. “I said, let me go!”
But he didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned down, his breath warm and ragged against your ear as his fingers tightened their grip on your hair, forcing your head back. The pressure was suffocating, like the very essence of you was being crushed under the weight of his presence. You tried to twist beneath him, your limbs flailing weakly in an attempt to push him off, but it felt useless. Your movements were sluggish, your body still reeling from everything he had done to you. Every nerve screamed for escape, but your strength was slipping away, leaving you feeling more fragile than ever.
“You’re wasting your energy, darling,” his voice was low, almost amused as he pressed closer to you. “You can fight all you want. You can scream. But it won’t change a thing. You’re mine now, and there’s no running from that.”
“Why?” you gasped, the word coming out more like a plea than a question. “Why are you doing this? Why me?”
His eyes gleamed, dark with something dangerous — possessive, obsessive. “Because you belong to me. Everything about you, everything that makes you, you, it was always meant to be mine. Do you understand?” His lips curled into a wicked smile as he hovered just above you, his eyes never leaving yours, studying every flicker of emotion that passed across your face. “You can hate me for it all you want, but this is what you were always meant to be. Don’t you see? You can’t escape fate.”
Tears blurred your vision as your breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. Every inch of you wanted to scream, to claw at him, to push him off, but it felt like the fight was draining out of you with each passing second. You continued to struggle beneath him, your hands pushing against his chest, weak and trembling.
“No!” You spat, your voice raw with anguish and fury. “I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for any of this!”
The sobs came again, racking through your chest in desperate, painful waves. “You took my life from me! You took everything from me!”
His expression twisted, his eyes flashing with something dangerous, something darker than anything you’d seen before. His fingers tightened in your hair, pulling your head back further, exposing your neck to him as he loomed over you.
“You don’t get it,” he whispered, his voice full of a dark, possessive thrill. “You think you’re losing everything, but you haven’t lost a thing. You’re with me, and that’s all that matters. That’s all you need to understand.”
You choked on your own breath as the weight of his words settled over you. His grip on your hair dragged you deeper into the bed, making it impossible to look away. But even through the pain, you felt a surge of rage rise up within you, stronger now than ever before. With every ounce of strength you had left, you pushed your hands against his chest again, shoving with every last bit of energy you could muster.
Remmick took an almost sadistic delight in pain now, something you hadn’t known about him before. Before he was turned, he had been nothing but soft — a gentle touch, a soothing voice, a warmth that never failed to comfort you. But now, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he reveled in your suffering, was something entirely new.
Your bed had never felt so unforgiving beneath you. The struggle was fierce, a brutal clash of wills that left your body aching and your heart racing with a mix of fear and fury. Each movement felt like it was costing you something, each strike against him a desperate plea for control that seemed to slip through your fingers with every passing second. In that moment, you were fighting for your life. Or at least, it felt like you were—because in a way, you had already lost it, the life you once knew, the one you thought you had, was gone.
Remmick’s head jerked to the side as your fist connected with his cheek, the force of it sending a brief flash of satisfaction through you. But you didn't stop there. You lashed out again, driven by the need to push him back, to feel some shred of power over the chaos. Your knuckles grazed the sharp edge of his jaw, the impact drawing blood—warm, dark, and unmistakably real.
But instead of retreating, instead of giving you the space you needed, it only made him more feral. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and the raw anger in his eyes burned hotter, deeper, like a fire stoked by every drop of blood you spilled. It was clear now that your resistance wasn’t making him back off—it was making him hunger for more. The blood, your blood, didn’t weaken him. It emboldened him, and that realization hit you harder than any of your blows.
His grip on you tightened, forcing your body back into the bed, his weight pressing down on you with a suffocating finality. Every movement felt heavy, as though every inch of ground you gained was immediately lost under the weight of his presence. And you fought, tried to shove him off, but he just absorbed it, his body not giving an inch, his eyes burning with a dark satisfaction. He wasn’t just enjoying this struggle; he was feeding off it.
The sharp sound of fabric ripping echoed through the room, the soft material of your nightgown shredding with terrifying ease under the force of his grip. Each tear seemed to magnify the tension in the air, adding to the sense of powerlessness that clawed at you. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine as the fabric came apart piece by piece. Goosebumps bloomed along your arms, the chill of the air contrasting sharply with the heat of your skin, still burning from the proximity.
It was as though time had slowed, the cold bite of the room amplifying your vulnerability. But no matter how much you tried to twist, to wriggle away, his hold was relentless—each move you made only made it worse. His strength, like something primal and undeniable, was something you couldn’t fight, no matter how hard you tried. The night seemed to grow colder, harsher, and all you could feel was the weight of his presence, closing in.
Remmick didn’t hesitate, his lips curling into something dark before he sank his teeth into your skin, the sharp bite sending a jolt of pain through you. A startled cry escaped your lips, the sudden intrusion taking your breath away. Desperately, you pushed at his head, your hands shaking as you fought to regain control, the pressure of his weight on you overwhelming.
When Remmick entered you so suddenly, a forbidden heat flared within you, a visceral response that your body registered as good even as your mind recoiled. Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the dark shape looming above, every instinct screaming for him to stop, yet a shameful throb pulsed between your legs, a betrayal of your will.
Each thrust was a brutal act, yet a perverse wave of sensation followed, a tightening and clenching that was undeniably potent but utterly unwanted in this moment of force. Your nails tore at the sheets, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself against the confusing storm of physical pleasure intertwined with the horror of the violation. 
Your body, against your conscious desire, began to heat and clench with a shameful insistence, a biological response at odds with your desperate wish for it to end, for him to be gone. You squeezed your eyes shut, a silent scream against the unwelcome sensations that bloomed within you even as you longed for release from his presence.
A raw, electric heat jolted through you, coiling low in your belly and sending involuntary tremors that rippled through your thighs. You bit down hard on your lip, the sharp sting a fragile anchor against the overwhelming tide of sensation threatening to drown your will.
Remmick's low laugh rumbled against your ear, a possessive sound that vibrated through your very bones. Your eyes flickered open, finding his gaze locked onto yours, a dark, consuming intensity that held you captive.
His skin glistened with a slick sheen of sweat, catching the dim light and mirroring the feverish dampness clinging to your own heated flesh. Strands of dark, tousled hair fell across his brow, shadowing his intent gaze as he watched you. A molten warmth spread through your core, a wildfire of unfamiliar sensations that licked at your resolve, threatening to obliterate your resistance. 
Your breath hitched, a ragged gasp escaping your lips as your gaze dropped to the visceral joining of your bodies, the point of intense friction and burgeoning pleasure. A primal hunger flared in his eyes, a raw possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. His tongue flicked out to wet his parted lips, a silent testament to the desire that gripped him.
"Mmm, look at you, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble laced with that slow Southern drawl. "Just tremblin' for me, ain't ya? Every little inch of you." His hips slammed against yours, a relentless, driving rhythm that stole the air from your lungs and sent dizzying pulses of sensation radiating through your body, each deep connection igniting a fresh wave of intense, spiraling pleasure that warred with your inner turmoil. The friction built, a searing heat that stole your focus, leaving only the insistent pressure and the confusingly exquisite ache.
The relentless thrusts continued, each slick slide a deep invasion that stretched you open, filling you with a heavy, insistent heat. Remmick’s breath hitched in your ear, his hands gripping your hips, guiding the forceful rhythm that echoed in the small space. Your own breaths came in short, uneven gasps, a shaky counterpoint to his deeper exertions.
You squeezed your eyes shut, a futile attempt to block the overwhelming sensations. Your body softened, yielding against your will to the insistent pressure and the unfamiliar ache that bloomed low in your belly. It was a deep, throbbing heat, undeniably physical and increasingly difficult to ignore.
“Easy, darlin’,” Remmick rasped, his voice thick with desire. “Just feel it… let it build.”
His words were a rough whisper against your skin, and his movements shifted, angling his hips to press deeper, catching a sensitive point that sent a sharp, unexpected thrill through you. A small whimper escaped your lips, your back arching slightly against the pleasure.
A wave of pure sensation crashed over you, a blinding, intense release that shuddered through your frame. Your grip on the sheets tightened, your body arching as the pleasure crested, a series of sharp, involuntary contractions seizing you. A ragged gasp escaped your lips, the sound raw and unrestrained as the intense waves of sensation pulsed through you, each one more potent than the last. Your vision swam, the edges blurring as the overwhelming pleasure consumed you. 
He began to move again, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, more urgent. The control he had been exerting shattered, replaced by a raw, driving need. His hips slammed against yours with increasing intensity, each impact a desperate plea for his own release. The sweat slicking his skin made the sounds of your bodies moving together even more pronounced, a wet, frantic rhythm that echoed the escalating tension in the room.
His hands, which had been cradling your face, now gripped your hips with a fierce possessiveness, lifting you slightly with each powerful thrust, driving him deeper and deeper. His head fell forward, his teeth gritted, a low growl rumbling in his chest with each movement.
“Goddamn— sugar, you feel too good…better than the other hundreds of times I've taken you.”
He was chasing the edge, driven by the tight, slick heat of your body around him, the lingering echoes of your own release fueling his urgency. His breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, each exhale a ragged sound of pure physical need.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath coming in shuddering gasps as he emptied himself into you, the powerful pulses of his release echoing the recent intensity of yours. He remained there for a long moment, his body  against yours, his grip on your hips slowly easing as the aftershocks subsided. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the faint, wet sounds of your joined bodies.
He stayed pressed against you, his body molded to yours like he couldn't stand the idea of even an inch of distance. His breathing had slowed, but the tension in his arms hadn’t left. One hand remained splayed over your stomach, the other draped heavy over your hip — possessive, unmoving.
Silence filled the room, thick and weighted. Only the faint rustle of the sheets and your uneven breaths disturbed it. Your body ached, spent in a way that ran deeper than physical.
Remmick shifted slightly, his nose brushing your neck, lips parted just enough for you to feel the ghost of his voice as he spoke.
“I could’ve kept going,” he said, voice quiet, but far from gentle. There was hunger beneath it — not lust, not anymore. Something deeper. Something endless. “You know that, don’t you? I could’ve taken you again. And again. You wouldn’t have stopped me.”
He didn’t say it to be cruel. He said it like a promise.
But then he sighed, not out of regret — there was no room for that here — but as if reining himself in. “You’re tired,” he murmured, his hand tracing absently across your stomach, as if to remind himself you were still there, still his. “So rest… for now.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your eyes were open, unfocused on the far wall, heart still racing slow and uneven under your ribs.
And beside you, he lay silent, content — not with the moment, but with the fact that there would be many more.
Because now, he had you.
And he wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever. Not even when centuries passed and the world turned to dust around you.
You were his — bound by blood, by the curse he’d carved into your skin, by the hunger he’d forced into your veins. There was no going back now. No undoing what he’d done. You belonged to him, in life, in death, and everything in between — and he would make damn sure you never forgot it.
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bathlineindia · 2 years ago
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spookyserenades · 9 months ago
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Sanctity - Chapter One
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Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader
Genre/Themes; Vampire!AU, yandere!AU, horror, themes of the supernatural and mythology, historical topics, vampiric powers, religious themes, violence, romance
Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, toxic behavior including stalking, torture, and manipulation, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Word Count; 22.8k
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Hello my loves! For those who do not know me from Trouvaille, this is Dana! I am very pleased and excited to share this brand-new series with you. It has been a longtime desire of mine to write a story with vampires. Sanctity was born from a love of history and a past with yandere stories. I sincerely hope you enjoy this first chapter and the love that was poured into it!
WARNING! There are instances of gore, including cutting. Suicidal language is used, so please be warned if this is triggering to you.
Next Chapter
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The bell struck six in the crumbling belltower, two young men in white robes pulling on the rope to swing the massive metal fixture to and fro. The haunting sound sent a murder of crows scattering across the steadily darkening sky when they were startled from their perches on the Sanctuary’s roof. Y/N peered out of the arched window curiously, halting her task of wiping down the glass with an old, weathered rag, distant yearning filling her as she watched the black birds fly away to the greater unknown. 
“Y/N, it’s time to wash up for dinner,” Meredith, a fellow ‘acolyte’ and friend, reminded her, setting aside the wooden broom she was using to sweep the hallway they were working in. 
Suppressing an agitated grunt, Y/N simply nodded, rising from her knees and adjusting the cream linen skirt she was wearing, the hem of it dirtied from skimming the old stone floors all day. Following the blonde girl, the wispy curls on her nape appeared silver in the darkened, wintery hallways, Y/N wondered when the Sanctuary would allow them to light the sconces in the frigid building so the acolytes wouldn’t be numb and stiff by the end of the unforgiving November evenings. Not that the wardens actually cared one way or another if the acolytes were cold, as long as they were alive, blood still running through their veins, resources wouldn’t be wasted on a few paltry fires. 
“You know, electricity exists. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re forced to live like fucking peasants during the Black Plague?” Y/N seethed, Meredith’s posture growing stiff as she nervously looked around. Not a soul was in the hallway with them, so Y/N rolled her eyes at the blonde’s haughty reaction. “Relax, Mere. No one’s around.”
“You shouldn’t swear, Y/N. They’ll punish you,” Meredith whispered, her angelic blue eyes wide with concern. Y/N scoffed, her aching fingers curling into fists as they continued their way to the dining hall. 
“Working all day for nothing is punishment enough. What’s the prize? Becoming a walking transfusion one day?” Y/N, despite her agitation, lowered her voice when Meredith began to look truly frightened. “I’m sorry, Mere. There aren’t any vampires here, you know that, right?”
“Of course I do. They never come on Sanctuary grounds. I wish to continue being your friend, Y/N, but I do not wish to invite punishment onto myself,” Meredith swallowed, looking a touch guilty. “I’ll meet you at the table.”
Y/N sighed, watching the girl spirit away, a flurry of white skirts and matching billowy blouses. After so many years spent in the Sanctuary, Y/N realized she shouldn’t be as bitter as she was, but the winter months brought out the aching in her. 
“Talks like a fuckin’ walking pamphlet,” Y/N muttered, heading straight to the large basins lining the outskirts of the dining hall, cringing at the icy water that came from the taps as she scrubbed at her dirty fingernails.
At the very least, the dining hall was one of the warmest sections of the Sanctuary, thanks to the heat from the kitchens and the singular fire roaring in a brazier placed in the center of the room. The Sanctuary, free of 21st century comforts, was always crusted in ice in the winters and stiflingly hot in the summers. Sniffing the air, Y/N tried not to frown– food from the Sanctuary’s kitchens were never very tasty, even if she was often starving enough to eat a leather boot at the end of a day’s work. 
“What’s tonight’s mystery meat?” Y/N got in line, retrieving a tray for herself, and leaning up to whisper her joke into her other friend Joseph’s ear. Unlike Meredith, the dark haired man snorted, mirth flashing in his eyes. 
“Oh, the usuals. Beef organs or tuna. Paired with lentil slop, shitty kale salad, maybe a sweet potato if we’re lucky. Don’t forget the out-of-season orange and singular square of dark chocolate for dessert, too!” 
This time, Y/N did not hold back her light groan, startling a timid acolyte in front of her and Joseph, the girl dropping her hardened, ‘fortified’ bread roll onto the counter. Both her and Joseph bowing in apology slightly while they contained their snickering, Y/N shuddering when a slimy piece of beef liver was slapped onto her plate by a kitchen acolyte. 
“I can’t take these organs anymore. Why can’t we have a steak? Steak is rich in iron,” Y/N sat beside Joseph at one of the long tables, her ass smarting against the stone bench. Meredith, across from her, eyed her carefully, using her spoon to push mushy lentils around on her plate. 
“You’ve been eating organs for ten years now, squirt, aren’t you fond of them by now?” Joseph teased, prodding at the gory looking organs on his own plate with a fork. 
“For once, I just want a bowl of pasta. I mean, come on, vampires eat the best food in the world, and they don’t even need it to survive. Just pure hedonism,” Y/N continued, peeling the orange that came with her dinner considering everything else on the tray looked absolutely revolting. 
Every meal served to the acolytes in the Sanctuary was required to be chock-full of ingredients with an abundance of iron and Vitamin C, allegedly making their blood more nutritious and appetizing to vampires. So, in order for vampires to eat like kings, mere human acolytes ate like cavemen. 
“You’re especially salty this evening,” Joseph remarked, a flicker of surprise flashing over his face. Meredith had ironically grown quite pale, considering the supposed iron-rich meal she was eating should have had a glow rising to her cheeks. “Make sure none of the wardens walk by while you’re still on your soapbox.”
“You can hear their boots from a mile away, I’ll shut up well before they’re in earshot,” Y/N pinched her nose as she stuffed some lentils down her throat so she wouldn’t have to taste the foul mush. “I’ll stop now, don’t wanna upset you, Mere.”
“Thank you,” Meredith murmured quietly, her eyes softening. Y/N knew that Meredith understood where she was coming from, but complaining about their situations did nothing to get them out of it, in the end. “When we’re back in our dorm… it’ll be okay.”
Nodding, Y/N’s lower eyelid twitched at the thought of her bed– hard as a rock and no better than a bale of hay to sleep on, but kept her promise and changed the subject promptly. 
“What was your task today, Joey?” 
“Ugh. Joey,” Joseph shivered, nudging Y/N with his elbow. “The usual. Raking dead leaves and preparing the garden for the snow.”
“It’s going to be a cold winter,” Meredith remarked, her gaze turning to the stained-glass windows overlooking a frosty courtyard. 
“Maybe if we’re lucky, one of us will get out of here. Be able to stay in a warm building, with wool blankets, fires lit in every room…” Joseph twirled one of his dark curls around an index finger contemplatively, Y/N frowning at the unsaid. The only way that would happen would be if one of them got picked to become a human blood bank at the end of the week. Joseph read her mind. “Tomorrow is the Drawing.”
Drawing day happened monthly. Each acolyte in the Sanctuary was required to report to the infirmary wing and offer up a pint of their blood to be sent out around the area for vampires to “sample”, like some kind of wine tasting that could be delivered to one’s doorstep. Days after the Drawing, there would be a chance that word would be sent from a coven that they were interested in a sample, and the matching acolyte, in consequence, would be delivered to the coven to be a live-in blood donor. 
The Drawing happened for a reason. While vampires held the most power across the globe, it was agreed decades ago, after many conferences held by vampires and human world leaders, that solitary vampires must go through a Sanctuary in order to receive a human to feed on. It was during that time when solitary vampires began to form covens to decrease demand for a human donor, and Sanctuaries were born. It was also that time where vampires roamed rampant, claiming any human on the street to drain dry. The death toll was climbing at an alarming rate, so a compromise was reached: vampires could not “hunt”, only go through a Sanctuary to select a donor, one they’d keep indefinitely.  
Y/N often weighed the pros and cons of being selected for The Drawing: at the Sanctuary, she could keep her blood but spend her days freezing, eating nasty food, and scrubbing the filthy building. If she was taken in by a coven, sure, she’d have luxuries– good food, riches, warm clothes. But she’d be at the mercy of vampires, notoriously vicious and unforgiving creatures. That, and she’d be fed on constantly by the sadistic beings, likely for the rest of her life. 
“That’s why we got extra organs today. Figures,” Y/N shrugged, once again pinching her nose to choke down a sliver of meat. “I’m beat. Gonna head back before the final bell. You can finish my portion, Joey.”
Joseph grimaced at the nickname, but eagerly reached for her tray anyways, Meredith watching Y/N slip from the hall. Delicately dabbing her mouth with a frayed cloth napkin, Meredith sighed. 
“She’s always like this the night before the Drawing,” Meredith’s voice was sympathetic, resigned. “She never got used to it, even after all these years.”
“Can you blame her? She was living under the radar, forging her blood type results most of her life before she was caught. I’d be jaded too,” Joseph pointed out around a mouthful of soggy kale. “You’ve been here your whole life, Mere. Y/N and I knew what it was like before living here. Having freedom.”
“I know that, Joseph,” Meredith, to her credit, had the decency to look chastised. “I never said I do not understand. I suppose since the Sanctuary is all I know, I do not yearn for freedom in quite the same way.”
Joseph collected his and Y/N’s trays, smiling at Meredith wistfully. He often thought that life would be simpler if he began to think like her, but it was difficult to let go of freedoms after they’d been tasted before. He remembered the days where he could wander in untamed forests, on the outskirts of town, where he could pick wild fruit and bask in the summer sun. Joseph recalled Y/N telling him about her life of drifting, hiding– the excitement, the footloose feeling of it all. Smiling at his other friend still, he stood from the stone bench. 
“The freest we’ll be is if we’re chosen after a Drawing. And even then, we’re birds in cages.”
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Even though she had pulled two pairs of wool socks on her feet before passing out in bed, Y/N’s toes were icicles when the obnoxious morning bell clanged through the hollow halls. Starting to regret not eating much dinner, Y/N’s stomach was turning uncomfortably as she sat up in bed. The roiling in her gut was not just because she was hungry, but the familiar unease that festered there each morning of a Drawing day. As she watched Meredith, who happened to be her roommate, pull the threadbare curtains back on their barred window dutifully, Y/N sluggishly removed her nightgown and dressed herself in the dreaded white linens she was forced to wear on a daily basis.  
“Hopefully I won’t pass out today,” Y/N joked, knowing that Meredith was usually much more relaxed about complaining when they were in the privacy of their shoebox-sized room. 
“They’ll give you juice if you do. Just keep your eyes closed and focus on your breath,” Meredith gestured to the stool at the foot of her bed, encouraging Y/N to sit.
Humming, she did so, staring at the ceiling as her friend began to braid her hair. Meredith’s careful fingertips raking through her tresses calmed her down enough to stop the acid in her stomach from rising into her mouth. Meredith was singing quietly, a hymn, from the sound of it, and Y/N was thankful for the peaceful start of the day, no matter how cold and nauseous she was. 
“You won’t have to go to the infirmary until after lunch, right?” Y/N attempted to distract herself from the fact that she’d be the very first to get her blood drawn. 
“Mm-hmm. B+ is scheduled for after the midday meal,” Meredith stopped singing, using a scrap of old cream fabric to tie off the braid hanging down Y/N’s back. “So I’ll see you in the dining hall, then I’ll meet you back in the west hallway to finish cleaning anything we didn't yesterday.”
“Thanks, Mere,” Y/N reached back, passing her hand over the braid her friend weaved, wishing that there was at least a mirror somewhere. Y/N hadn’t seen her reflection in years, except for blurry images in the surface of the Sanctuary’s garden fountain; the wardens rejected vanity amongst acolytes. “I’m gonna get it over with, head straight for the infirmary.”
“Are you positive that’s wise without breakfast? You hardly touched dinner, too,” Meredith’s pale eyebrows shot into her hairline, worry etched between them. 
“I’m worried if I eat, the spinach smoothie will make another appearance as soon as they get the needle in my arm,” Y/N pictured the tasteless breakfast she normally had coming up for a round two and shuddered. “It’ll be okay. Just like every time, right? I’ve been here for years. The local vampires don’t seem to like my blood very much, or at least the ones that this Sanctuary sends it to.”
“Good luck, Y/N. See you at lunch,” Meredith didn’t comment on Y/N’s attempt to brighten up– she knew the stakes were as high as Y/N did. 
God must have felt particularly cruel the day he decided to bestow Y/N with one of the world’s rarest blood types: the coveted AB-, a sought-after type for many vampires. Apparently, all of the blood types had different tastes, but Y/N hardly believed that. Blood was blood; tinny, salty, and a nauseating reminder of fragile mortality. There was a reason she had hidden from the world for many years, drifting from place to place. Those with AB- blood were hardly at Sanctuaries for long before a coven would promptly request them as their live-in donor. Y/N was basically living on borrowed time– she often wondered if her bitterness leached into her bloodstream and spoiled the ‘product’. 
Dragging her palm along the stone walls of the Sanctuary’s hallway, Y/N barely registered the crowd of acolytes passing by on their ways to the dining hall in the opposite direction from where she was going. Y/N was the only acolyte in that particular Sanctuary to have AB- blood, so naturally, she was by herself every Drawing day first thing in the morning, and the top priority of the wardens. Swallowing thickly, the scent of rubbing alcohol had her gagging as it filled her nostrils when she neared closer to the infirmary. 
 Of course, the infirmary wing was cold as ice both temperature wise and atmospherically. In contrast to the Gothic interior of the rest of the Sanctuary, the infirmary was somewhat modern (or was once, in the 80’s), sterile, and covered in pastel vinyl flooring. Her Mary Janes squeaked against the tiles, nervously wringing her hands together as she stared at the plastic dentist’s chair in the corner of the room, the clump of wardens setting up the apparatus to collect blood. Clearing her throat, Y/N pressed her lips together in a line as one of the wardens turned to her– Mrs. Sloane, a severe 60-year-old woman who ran the Sanctuary like the military. Y/N had an acute dislike for the woman, who saw her and the acolytes as nothing more but cattle to raise. 
“AB-, come here. Everything is ready,” her voice was dry, sharp, like a whip cracking down. It had her flinching, but she obediently trudged towards the crinkled old chair, mostly out of fear of having to kneel in the chapel for several hours in punishment if she didn’t follow orders exactly.
Knees wobbling, she lowered herself onto the chair while Mrs. Sloane eyed her like she was a slab of wagyu beef she was preparing to sell to the highest bidder. Biting her lip, she swiftly shut her eyes, heeding Meredith’s earlier advice. Perhaps she could prolong her anxiety attack if she kept her eyes shut the entire time, flinching in the seat when someone was not-so-gently rolling up the sleeve on her left arm past her elbow and swiping an alcohol wipe over her sensitive skin. 
“We’ll be taking more than usual today,” Mrs. Sloane announced, and Y/N’s plans of staying blind were foiled when her eyes snapped open in shock. 
“W-what? But taking more than a pint is dangerous, is it not?” Y/N’s voice came out panicked and thin, Mrs. Sloane scowling at her nastily. 
“Silence. It is not your place to question,” Mrs. Sloane scolded, Y/N’s breathing becoming fast and shallow. “A new coven has arrived in the area. They have requested a large sample of AB-.”
Dread flooded through every cell of her body, horrified that she was about to be drained dry, two pint bags on the steel table beside her. Barely having time at all to process that there was a coven of vampires that were new to the area, and that there was a great chance that they’d select her as a donor, Y/N yelped when one of the wardens pinned her wrist down and another slid the hollow needle in her arm. Seeing stars dance in her field of vision, Y/N whimpered at the sting of the needle, feeling sick when she felt the warmth of her blood flowing into the tube connected to the pint bag resting on her arm. She absolutely loathed the feeling of her blood leaving her body, like her very life force was being sucked out, and before she could actively close her eyes, they shut involuntarily when they began to water. 
“Calm down, AB-,” Mrs. Sloane sounded like she was spitting through her teeth, Y/N unable to feel her limbs. “You should be grateful. You’ll have the rest of the day off to recuperate.”
Y/N hardly heard the woman. Ears ringing, she was drifting away, a cold, sticky sweat coating her forehead. While she was struggling to form a coherent thought, one of the wardens must have switched out the full bag for the empty one, and by then, Y/N lost consciousness. 
Several moments later, Y/N not knowing exactly how much time had passed, someone was snapping in her face, jamming a straw in her mouth. Nearly choking on the orange juice that was being squeezed down her parched throat, her eyes opened blearily and all she could see was blinding white light from the fluorescence above her. 
“You may sit here for no more than five additional minutes. Then return to your dorm until the dinner bell,” Mrs. Sloane’s arms were crossed, annoyed that Y/N was holding up the line of acolytes outside waiting their turns. 
Though she was pretty much completely drained of energy, Y/N’s mind was moving a thousand miles per hour. With a new coven in the area, there was a very real possibility they’d be interested in her blood, considering the rarity of the blood type. She gleaned no additional information from Mrs. Sloane– typical– but how many vampires would be in that coven, if God forbid they chose her? Three, four? Four was typically the largest a coven would get, and the thought of four of them latching onto her at once had her leaning over in the chair and emptying the contents of her stomach into the bucket on the floor. 
It didn’t matter that she’d be free of the Sanctuary. Though she’d live lavishly, she’d have constant open wounds and would be psychologically tortured by the creatures. Suddenly, meals made purely of beef liver and beds constructed out of pallets seemed much better than cake and down feather mattresses. 
“Your time is up. Go back to your dorm. The midday meal will be delivered to you,” Mrs. Sloane barked, hauling Y/N up by her wrist. Feet faltering, Y/N swayed and scrabbled for the drywall, blindly feeling her way to the main hallway again. 
Dazed, her arm throbbed where the needle had been inserted, and the only positive that came from that morning’s events was the fact that she’d get to lay in bed all day instead of scrubbing floors. Y/N wasn’t sure how she managed to find her way back to her dorm room, but before she knew it, she was wrapping two blankets around herself and curling up in bed. 
She was woken up by Meredith hours later, the blonde bringing her a tuna sandwich on a undoubtedly stale roll. Choking it down like a wolf, she tried not to cry when Meredith gingerly wrapped a cloth around her arm, which was cruelly left to clot on its own by the wardens. 
“It’s going to be me this time,” Y/N announced dully, eyes on the overcast sky outside her barred windows. “I can feel it.”
“There is no way to know–”
“A new coven has moved to this town,” Y/N cut her friend off, Meredith’s hands stilling. Withdrawing her touch from Y/N’s arm, Meredith appeared tentatively unsure. 
“To Newport?” Meredith’s light eyebrows pulled together, disbelieving. Newport wasn’t exactly a magnet for vampires, most of the ones that resided in the area weren’t in covens at all, just solitary vampires. A new coven spelled danger for Y/N. “I heard that a vampire built one of the famous mansions by the ocean. Do you think one of the vampires could be him?”
“Well, if he is, then I guess I’d get to live like a princess. You know, the one that got locked in a tower with a dragon and shit.”
Y/N had a bad feeling. Not that she was one to have premonitions, but trusting that feeling in her gut is what helped her to survive years before she was brought to the Sanctuary. Meredith stroked the back of her head in an attempt to comfort her, but Y/N knew she was just as nervous as she was. Because the coven requested so much of her blood specifically, and was the only person in the immediate area with AB- blood, if the vampires liked her blood her fate was officially sealed. Swallowing bile, she shook her head, not wanting to put the cart before the horse yet. 
“I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I’ve been around for a while, none of the local vampires have been interested. Maybe my blood tastes like dirt, and I’ll be here until I’m elderly.”
“It’s okay to worry, Y/N. However,” Meredith sat on the side of Y/N’s bed, the old wood frame creaking with her weight. “There are many others here with rare blood types. Perhaps they will prefer AB positive.”
“Perhaps,” Y/N agreed, beginning to sit up. “Shall we go to the hall and finish the windows?”
“I have to go to the infirmary wing, it’s my turn. You should rest, Y/N,” Meredith helped her stand, Y/N furiously shaking her head. 
“If I stay here until dinner, my thoughts will continue to spiral,” Y/N shoved her feet into her well-worn shoes, slinging her braided hair over her shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me lunch. I’ll get started on the windows and wait for you.”
Y/N headed out first, leaving Meredith to prepare herself for her drawing. The blonde often liked to pray before the process, Y/N not knowing whether she was praying to be chosen, or praying to be skipped over. She didn’t have the stomach to ask. 
By herself in the west hallway, she picked up the rag she abandoned the previous evening with a rough sigh. The sky opened up and ice-cold rain began to pelt the windows, crows eerily taking shelter in the eaves of the bell tower. Y/N felt like their beady eyes were on her, able to see through the glass and spot her wiping the window. Shuddering, she couldn’t tear her sight from the birds, the superstitious side of her insisting that they were some kind of omen. 
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Two days later, Y/N was trudging through the hollow halls after dinner, which she again excused herself from early. There had been no news about the results of the Drawing, but it didn’t stop her stomach from turning over in anxiety all day long. Hands coming up to rub her biceps, she glanced at the full moon outside of the large arched windows, slightly obscured by thin, dark clouds. 
Kicking a stray stone as she turned the corner to the wing with the dorms, she paused a few feet from her and Meredith’s door with a frown. Light spilled out from the open dorm, more light than would have been possible coming from the small candles she and Meredith were allowed for nighttime reading. Besides, Meredith was still in the dining hall, so the door shouldn’t have been open. Fear sunk into her bones, making a sticky heat flash over her skin with dread. Mustering her remaining courage, she crept towards her room like a mouse. 
Torches were lit up in the usually empty sconces, three wardens, including Mrs. Sloane, rifling through Y/N’s small dresser and nightstand. There was a large, old-fashioned suitcase box on her bed. Horrified and confused, Y/N accidentally bumped into the creaky door and snagged Mrs. Sloane’s attention. 
“Congratulations, AB-,” Mrs. Sloane was sickly sweet, and it didn’t suit her whatsoever. “The coven has chosen you. Help pack your belongings, you leave tonight.”
“What?” Y/N’s world was spinning, vision getting spotty. “Leave? T-tonight?”
“Yes, girl. Are you hard of hearing? Pack your belongings, we are to bring you to the coven in less than an hour,” Mrs. Sloane went back to her snarky self, Y/N holding onto the door in a desperate attempt to stay upright. 
Mrs. Sloane reached for the pocket of her apron, where she kept a metal ruler so she could strike those who disobeyed her, Y/N stumbled into the room and shakily tossed her white skirts into the suitcase to avoid being struck. Hardly able to form a single coherent thought, Y/N moved woodenly, so shocked that tears didn’t even roll down her cheeks. 
“You are lucky. The coven that requested you consists of some of the wealthiest vampires in the world. You will want for nothing,” Mrs. Sloane tossed the final garment Y/N owned into the suitcase, another warden closing it up and bringing it out to the hall. Y/N had to hold her tongue, considering she was about to shout but I’m going to live with monsters. “All seven of them have wealth, in fact. They are rumored to have great powers, as well.”
“S-seven? Did y-you just say seven?” Y/N gasped, flinching when Alfred, the burliest warden in the Sanctuary, grabbed her arm and began to pull her out of the room. She had never heard of a coven so large, and it made every cell in her body light up with sharp panic. 
“Yes, seven. Make haste,” Mrs. Sloane and Alfred hauled her through the Sanctuary, confused acolytes coming from the dining hall making space for them to pass. Y/N recognized the look on some of their faces, relief that they hadn’t been chosen. 
“But, my friends! Please, let me say goodbye,” Y/N begged, tears finally starting to form when she spotted Joseph in the crowd, his eyes wide and mouth dropped open. Somewhere, Meredith was probably thinking about the book they were going to read together that night. 
“There’s no time. You’ll get to write letters,” Mrs. Sloane refused, a whimper coming from Y/N’s throat as tears began to pour down her cheeks, getting one last look at Joseph who was mouthing something to her. Miserably, she couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say, Alfred yanking her to the tall front doors, frigid air blasting her in the face as they opened. 
In the courtyard, a place Y/N had only been once or twice when she was first brought to the Sanctuary, there was a horse-drawn carriage. Y/N, had she not been in the greatest shock of her life, would have laughed– wouldn’t it have been easier for her to be taken in a car? Hardly having the time to look back at the Sanctuary she called home the past ten years, her knees knocked together when she was pushed into the carriage with her luggage. Unfortunately, she wasn’t allowed privacy to cry when in the carriage, Alfred clambering in after her with a grunt. 
Y/N didn’t talk to Alfred, mostly because he rarely spoke. At least he let her silently weep for a few moments, Y/N beginning to process the gravity of the situation. With watery eyes, she looked outside the carriage window, the gothic Sanctuary becoming distant as the horses trotted on. Her dread was temporarily numbed by the opportunity to see beyond the Sanctuary, land she had not seen in years. The trees lining the paved streets were barren, gray, and the hard-packed dirt had not a blade of grass. Even then, Y/N hadn’t seen such beauty in so long– a small taste of freedom before she was locked away for life again. 
Her tears continued to flow even when she greedily took in the sights of the town of Newport, the homes of the wealthy humans who did not have to give up their freedom for vampires, shops that had closed for the day, parked cars on the sides of the streets. It was odd to see the vehicles, considering she had been living in an analog manner for so long, Y/N wondered if she’d ever know what the inside of one looked like. 
“H-how long will it take?” Y/N asked timidly, not confident Alfred would respond, but she tried anyway. The middle-aged man looked up from his Bible, giving Y/N an unfeeling look. 
“We are no more than ten minutes away, now. Wipe your sorry face,” Alfred responded coldly, Y/N’s heart racing when she dabbed at her cheeks obediently. “You will not shame our Sanctuary by showing the coven how miserable you are.”
Y/N had never heard Alfred speak so many words. She was starting to think that was for the best, his words like a slap across her face. Part of her pondered if she’d ever hear a kind word again. Lapsing back into silence, Y/N sniffled up the remainder of her tears, the shock beginning to wear off and her survival skills kicking in. If she wanted to remain sane, and not give the vampires an inch before they took a mile, she had to appear unafraid and unaffected. Strong, confident, and indifferent, but pure, so if not to anger them. Vampires and their purity– ironic.
The houses– if one could even call the structures that– became grander and grander the further they traveled. The massive buildings made the ginormous cathedral the Sanctuary called home look like a garden shack. Y/N had a hunch, as they turned down a road that had imposing iron gates lining yards that looked like parks, that the coven she was to belong to resided in one of the famous Newport mansions. Passing by a white marble monstrosity, Y/N shuddered. The homes looked empty, cold, and imposing. Grand, yes, but the kind of display of wealth that had someone like Y/N, who lived her entire life struggling, clenching her fist in fury. 
“Won’t be long now. Straighten yourself out. The staff is to greet you,” Alfred slapped his Bible shut, grasping for the handle of Y/N’s suitcase.
Breathing shallowly, Y/N’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head when the carriage brought them to the largest iron gate on the street, initials TK welded between filigree at the top of the barrier. As if by magic, the gates began to creak open, Y/N stunned by her first glimpse of actual electricity illuminating the gatehouse. Of course, she had seen it prior to her life at the Sanctuary, but it was odd to see the night lit up after living by candlelight. Gnawing at her nails, thinking that she could be shocked no further, an audible gasp tore from her when the carriage pulled through the driveway of great trees, an imposing mansion coming into view. 
Y/N had never imagined such a building could ever be constructed. It would take a person hours to walk the entire floor plan, the grounds aside. Y/N was struck by a memory from earlier that week, when Meredith brought up the mansions by the ocean. One of the members of the coven must have been the man that built it, and the only other thing Y/N knew was that the mansion was settled on a steep cliff jutting into the sea. One she could potentially careen herself off of, if need be. 
Her elbow was tightly grabbed again when the carriage stopped before the covered front entrance, bright lights nearly blinding her as Alfred shoved her out of the carriage, Y/N freezing instantly when she felt a foreign touch on her forearm to steady her. Eyes adjusting, she frantically looked up, not ready to deal with a vampire right off the bat. To her great relief, a blue-eyed– not red-eyed man, one dressed in a fine suit, righted her with a tight smile. A human, presumably a member of the mansion’s staff. 
“I–I– I’m sorry,” Y/N managed, cursing Alfred colorfully in her mind. So much for confidence. 
“Quite alright, acolyte…” the man prompted in a British accent, the first whisper of kindness Y/N had in over an hour. 
“Oh. Forgive me. Acolyte Y/N,” she replied quickly, accessing the back of her brain where cobwebs and her etiquette surrounding that event resided. 
“Sir, you may leave. Acolyte Y/N will begin her duties under our watch now,” the man in the suit removed his touch from Y/N’s forearm, not a single strand of silver hair on the man’s head out of place. 
“Contact us if there are issues,” Alfred hardly got out of the carriage, his scarred face twisting into a smirk. Y/N wanted to spit on him. 
“Of course,” the man replied, tight smile still on his lips, standing importantly beside Y/N until the carriage was well on its way back to the gate. “He’s a cup of tea, isn’t he?”
Y/N blinked, not knowing whether or not to agree, if it was her place. Turning to the man, whose posture had loosened up and a more genuinely friendly expression taking over his features, Y/N nodded slowly. 
“Forgive me. I’m Edmund, head butler here at The Breakers. Pleased to meet you, Miss Y/N,” Edmund extended a gloved hand to Y/N, who hesitantly shook it. Was he trying to get her guard down by feigning gentlemanly behavior? “I take care of important matters inside of the estate. If you have any needs, you can seek me out. Of course, you’ll have personal maids, as well. Come, let’s get you out of the cold.”
Reeling, Y/N watched Edmund effortlessly scoop up her luggage, timidly following him to the door that was opened by an older man, also dressed in a sharp suit. With a house that size, Y/N realized that the staff must have been numerous to keep everything functioning smoothly. It was somewhat of a comfort that the staff she encountered so far seemed to be humans, likely ones with low status and common blood types. 
Not even the imposing exterior of the building could have prepared Y/N for what the mansion looked like inside. In just the entrance alone, exquisite stone work, massive tiled floors, and tall ornate lamps illuminated by real light bulbs had stars circling around her head. Now that she was inside, she started to feel nervous again, waiting for a vampire to pop out from behind a thick stone column. In awe and in fear of her surroundings, she jolted when a young woman appeared from the left, carrying a tray. 
“This is Nadia, she’ll be your head maid. I’ll take your luggage to your room, and Nadia will show you around the first floor before you retire. She’ll answer any questions you have.”
Edmund bowed to Y/N, which had her blanching in embarrassment. The butler disappearing further into the estate, Y/N turned to Nadia when the young woman cleared her throat lightly. 
“Miss, I’ve brought you some cocoa. Hopefully it will warm you,” Nadia presented her with a large porcelain mug on the silver tray, a thick, sweet smell hitting her nostrils and making her nearly tear up. The only chocolate she could have at the Sanctuary was a square of bitter 100% cacao on Wednesdays and Sundays, not something decadent and rich like the cocoa she was being offered. 
“I can have this?” Y/N squeaked, not daring to take the mug lest it was some kind of trick. Nadia cocked her head, confused by the question. 
“Of course, Miss. Unless you don’t like chocolate, I can prepare you some tea instead,” Nadia began to lower the tray, Y/N waving her hands urgently to stop her. 
“N-no, no, you don’t have to do that! Thank you, I’ll take it,” Y/N wrapped her hands around the ceramic mug, the warmth soothing her frozen fingers. “Um, you can call me Y/N if you want, please.”
Y/N was already weirded out, and people addressing her by formal titles was definitely a camel back-breaking straw. Nadia set her tray aside, watching Y/N take a shaky sip of the cocoa. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, and she couldn’t even find it in herself to be embarrassed when she drained the whole mug in five seconds flat. The drink was thick, rich, and warmed her from the inside out. She both wanted to cry and beg for a second mug. 
“You must be freezing, shall we head into the hall? It’s much warmer there,” Nadia gestured forward, Y/N glancing at what appeared to be a giant ballroom in front of her. Gulping, she nodded, following the woman timidly. So far, not a single mention of the vampires that allegedly lived in the mansion. “If you’d like, I can draw you a hot bath when we get to your bedroom. I’ve filled your dresser with warm clothes for you to sleep in, too, I’ll put them on your bed… This is the Great Hall. I imagine the coven will hold parties here from time to time.”
Y/N didn’t know where to look. Between the sheer size of the space, the ornate artwork painted on the ceiling, and the endless colors swirling around the room, her vision finally landed on the enormous fireplace roaring at one end of the hall. It was then when she noticed it was the first time since mid-October she wasn’t chilly. Prior to that evening, Y/N had a lot of assumptions about vampires. One of the assumptions was that they would prefer to live in a cold and dark environment, but the mansion she was standing in was toasty and brightly lit. 
“It’s… big,” Y/N managed weakly, Nadia leading her to a red-carpeted staircase. All she could do was follow, wanting to ask the maid a few questions about the coven, but she knew that vampires had superior hearing and she didn’t want to attract the attention of one of them. 
“Yes, but you will become accustomed to it. I can help you navigate the interior and grounds until you know your own way around. Oh, right here. This is a portrait of Master Taehyung. He built this estate,” Nadia paused on the landing, where the staircase split into two directions. 
Whipping her head upwards, she soaked in the lines of the old painted canvas, Nadia’s first mention of the vampires making her heart stop dead in her chest. The man depicted in the painting was beautiful, which was typical for the creatures, but Taehyung nearly took her breath away. Dressed in a Victorian-style suit, the vampire had a cold, stern expression. His dark wavy hair was parted down the middle neatly, and of course, the vampiric red irises staring back at her made her stomach turn in fear. Schooling her features, Y/N bit her lip at Nadia’s expectant expression. 
“He’s, um. Handsome,” Y/N offered, hoping that her voice wasn’t wavering, Nadia nodded, resuming her ascent up the stairs. 
“Master Taehyung made his fortune in steamships, railroads, and shipping in the mid-1800’s. He’s a legendary businessman,” Nadia informed her, Y/N cringing that she referred to the creature as a ‘man’. Nadia herself didn’t seem to have a problem with the vampire, and in fact, her voice almost implied that she admired Taehyung. “All seven of our masters are impressive men.”
“Wait, they’re all male?” Y/N stopped in her tracks, feeling the blood drain from her face. She was hoping for a coven of mostly female vampires, theorizing that perhaps they’d be less vicious. 
“Yes, I’m sure you know that it’s atypical for a coven to be both so large and of all one gender. The masters are like-minded, which is why they chose to form the coven,” Nadia explained, stopping at a door at the end of the hall, beside a breezeway that likely looked out onto the ocean. “Here we are, this is where you’ll stay. The rest of the bedrooms on this floor are occupied by five of the masters, Masters Seokjin and Namjoon prefer the bedrooms on the third floor due to privacy of the quarters.”
Y/N swallowed, stepping into her new bedroom, which was bigger than four dorm rooms at the Sanctuary smashed together. The walls were covered in an intricate pink floral wallpaper, all of the upholstered furniture a matching shade of blushing rose, and the marble fireplace was lit already. The room was decidedly feminine, Y/N’s eyes catching on a painting above a nightstand depicting dancing women. Nadia, as she was bumbling around the room selecting clothes from a dresser, noticed Y/N staring at it. It was expertly painted, precise. 
“That is one of Master Yoongi’s pieces, depicting the Nine Muses of Greek mythology,” Nadia placed flannel pajamas on Y/N’s new bed, which looked plush and was piled high with thick pillows. “Master Yoongi is a painter, an artist. Very famous.”
“Really?” Y/N knew nothing about art, let alone Greek mythology. She didn’t have the luxury of studying those things. 
“The hour is growing late, Miss. I can tell you more about the masters in the morning. They will not be back from the affairs that called them away tonight until midday tomorrow,” Nadia pulled out a pocket watch from her apron, heading towards a door by the back of the bedroom. “I’ll run your bath, and leave you to rest. You’ll be woken in the morning for breakfast.”
Moments later, Y/N was left alone in her very own bathroom, not a communal one like she was used to at the Sanctuary with cold water taps. The bathtub had steaming water filling the room with humidity, the scent of lavender oil somewhat easing her frayed nerves. Chewing her lip, she decided she might as well indulge in the hot bath, considering her muscles were beyond stiff and there was no way she’d be able to fall asleep right away, if at all. 
Part of her wondered what kind of ‘affairs’ that the vampires were involved with. If it were her, and she had accumulated all of that wealth and immortality, she’d spend her days lazing around. The other part of her was thanking the sky that none of them were in the building; she had more time to prepare herself to meet the creatures the following day. Stiffly, she began to untie her skirt, letting the fabric hit the floor. Y/N supposed never having to wear those skirts again was a bit of a silver lining. Kicking it to the side, Y/N’s vision caught on something silvery and polished– an actual mirror. Eagerly, she dashed to the sink it was fixed over to catch a glimpse of herself for the very first time in ages. 
Unable to help the gasp that came from her mouth, Y/N didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her. The image of herself she had in her mind was her fifteen year old self, not the twenty-five year-old reflected in the polished silver. In awe, she traced her sharpened jaw and cheekbone, lacking teenage fullness, and she realized that she had forgotten the color of her eyes. Tearing up a little, she turned from side to side, getting a look at her figure– even going as far as removing the rest of her clothing in curiosity. Poking at areas of her body she was unfamiliar with in the mirror, like the curve to her hips, Y/N felt rather odd. The whole evening had her entire world turning upside-down. 
After several moments, she tore her attention from the mirror, only feeling slightly guilty of vanity, and tentatively dipped a toe into the bath. The water didn’t immediately dissolve her skin and bones, so she slowly sunk her body into the porcelain basin with a ragged groan. Maybe she had died and went somewhere beautiful, because being treated like royalty so far was not something she predicted. In the back of her mind, she reminded herself not to get too comfortable. She hadn’t even met the coven yet, and for all she knew, they could be horrible individuals. Nadia didn’t speak of them in that way– but maybe the maid wouldn’t dare. 
Y/N sat in the bath until the water became lukewarm and her skin was pruny. Limbs loose, she wrapped herself in a plush towel that was waiting for her on a rack that actually heated the towel. While the ends of her hair dripped water on the tiled floor, she bent down, looking through a chest beside the sink with interest. Each drawer held essential and non-essential toiletries, some things Y/N had never even heard of. Picking up a bottle of ‘skin oil’ and ‘hair detangler’, she blinked in confusion. Was it Nadia who stocked the drawers for her? Or were the vampires considerate enough to provide her with a toothbrush and facial cleanser?
Head full of cotton, she decided to ignore all of the products she was unfamiliar with and simply brushed her teeth and combed her hair. Peeking out of the bathroom door to make sure that no one had entered the room while she was bathing, Y/N tip-toed across the richly carpeted floor towards the ridiculously large bed. The fire was still going, warming the room, and Y/N hesitantly slid into a pair of flannel pajama pants left out for her. The elasticated waistband hugged her hips perfectly, and as she buttoned up the top and pulled on fluffy socks, she speculated about how Nadia managed to figure out her measurements. The Sanctuary probably had some sort of file on all of her personal information, which had her skin crawling. 
While she was still on edge, her body was so relaxed from the bath that with slight resignation, she maneuvered herself under the sheets and heavy blankets, clasping a hand over her mouth as she sunk comically into the mattress. The bed hugged her in all directions, like getting to sleep on a cloud, and as she stared at the ceiling in awe, Y/N squirmed around to get in a cozy position curled up tight on her side protectively. 
The lights would remain on, that was for sure. Y/N was never afraid of the dark per se, but in a new environment, she wasn’t risking things watching her from the shadows of the old estate. While memorizing the shapes of the intricate carvings on the ceiling, Y/N tried to make a mental list of everything she knew about vampires in general, and the specifics of the ones she was about to serve. 
Over the centuries, there were several old wives tales that were circulated by humans surrounding vampires; but Y/N hardly knew which ones were fact or fiction. There were the superstitions passed down through common blood-typed, lower class humans that would work as maids and butlers to the vampires, the awe-inspiring, intimidating tidbits wealthy and influential humans would spread after doing business with the creatures. Then, of course, was the probable propaganda Y/N and her fellow acolytes were spoon-fed in Sanctuaries. 
Y/N started with what she knew was just plain phony: vampires did not have an aversion to the sun and could walk around in daylight as they pleased. They did not flee from crosses or garlic, and they could not be exterminated by a stake through the heart. Acolytes were told that vampires could not be killed, and had few, if any, weaknesses. That was enough to have Y/N shivering, even beneath all of her blankets and flannel pajamas. 
The older the vampire, the less in-touch with humanity they became. There was a recalled memory, a boring lecture in the Sanctuary’s dusty chapel, which consisted of a hazy memory of Y/N copying down ‘Oldest known vampire is aged 1,291 years, but some may be even older’. Y/N couldn’t even fathom living to be in her forties, let alone how it must be to live for over a century. On the other hand, ‘younger’ vampires– under three hundred years old– tended to be bolder, and adapted to modern times with greater ease. 
Vampires needed human blood to sustain their powers, immortality, and to keep their internal organs functioning properly. While considered to be undead, a vampire’s heart kept beating, lungs brought in oxygen, and they could even digest human food if the creatures had consistent access to blood. Squeezing her eyes shut tight at the image of a vampire tearing into a rare steak, Y/N started to count off the things she found out from Nadia about the particular coven that requested her from the Sanctuary. 
First, there was only a brief visual she had of one out of the seven, ‘Master’ Taehyung. Y/N prayed she wouldn’t have to use a title on any of them, but it was likely out of her hands. Sure, the portrait depicted a handsome young man, with all the airs of importance and wealth– but Y/N couldn’t get his unearthly red irises out of her mind. Taehyung was the vampire that commissioned the construction of the mansion she was currently cowering in, apparently a business tycoon that dominated during the Gilded Age. The next piece of information she got was ‘Seokjin’ and ‘Namjoon’ living on a separate floor for additional privacy, which made her nervous for some reason. Which was more dangerous, vampires in the bedroom next door to her, or those hidden in spots she hadn’t even toured yet?
The last thing she learned about one of the vampires– Yoongi– from Nadia is that he was evidently a famous artist. Cracking one sore eye open, she stared at the elaborately framed artwork above her nightstand again, noticing the fading of the paint and how it aged the piece. How old was the painting, and how old was Yoongi? Shutting her eyes once more, she sunk deeper into the mattress and pulled her blankets over her head. Nadia promised she’d answer any additional questions Y/N had over breakfast, so Y/N miraculously fell asleep by coming up with a handful of queries. 
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“Miss, hello? The sun has risen,” Y/N sat up in her bed with a sharp gasp, her hair hanging in her face like a nest. Whipping her head around frantically, she couldn’t believe she actually managed to get some sleep in a brand-new setting so easily. Knocking on the door, as well as a mousy, unfamiliar voice had her stumbling to her feet frantically. “May I come in, Miss?”
“Um, uh, yes, come in,” Y/N panicked, smoothing her wrinkled flannel shirt into place and hastily raking hair from her face. The door creaked open, a young woman who wasn’t Nadia hurrying in– her uniform pristinely pressed. 
“Good morning, Miss Y/N. I’m Juliana, I work under Nadia. I’ll be helping you with your morning routine, while Nadia handles more important matters– coordinating breakfast, of course,” Juliana gave Y/N a slight bow, Y/N’s mouth dropping open at the gesture.
Before she could respond, Juliana began to draw the great curtains around the room open, the blinding white light of the early winter morning flooding into the room and stinging her eyes. When her vision returned to her, she gasped again at the sight just beyond the windows. Unable to help herself, she tripped towards one of the windows, grappling for the sill so she could steady herself. 
Her room overlooked the backyard– if one could even call it that– and beyond the manicured grass and gardens was the vast, unending ocean once the landscaping dropped off of the famous cliff. It was like her eyes couldn’t absorb enough of the scenery, and impatiently, she pressed her forehead to the glass plane to gawk at the icy, gray ocean. 
“In this drawer, here, we’ve placed warm pants for you– leggings, jeans, corduroys. If you prefer skirts and wool tights, those are hanging in your closet, and your tops and sweaters are in this armoire, here. Underthings are located in the lingerie chest beside you,” Juliana opened up various drawers, light on her feet and peppy, her curly brown hair bouncing with her movements.
“Lin… lingerie?” Y/N tasted the unfamiliar word on her tongue, attention effectively stolen from the gorgeous view beyond her windows. 
“Forgive me. It’s another word for your undergarments, such as brassiers?” Juliana clarified, raising her brows and crossing the room. Y/N had not a single clue what she was talking about, following her like a duckling. 
“Oh! I’ve never…” Y/N suddenly felt immensely awkward, peering into the drawer that held garments she hadn’t worn while at the Sanctuary– the thick, burlap material of the Sanctuary tops were all she got, not delicate lacy scraps of fabric that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of cradling her chest. “Um, okay. I can… wear whatever I want?”
“Yes, yes, as long as you’re comfortable, Miss,” Juliana took Y/N’s confusion in stride, moving towards the fireplace. Taking up a fire poker, the maid prodded at the glowing embers in the hearth. “I hope you were warm enough while you slept. The fire tends to go out in the middle of the night.”
“Y-yes, I was fine. Plenty of blankets,” Y/N chuckled nervously, not used to being so diligently cared for. Would it always be like that? “Um… have they returned?” 
“They? You mean the masters?” Juliana paused, replacing the fire poker back on the rack. “They’ll be back before noon.”
“Okay,” Y/N was proud of herself for keeping a tremble out of her voice, Juliana gesturing towards a vanity by one of the windows. 
“I can comb your hair, Miss, then leave you to get changed,” Juliana herded Y/N to the cushy stool, Y/N once again blinking at her unfamiliar expression. Contrary to the circumstances, her expression told the story of someone who got plenty of rest the night before. “I’ll wait by the stairs to show you to the breakfast room.”
That time, Y/N didn’t reply. She was too distracted by the feeling of the young maid gliding a fine comb through her hair gently– and with a sharp twist in her chest, she was reminded of the last time someone did her hair– Meredith, on the day of the Drawing. Holding her breath, she waited patiently for Juliana to comb through every snag on her head, surprised when she finally pulled away without braiding Y/N’s hair. Usually, Sanctuaries insisted that acolytes keep their hair braided if female, and cropped short if male. Juliana, however, left Y/N with her hair flowing free. 
“Alright, Miss, take your time getting dressed. I’ll wait for you by the staircase,” Juliana smiled sweetly at her through the mirror, setting the comb back onto the vanity before she took her leave. 
Y/N had a newfound feeling of determination when she absorbed her reflection, suddenly. She was going to get as much detail about the characters of the vampires from members of the staff as she could before the seven of them returned to the mansion. Swiftly, she pawed through various drawers for clothes, stomping to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Tugging on fleece-lined leggings, she cursed at herself in the mirror when it took her several minutes to figure out how to hook a brassier around her bust. The top she selected was a large slouchy sweater, one that hid her figure and hung loosely around her thighs. It made her feel a bit more protected, not having so much skin exposed. There weren’t any shoes in her closet, so she awkwardly stuffed her feet into her Mary Janes from the Sanctuary. 
With a huff, she headed to the hallway, the mansion looking completely different during the day. Early winter sunlight flooded into the building, making the colors of the interior appear vibrant and excessive. Able to retrace her steps from the previous evening, Y/N didn’t have any trouble meeting Juliana at the top of the grand staircase. 
“Right this way, Miss,” Juliana started down the stairs, Y/N glancing at the portrait of Taehyung on the wall. She hadn’t noticed before, but while he certainly seemed cold, there was a sort of melancholy look on his face. 
“Juliana, did um… Master Yoongi paint that portrait?” Y/N launched into her interrogations, the maid cocking her head to look at the painting Y/N was referring to. Y/N had to fight the urge not to cringe when using the ‘master’ title. 
“Hmm. I never thought about that! Master Yoongi is mostly known for his work from the Renaissance. Now that you bring it up, however, the attention to detail does look quite a lot like Master Yoongi’s handiwork,” Juliana continued down the stairs, Y/N grasping onto the banister for stability. If Yoongi’s famous artwork was from the Renaissance period, he’d have to be over 500 years old. “Do you like to read, Miss? The library is full of rare books. Master Hoseok has collected them from around the world for hundreds of years. Nadia can show you the way after your breakfast.”
“Oh–”
“Good morning, Miss Y/N, I hope you had a restful sleep,” Edmund was at the bottom of the staircase, interrupting Y/N’s response to Juliana. “Juliana, you’re needed in the laundry.”
“Yes, sir,” Juliana straightened up importantly, bowing at Y/N again. “Have a nice breakfast, Miss.”
Edmund stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching Juliana hurry away out of earshot. The polite smile sort of slipped from his face, attention turning back to Y/N shifting from foot to foot by the staircase. 
“Y/N, after your meal, I’d like to speak with you in the pantry. Have Nadia show you the way,” Edmund said quietly, gesturing to the left. Tightness in her chest increased when he said that, following him through the hall. 
There was what appeared to be a grotto under the staircase, water trickling from a fountain and a couple of seats facing the structure. Briefly, Y/N thought that that would be a wonderful spot to read. Led to a sage-green room, Y/N blushed furiously when Edmund pulled out a chair for her at the round table in the center of the room. There was only one fine porcelain plate set in front of her, along with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. 
“I’ll tell them to send out the food. Please enjoy,” Edmund announced, filling one of Y/N’s glasses with water from a metal pitcher. The butler was gone before she could ask him any questions, but moments later, at least ten staff members were filing into the room. 
Y/N’s eyes immediately bugged out of her head. A vat of creamy scrambled eggs, a platter of toast and pastries with jam and butter, plates of crispy bacon and breakfast potatoes, cinnamon-scented oatmeal, even a board with cheeses and bowls of every kind of fruit one could ever wish to try. Staff arranging everything meticulously, she could only blink as someone poured her a mug of coffee with cream and sugar left on the side, as well as a large glass of orange juice. 
“W-wait, this is… this is all for me?” Y/N hadn’t seen food like that well, ever. Everything looked gourmet and prepped with love and care. She wouldn’t be able to eat everything, but she was going to try her hardest. 
“Yes, Miss. The staff eats before the sun rises,” a young man answered her, setting down a plate stacked with waffles and a gravy boat of syrup. “Meals will be quite large like this until we figure out what your favorite foods are. I hope that’s alright.”
“O-of course,” Y/N felt herself flushing again, swallowing down a mouthful of saliva that was flooding her palate dangerously. “Thank y-you.”
“Enjoy. Call if you would like anything else.”
With that, the staff left her alone in the room, and Y/N didn’t know where to start. She compared the silence of the room to the loud chatter that she would listen to in the Sanctuary’s dining hall. Slowly, she sniffed the steaming coffee in front of her– she had never tasted it. Taking a small sip, she cringed at the bitterness, understanding at once why the bowl of sugar and fresh cream was left beside the mug. Not wanting to waste anything, she stirred cream and sugar into the mug until the drink tasted decent. With eager, shaky hands, Y/N stood with her plate and began to pile food onto it. 
Y/N worked herself around the table. Ignoring the feeling of gluttony, she tried every single thing that was left out for her, her plate stacked so high she snorted at herself when she sat back down. To her embarrassment, she moaned in pleasure when she swallowed her spoonful of eggs– buttery and topped with chives. Urgently, she nibbled on a strip of bacon, the meat hanging out of her mouth as she tore a croissant into pieces. Everything she put into her mouth was the most delicious thing in the world, and she felt like a ravenous bear trying to bulk up for the winter. 
She stopped eating only when her stomach felt it was going to burst, pushing a bowl of peaches and cream away with a grunt. Y/N did try everything, but it looked like she hadn’t even made a dent in the feast. Wiping her face with a fine cloth napkin, she clumsily got to her feet like a milk-drunk baby. Instantly, several staff members swept into the room when she stood to clear the table, Nadia’s familiar face appearing. 
“How was your breakfast, Miss?” 
“I’ve never had such delicious food,” Y/N admitted, absently trailing after her head maid through a door connected to the breakfast room, probably leading her to the pantry. “The chefs here must be very skilled.”
“Master Seokjin insists that we hire the finest chefs in the world. Though he is a vampire, he has culinary interests,” Nadia replied, Y/N finding it hard to walk with how stuffed she was. “Edmund told me you two were going to speak. He’s likely going to give you a formal tour and tell you a few things about the manor, day-to-day routines…”
Y/N turned that over in her mind. The look on Edmund’s face earlier had a sort of graveness to it, which she didn’t think matched up to explaining house rules. Y/N decided to keep her mouth shut, hoping at the very least she’d have her questions answered. Suddenly, they were in a room filled with dark wood shelves holding china and crystal stemware, and when Y/N looked up, there was a loft that held even more shelves and dishes. Edmund was by a table in the center of the room, taking notes. 
“Thank you Nadia. I know you had some errands to run, so I’ll show Miss Y/N around until the masters return,” Edmund looked up from his notepad, Nadia nodding once before turning on her heel to leave the room. 
“Alright, one moment, Miss Y/N…” Edmund said in a chipper tone, moving around the room to shut the doors quickly, which had Y/N suddenly growing nervous– was he trying to soundproof the room, keep the conversation quiet?
“Oh, dear. You do not have to be frightened of me,” Edmund put his hands up when Y/N began to cower in the corner of the room. “I want to offer you information before the vampires return.”
“R-really?” Y/N released the breath she was holding, timidly getting closer to the table Edmund had returned to. He had a grandfatherly look about him, kind and warm. It was not lost on Y/N that he didn’t refer to the vampires as masters.
“It was lucky that they were called away yesterday. I fear you wouldn’t have been prepared had they been here. Now, listen; this is very important. Most of the staff treats the coven like gods. I am the only one in this estate who you can talk about the coven negatively.”
Not a good start, Y/N thought, shivering. 
“Negatively, sir?”
“Child. Looks can be deceiving. I know you that in the hours you’ve been here already you have been treated gently. The coven will not follow suit. They are cruel, heartless creatures. You must do everything in your power to not upset any of them,” Edmund enunciated clearly, Y/N’s heart dropping in her chest. “The powers they possess are extremely dangerous. They do not have emotions like you or I.”
“The way Nadia talked about them… painted a different picture,” Y/N uttered desperately, Edmund looking out the window wistfully. 
“I’ve been with the coven for decades, while they lived in Europe. Nadia has only been around for five years, and she does not deal with the coven as I do. She has not seen what they’re capable of.”
“Are you telling me this because you feel bad for me?” Y/N suddenly became defensive despite her terror, hating when she was pitied in any circumstance. 
“No, child. I want to help you. I want to warn you, before they come back and they size you up,” Edmund shook his head, looking down at the notes he was taking earlier. “You are dealing with four vampires that are very old and disconnected to humanity. The younger three are wild and reckless. It's important to remember this.”
“How old…”
“I’ll tell you a bit about each of them specifically in a moment. My largest piece of advice to you is never directly show the coven you’re afraid of them. Of course, they’ll be able to scent it on you, but do not give away your fear verbally, or you will be backed into a dark corner and toyed with.”
“Oh my god,” Y/N breathed, then dreading the coven’s return to the estate. 
“You asked how old they are. I’ll start with the eldest, who is the most respected vampire in the coven– he has seniority, you see, due to his age and his status. Seokjin is 879 years old, and when he was human, he was a crown prince of a Korean monarch,” Edmund began, using a handkerchief to dab his dewy hairline. “He may appear very calm and unaffected, but he absolutely despises humans. He hardly tolerates the staff, and we know not to bother him unless necessary. Under no circumstance should you lie to him, ever. I’ve seen him kill many staff members and even associates over being deceived. One more thing about Seokjin… the ‘power’ he has. Vampires call it ‘Compulsion’. He has the ability to make telepathic suggestions to others in order to control their thoughts, even wipe memories. He can convince a man to jump to his own death, or forget his happiest memories.”
Y/N didn’t know what to say. All of the questions that she had come up with before falling asleep completely fled from her mind, and all she could do was grip onto the wooden table with slick palms. Over 800 years old– Seokjin was ancient, otherworldly, and sounded like a monster. 
“On the other hand, the youngest in the coven, Jeongguk– just 124 years old. He has the gift of Telepathy, so you must learn to control your thoughts around him. If somehow, Seokjin is unable to find out you lied to him, Jeongguk can tear through your thoughts and report it back to him,” Edmund continued, tapping his notepad with his pen. “Quite a few in the coven have much experience with violence. Jeongguk, when he was human, was a bodyguard to Al Capone. When he was turned, he was not only a bodyguard, but he read the minds of enemy gangs to relay back to Capone. He’s strong and lacks empathy, so he kills without mercy.”
“How… will I be able to control my thoughts? He’ll know I’m terrified, he’ll…”
“I can teach you, when they’re away on business. It is difficult, but can be done. Child, let me finish telling you what I know before they’re due back.”
Y/N clammed up, growing more petrified by the second by each word that came out of the butler’s mouth. By the time he had run through the basic personalities of each of the vampires, Y/N had a cloth soaked in cold water pressed to her forehead. For lack of a better word, she was fucked. 
“I’m sorry to tell you all of this,” Edmund said quietly when he was finished, regret flashing over his face. “Just know, you have someone here who is on your side. I’ll do everything I can to protect you from their wrath, or at least train you to handle it. Fortunately, you’re needed by them– while they may be cruel to you, they need you alive in order to sustain themselves.”
“Spectacular,” Y/N wheezed, wishing she didn’t eat so much breakfast. She didn’t want it to make a second appearance. “To think I was going to press you for information. I don’t know if I was better off in the dark or not.”
“Certainly not. You know what to expect this afternoon, somewhat. Keep your guard up, and try to keep your fear in check, and the introduction can go smoothly,” Edmund insisted. “Perhaps… while you wait for their return, you can peruse the library, as Juliana suggested.”
Edmund began to open the doors again, and Y/N understood that meant their conversation was as good as over. 
“Edmund?”
“Yes, child?’
“Won’t they know that you warned me about them? Will you be punished?”
“Don’t worry about me, child. The coven knows how I feel about them, it’s earned me a teaspoon of respect. Besides, no other butler in the world wishes to work for them. Rumors of their behavior, you see,” Edmund placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, smiling faintly. “Come. I’ll give you a brief tour and then escort you to the library.” 
About fifteen minutes later, Y/N was left by herself in the dark, intricate library. Hardly giving the alleged ‘rare’ books collected by Hoseok a glance, she sank down into a chair by the fireplace, staring into the flames blindly. Curiosity killed the cat, and Y/N hardly knew what to do. Every single one of the vampires were murderous, unfeeling monsters with horrifying powers. Powers they’d likely be using on her any moment. 
Y/N didn’t know who she was afraid of the most. Seokjin sounded menacing, Jeongguk dangerous and immoral. The others, she didn’t even know where to start sorting out what she learned. There was Hoseok, Y/N’s eyes shifting to the weathered books on the shelves, who was once a pirate over four hundred years ago, and had the ability to ‘Track’ people by scent. Edmund told her that Hoseok could find anybody without fail and even predict their future moves. He was greedy, fond of drinking, and impulsive. 
She wondered if it was Namjoon she was most afraid of. His power was definitely the worst one: with eye contact and focus, he could inflict pain on others compared to being burned alive, a power called Pain Illusion. Apparently, he was once a Korean military general roughly four hundred years prior, and once turned, he became a sword-for-hire. Edmund told her that he enjoyed the kill, enjoyed watching others suffer, and was second to Seokjin as far as the hierarchy of the coven. Like the elder vampire, Namjoon had a disdain for humanity. Edmund told her to be especially careful around Namjoon, as he was a known sadist. 
Head in her hands, she groaned. Yeah, Namjoon definitely was the scariest. The other three were no daisies, either, but the thought of having to experience what Namjoon’s Pain Illusion felt like was enough to have her heart racing. 
Apparently Taehyung is the most deceiving of the bunch. He had all of the etiquette of a Gilded Age businessman, but Edmund relayed that he was absolutely ruthless when it came to his affairs and could Glamour his appearance. Jimin, a famed playwright of romantic tragedies the same years Jane Austen was active, was notoriously manipulative, hedonistic, and a feared Hypnotist. Finally, the artist, Yoongi– apparently studied under an artist named Leonardo da Vinci, and was secretly known for using his power of Paralysis on his models so he could paint them for hours without interruption. 
That tacky sort of nervous sweat began to roll down the notches of Y/N’s spine. None of the vampires sounded friendly at all. Y/N knew that it would be wishful thinking to expect all of them to be somewhat tame, but she had hoped for at least one that wouldn’t be insane or murderous. Hugging her knees to her chest, Y/N counted her breaths to calm down. Heeding Edmund’s initial advice would be wise; trying to keep her thoughts bland, maintaining aloof confidence. Not bursting into tears, or trying to hide behind Nadia’s skirts. 
Chin resting on her knees, Y/N closed her eyes. She wondered what Meredith and Joseph were up to. In the mornings after breakfast, typically they'd have study and silent prayer in the chapel. Y/N considered herself to be somewhat of an atheist, so usually she’d daydream while on her knees, eyes glazed over. Meredith would let Y/N lean her shoulder on hers, and Joseph would make sure she wouldn’t fall asleep and get punished. Sadness filled her at the thought of her memories. It was likely she’d never get to see Meredith or Joseph ever again. Too busy wallowing, Y/N jolted in her seat when Nadia appeared in front of her, repeating her name several times. 
“Miss, the masters have returned. We must greet them outside,” Nadia offered Y/N a thick winter jacket, Y/N audibly gulping. She’d run out of time. 
Heart thundering in her chest, Y/N shrugged into the maroon felt coat, shuffling after Nadia with resignation. It was like the a monarch was coming, countless members of staff hurriedly heading to the front entrance or flying up the stairs with various linens. Deciding to think of only her friends, Y/N replayed scenes of the two of her closest kin harvesting vegetables in the gardens during the summer months. Reading with Meredith by candlelight in dramatic voices. Horsing around with Joseph in the hallways when they were supposed to be dusting statues. 
Outside, the grounds were clearer to her in the daylight. In the spring, the landscaping was probably breathtaking. Quietly, she stood between Edmund– the head butler, and Nadia– the former giving nothing away regarding their private discussion surrounding the coven. Holding her breath, Y/N watched the large iron gates swing open, the purr of car engines filling the quiet street. 
Biting back a surprised noise, Y/N supposed she shouldn’t have been stunned to see a line of luxury cars pulling into the drive. The first in line was a sleek, vibrant-blue colored sports car, followed by a cushy looking black sedan, two black SUVs, and two more small sports cars– one in cherry red and the other canary yellow. 
No one said a word. Y/N counted the vehicles again– there were only six. Again, she was thinking about the excess of wealth. Would it kill them to share cars? Bouncing on the balls of her feet, the blue sports car’s doors opened first– upward, like a spaceship. In succession, the rest of the roaring engines cut off and Y/N stared blankly at the carport’s carved stone ceiling to put off matching names to faces. She hadn’t even considered how old they looked physically, were they middle aged– Christ forbid, were they teenagers? 
“Master Seokjin. I trust everything went well?” Edmund bowed deeply, Y/N urgently copying the movement when the butler glanced at her from the corner of his eye. 
“Who’s this little girl?” Seokjin ignored Edmund’s question, Y/N’s eyes on the highly polished loafers that were just in front of her. 
Y/N finally straightened up to take a look at the vampire in front of her, and all of the oxygen was sucked out of her lungs when the most beautiful face she had ever seen was studying her right back. He appeared to physically be in his early thirties, but the faraway look in his eyes gave away his true ancient age.
Tall, broad, and dressed in an expensive looking suit, the dark-haired vampire had his full mouth twisted into disapproval. With his short, choppy bangs, they gave a perfect view to sculpted eyebrows, a pallor to his flawless skin, and of course, the red eyes narrowing while he waited for an answer. Y/N felt like she had to look away, so her eyes slid from Seokjin’s statuesque face to the second figure disembarking from the blue sports car, the passenger. 
“This is Acolyte Y/N, from the local Sanctuary. The AB- donor. She arrived last night,” Edmund bowed again, this time at the second vampire storming up the steps to the front door.
“Take this upstairs, Nadia,” the second vampire, again, an exceedingly gorgeous man, barked. While his voice was rich and smooth like silk, he curled his nose up in a snarl when he spotted Y/N beside her head maid. 
“Yes, Master Namjoon,” Nadia grunted when a briefcase was shoved into her chest, Namjoon scoffing once at Y/N before disappearing into the mansion. Three things Y/N noticed about him: the skinny Asian-style sword strapped to his massive back, the thick leather gloves on his hands, and the air of total hatred coming off of him in waves. 
“Didn’t think she’d be such a… scrap of a thing,” Seokjin sounded bored, almost disappointed she wouldn’t put up a strong fight. 
“The Sanctuary diets aren’t particularly nutritious. She’ll gain more muscle and mass after a few weeks with our great chefs,” Edmund reassured the eldest vampire, whom Y/N wished would stop staring at her and simply go inside. 
“Make sure she’s present for dinner,” Seokjin drawled, lifting an eyebrow at Y/N. Was… she for dinner? “I have calls to make. Tell the chefs twelve courses tonight, rich food. The little girl needs more meat on her bones to be of actual use.”
With that, Seokjin brushed past the butler, Y/N’s head already spinning. Next thing she knew, there were three more vampires stalking towards her and Edmund, Y/N wondering which one was the one that could read her uneasy thoughts. 
“Oh? A little dove!” A borderline childish voice is what caught her attention first, wicked delight coloring his tone. 
If his eyes weren’t so frightening, the grin stretching across the vampire’s face could have been on the cover of a magazine. He flicked his overgrown black bangs out of his face, biting down on his plump lower lip with a sharpened fang. Contrary to the chilly weather, all he wore was a loosely buttoned, thin white shirt, revealing a large strip of his pale bare chest. 
“Jimin, don’t get carried away like last time. You’re always breaking your toys,” One of the others, leaning against a stone column, picked his nails while tsking. That particular vampire wouldn’t even spare her a glance, his wavy dark hair curtaining his face. While his body was lean, hands were extremely weathered compared to the rest of his smooth, pushing-30-years-old complexion. 
Knees wobbling from that remark, the third vampire, who was eyeing every inch of her thoughtfully, noticed the movement with a slight smirk and a narrowing of his feline-like eyes. 
“Aw, that wasn’t my fault, Hoseok. Don’t listen to him, little dove! We’re going to have fun together,” Jimin, evidently, pouted, but the effect didn’t soothe her when she saw a psychotic glint reflected in his irises. “Ugh, I hate traveling. I hope there’s wine in my room…” 
Jimin winked at her as he slunk inside. Rolling his eyes, Hoseok, the most casually dressed so far in a simple dark turtleneck, trailed after, Y/N noticing how sharply cut his jawline was and the geometrically perfect way his nose turned up into the air. 
“Master Yoongi, is there anything I can get for you before you resume painting?” Edmund cleared his throat, the long-haired vampire finally stopped smirking at Y/N, shaking his head silently. As soon as Yoongi stopped looking at her, she felt like she could breathe again, her fingertips twitching. “We’ve purchased fresh oil paints, as per your request.”
Wordessly, Yoongi was in her presence at once, and the next, with a blur, he was gone. 
“Vampiric speed,” Edmund murmured, Y/N swallowing thickly. She had forgotten that not only did they have individual powers, but they had strength and speed, as well. Only two more to go– Taehyung and the mind reader, Jeongguk. “You’re doing well.”
The driver of the second car that had pulled into the driveway, the black sedan, finally cut the engine. The second SUV, the first of which belonged to Hoseok, had long since been turned off but no one emerged from it. 
“Master Taehyung typically likes to take a walk around the grounds after returning from business. Here, however, is Master Jeongguk,” Edmund schooled his features, him and Y/N robotically bowing at the final vampire she was to greet. The mind reader. 
“Hello,” Y/N blurted impulsively, much to her chagrin. The youngest vampire appeared to be around her age, perhaps a year or two older, and besides his ghostly complexion and red eyes, Jeongguk looked remarkably like a human man– perhaps like Joseph, but far more muscular. 
“Edmund, I’m assuming this human is the AB- acolyte?” Jeongguk completely ignored Y/N, which had humiliation pulsing through her body painfully. “Let’s see, you. Look at me.”
Y/N froze, Jeongguk stooping to make his face completely level with Y/N’s. Suddenly, the grip she thought she had on her thoughts melted away into nothing, and she got lost in the doelike quality of the youngest vampire’s eyes. 
“Typical, Edmund. Warning her about us? All you did was terrify her,” Jeongguk murmured, his youthful voice but a coo. Y/N knew not to trust it, especially when his chilled index finger jabbed into her cheek. “Who’s Joseph, AB-? A lover from the Sanctuary?”
Y/N’s tongue turned to stone in her mouth. Like his covenmates, Jeongguk was extremely handsome, but taunted her coldly. Luckily, she had motor function, shaking her head in the slightest. Tongue probing into the meat of his cheek, Jeongguk stood to his full height, the dark brown trench coat he was wearing hiding just how truly large he was. 
“You’re fortunate you’re the only butler available to us. Your head would be on a pike, if it were up to me,” Jeongguk, in a mild tone, addressed Edmund, who simply looked at the vampire placidly. 
“Yes, sir,” Edmund took a leather bag from the vampire, Y/N unable to believe how easy it was for Jeongguk to enter her mind– her memories pulled from her mind to his in hazy flashes that had her skull throbbing. 
“Y/N,” she flinched when Jeongguk addressed her by name, whipping her head around to watch him stalk up the stairs behind her, wearing a murderous smirk. “Wear something pretty to dinner, alright?”
Acid began to crawl up her throat, and when Jeongguk disappeared in almost a mist, Edmund placed a grandfatherly-like hand on her upper arm. 
“Relax now, Y/N. You did well. Very well. You won’t see any of them until dinner. Returning to your bedroom for now would be wise, Nadia will help prepare you for the meal,” Edmund whispered, gripping Jeongguk’s bag in one of his hands. “Head in, child. You’ve been in the cold long enough. Soak up the warmth, while you can.”
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It was a miracle that Y/N didn’t make deep dents in the carpet of her bedroom as she paced back and forth. Escorted to her room after meeting six out of the seven vampires, Y/N was left to her own devices that afternoon. Nadia had left her a stack of books to entertain herself before dinner, Y/N thinking that she’d rather swallow shattered glass than sit at a table with the monsters. 
Halting, Y/N stood in front of one of the windows, hands coming up to brace herself on the windowsill. The ocean was choppy thanks to a biting wind blowing in from the North, the color of it almost black. Was it too late for her to jump off of the cliff? If she made a run for it, would anyone catch her before she could fall to her merciful death?
Eyes glazed over, her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palms. Suddenly and inexplicably, the hair on the back of her neck stood up, like a cold draft of air swept through the room. Ears picking up movement, Y/N spun around, a startled yelp coming from her mouth at the sight of the figure at her door. One of the vampires actually sought her out, lazily trailing his crimson eyes up and down her form. Tripping backwards, Y/N’s back was pressed into the icy windowpane. The vampire boldly stepping into the light, Y/N realized who it was before he even opened his mouth.
“Be careful, little dove. It would be a shame if you fell through the glass and cracked that skull of yours open before we even had a chance to play,” Jimin teased, though the taunt was far from an innocent jest. 
“W-wha–”
“I said, careful. Think about how to speak to me before you stutter out something disrespectful,” Jimin sneered, crossing the room in a split second. Flinching, his face was mere inches from hers, his skin so pale it was almost translucent. His eyes, while certainly red, were sort of a dulled tone, and there was nothing good-natured about his expression at all. 
“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered, voice cracking. Jimin seemed to accept the apology, tsking and backing up a degree. Y/N forced herself to remain calm, the vampire pushing up the sleeves to his blouse. His chest was even more exposed than it was before, his muscles seemingly carved from white marble.
“That’s better, dove,” Jimin hummed, falsely sweet. “You can’t wear those rags to dinner. Juliana!”
Jimin’s voice was sing-songy, the vampire putting his hands on his hips and tapping his foot impatiently. Swallowing with great unease, Y/N’s palms were slick as she held onto the windowsill. Then, the sound of hurried footsteps flooded into the room, Y/N’s fright easing a degree when Juliana and several other maids joined her and the vampire in the bedroom. At once, Y/N’s eyes went owlishly wide, each of the maids carrying brightly colored gowns, stacks of velvet boxes, and more pairs of shoes than she could count. 
“The latest fashions… Chanel and Dior, Cartier jewelry. Fashion design has come a long way these last few centuries– not bad for a bunch of humans,” Jimin seemed like he was talking to himself, plucking a heavy looking necklace up from the open case Juliana was holding. Y/N still couldn’t get over the childlike lilt to his voice, paired with the unsettling confidence he carried, cautiously returning eye-contact when he sauntered towards her. 
“Dressing your new doll, Jimin?” Hoseok appeared in the doorway, Jimin still entirely focused on getting Y/N pinned to the window. The older vampire had a bottle of liquor in his grasp, an amused smirk on his face. Y/N felt ill. 
“Rubies suit her, don’t you think, Hoseok?” Jimin bit down on his lip with a fang, like he did earlier. Then, his voice took on a silky tone, an index finger curling in her direction. “Come here, dove.”
Y/N didn’t want to comply, but after nearly a heartbeat, everything in her body was telling her that it was okay, more than okay, to get close to Jimin. She wanted to, needed him, it felt like she could hardly breathe. In a darkened corner of her mind, Y/N’s rational self realized Jimin was using Hypnosis on her, and there was nothing she could do to resist his his call. Moving on autopilot, Y/N almost stumbled over her feet to close the distance between herself and the vampire. 
With a satisfied, wicked grin, Jimin tilted his head, looking down at her through his dark lashes. Spellbound by his presence– how had Y/N gone her entire life without him? Unprompted, she gathered her hair up and held it over her shoulder, exposing her bare neck to the vampire. Excitement flashed through her when Jimin licked his lips, and when his chilly fingers traced along a fluttering vein by the base of her throat, Y/N squirmed in delight. So removed from herself, as if in a trance, she obediently stayed still as Jimin clasped the necklace around her throat. Past the haze, she could hear an amused snort coming from Hoseok watching by the doorframe. 
“Isn’t that nice?” Jimin hummed, adjusting the jewelry so it sat perfectly on her clavicle. Boldly, he tugged at the neckline of her sweater, exposing more of her skin, the strength in his touch stretching out the flimsy wool with ease. 
“Very obedient, pet. Juliana, get her ready for dinner,” Hoseok snarked, taking a swig from his liquor. 
Slowly, like roots of a tree pulling up from the earth, the influence Jimin had over her mind and body untangled from her being with a deep ache. Different from the throbbing, disorienting pain that filled her brain when Jeongguk infiltrated her thoughts, Jimin’s affect gripped her entire being as if her bone marrow was bruising. With a whimper, Y/N staggered to the side, Juliana promptly righting her by one of her arms. Jimin had used his vampiric speed to join Hoseok at the door, winking at Y/N trying to catch her breath. 
“Here, Katie. Make the human a pre-dinner cocktail. She looks like she’s going to suffer from a paranoid break. I abhor hysterics,” Hoseok loudly placed his glass bottle of booze on one of Y/N’s nightstands, addressing an older woman who was holding several silky dresses in her arms. 
With that, the two vampires shut the door behind themselves, the sounds of their expensive shoes marching down the hallway, leaving Y/N to figure out what just happened. The necklace around her throat felt like a ten-pound weight, and if the room wasn’t full of maids who acted like nothing happened, she would have ripped it off and pelted it at the bedroom door. Noise buzzing around her, rustling of skirts, the only thing that kept her on her feet was Juliana’s arm slung around her lower back. 
“Alright, Miss, let’s get started on your bath,” Juliana said airily, Y/N feeling a single tear slip down her cheek, which she hurriedly swept away with her sweater sleeve before anyone caught it. “I have the most lovely hairstyle in mind for you. Master Jimin seemed to like that necklace on you, so we’ll pick something red to go with it.”
Y/N was astonished. Juliana was in the room when that whole interaction happened, was she not? Did she not see how Jimin hypnotized her, and was she not disturbed by it? Perhaps it was something only Y/N and the two vampires could sense happening, but Y/N had never felt more vulnerable and alone. Hollowly, she let Juliana herd her into the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat, she wasn’t fully listening to the maid, tracing her fingers over the polished stones around her neck. 
“The chefs have been working so hard today on the meal, it’s going to be wonderful, Miss Y/N! I helped the executive chef select ingredients at the finest market in town,” Juliana tested the water coming from the bathtub’s tap, pouring various vials into the water. “I picked up some moisturizing rose oils, bubbles, and powdered milk for the bath. I even managed to find dried flowers, which is rare for this time of year. Come, I’ll wash your hair for you.”
“H-huh?” Y/N squeaked, not wanting to strip her clothes off in front of somebody else. 
“It’s quite alright, Miss. We’re your personal maids, there is no reason to be bashful,” Juliana insisted, keeping her eyes low, but helping Y/N to her feet. Too afraid to protest, Y/N stood statue-still as the maid carefully removed the necklace Jimin put on her and handed it off to another nameless maid. “Have you ever heard of a spa day? Think of it as that!”
“Spa day?” Y/N repeated stupidly, blushing furiously when she was left in just her brassier and the scrap they called underwear. Juliana turned, allowing Y/N to remove her undergarments and get into the mass of perfumed bubbles piling up in the tub. “Never heard of that… is that a holiday?”
“No, Miss,” Juliana giggled, her cheeks pink with merriment. “You’ll just enjoy some beauty treatments. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten to do things like this, so you’ll have to forgive us if we go overboard with spoiling you.”
Dumbfounded was the only word for how Y/N felt. At that point, she was going to get whiplash from being treated like a princess by the staff at one moment, and like a toy by the vampires the next. Bitterly, Y/N came up with the hypothesis that the reasons she was getting ‘spoiled’ was either out of pity, or that the vampires wanted their toy shiny and flawless. Katie, the older maid from before, appeared with a crystal glass filled with some kind of bubbling liquid, a slice of a blood-red orange floating amongst real ice cubes.
“As per Master Hoseok’s request, Miss. It’s a blood orange rum sour, his favorite,” Katie slightly bowed, a wisp of gray hair falling from her low bun. Alarm bells went off in Y/N’s head. 
“Blood?” 
“It simply refers to the color and variety of the citrus, dear. Not actual blood,” Katie’s mouth twitched, like she was trying not to laugh. Y/N took a sniff of the drink, recoiling slightly at the burn in her nostrils. She knew it was alcohol– something she never tried before. 
“Alcohol isn’t allowed at the Sanctuary. They tell us it’s bad for acolytes,” Y/N felt like a lamb going up for slaughter, unsure and anxious. Warm water was being poured down her back from a cup, where Juliana was slowly soaking the strands of her hair to wash, and it made her shiver. 
“Well, dear, you’re here now. You may drink as much as you or the Masters deem suitable,” Katie bowed again, whisking away back into Y/N’s bedroom to select her dinner outfit. 
If she knew anything about alcohol, it was that it had the ability to steel one’s nerves. Which was something she desperately needed- so bravely, her eyes fluttered shut and she took a hearty swig of the cocktail. The first thing that washed over her palate was bright, juicy citrus, but when she swallowed, the burn of alcohol made the contents of her stomach sting. Grimacing, she willed herself to drain the glass, wondering when she’d feel the effects. Gut boiling, she kept her eyes shut as Juliana worked shampoo into her hair. 
“You have such pretty hair, Miss Y/N,” Juliana complimented, Y/N’s cheeks hot– not just from the compliment. A haze, a pleasant one, had her humming. Was it the way Juliana was massaging her temples, or was it the booze flooding through her system? “Anything else we can get you? Another drink?”
“Okay?” Y/N replied, just a tad bit more comfortable with asking for things. Juliana called out for Katie while she rinsed Y/N’s hair, the warm water making her sigh. 
And when she had another drink in her hand, Juliana wrapping a hot towel around her conditioned hair and a third nameless maid using a sandy scrub to slough off flakiness from her years-neglected skin, Y/N started to feel giddy. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad– being pampered sure was nice, and Y/N had always been strong-willed. Edmund was right, earlier; the vampires needed her alive, so they wouldn’t dare kill her. To Y/N’s knowledge, there wasn’t another human in the nearest Sanctuaries with blood as rare as hers. 
It was like she could feel her backbone growing, only peeling one of her eyes open when something odd was gliding up her legs. Cocking her eyebrow curiously, she watched the third maid– Mei– use a razor to shave downy hair from her legs. Strange. 
When she was sufficiently scrubbed, shaved, and presented with oil and lotion to apply, Y/N was left in the bathroom to dry off and slide into a terry cloth robe. Wobbling a little when she got out of the tub, Y/N giggled as she slathered herself with a floral scented lotion, her legs foreignly baby-soft. The cocktails were certainly doing their job, Y/N pinching her cheeks in the mirror and fixing a determined look on her face.
She was always the brave one amongst herself, Meredith, and Joseph. Why should she dissolve into a puddle of helplessness and meek responses? Even though she was being made over into a perfect angel for a group of demons, she held significant power. She didn’t need the coven to survive, but they did. 
With renewed courage, Y/N returned to her bedroom. That time, only Nadia and Juliana remained, both of them waiting for her by the old vanity that was littered with appliances, jewelry, and cosmetics. The sun was starting to set, making the sky a burnt orange over the silver ocean.
“How’re you feeling?” Nadia smiled at her through the mirror when Y/N sunk down onto the stool, Y/N returning the expression. She thought that might have been the first time she smiled in the previous 24 hours. 
“Relaxed,” Y/N answered honestly, sitting still while Nadia worked a silky product through her hair. Juliana, however, began selecting various powders and tubes and comparing them to Y/N’s complexion with a concentrated pout. 
“Fantastic! I’m pleased to hear,” Nadia seemed to glow, like it was her life’s duty to pamper and please Y/N. 
Lapsing into silence, Y/N stared at her reflection while Juliana began to dust her face with powder, and Nadia fired up a device that seemed to dry her hair. Buzzed, she watched the two maids make her up into a princess that Y/N used to read about with Meredith, her unruly hair manipulated into a pretty style, shimmering ruby gloss being painted across her lips. 
Once the ‘hair dryer’ was switched off, Y/N dared to ask a question that popped into her mind when she got to the bottom of her second cocktail in the bath. Rolling back her shoulders, she got Nadia’s attention while she was sliding a sparkly hair clip into Y/N’s hair. When the query left her lips, both of her maids' expressions went from merry to grim– which wasn’t encouraging.
“Nadia, what happened to the coven’s previous donor?” 
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“Where is the human sitting?” Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest, a dull ache all over his body. It had been too long since he had fed on human blood, and his immortal body was feeling the deprivation. “Might I suggest… not next to Jimin?”
“Why, do you want that little girl at your side instead?” Seokjin hardly looked up from the documents he was signing, already seated at the head of the dining room table. “You’re not the greedy type, Yoongi. Leave that to Hoseok.”
Yoongi curled up his lip into a snarl, but would not offer a retort to the elder vampire. Really, the only one who had the balls and Seokjin’s grace to allow challenging was Namjoon. With a sigh, Yoongi took his usual seat, his fangs aching. Since they returned to the estate, the scent of AB- blood intensified Yoongi’s longing to have a taste of that sample the coven received earlier in the week. Idly, he traced the veins on the back of his hand– usually pale blue, but with the lack of blood flowing through his system, they were nearly dark gray. 
“Which documents are those?”
“From the UN. They want us to sit in on an Assembly in December,” Seokjin sounded terribly bored, mostly because he was to death. Another human war he’d have to offer expertise on, expertise that would probably be ignored. After all, Seokjin and his covenmates were really only invited out of fear. 
“What a pain in the ass,” Hoseok arrived at the table, collapsing onto the seat beside Yoongi. Kicking his feet up on the polished table, narrowly missing the china that was set there, Seokjin’s pen-scratching stopped. “I hate New York City. Filthy place. Should have burned it down when I still had my ship.”
“Was New York even established when you still had a ship, Captain Morgan?” Seokjin snarked, staring once pointedly at the bottle of rum in Hoseok’s hand, and then at his boots on the table. “Put your feet down, now.”
Hoseok rolled his rust-colored eyes but obeyed, knowing not to anger Seokjin unless he wanted Namjoon to use his ‘gift’ on him. Taking a swig of the rum, Hoseok frowned– the longer he went without human blood, the duller his taste buds got. He only tasted a flat note of cinnamon, not even the sting of the liquor. Hopefully, he’d get a taste of the mousy acolyte that night. 
Snapping his fingers sharply, a staff member appeared out of the shadows to take the signed documents from Seokjin. With mild annoyance, he checked his watch for the time; he told Nadia, the human’s maid, to have the girl at the dinner table at 8 PM sharp. Nadia still had ten minutes before her life was in danger. Seokjin couldn’t stand humans who couldn’t follow simple directions. 
“Is twelve courses really necessary? We’ll be here for hours,” Hoseok complained, mostly because he’d have to hear the chefs drone on and on about the ingredients of each dish and the beverage pairing that went with it. 
“You saw how pathetically frail that human was. If she is to serve us, she needs to gain weight,” Namjoon thundered into the room, his tread heavy and confident. He sat closest to Seokjin, on the left, his expression made of stone. Again, Hoseok rolled his eyes. 
“I agree. With just a few gulps, I could drain the little dove dry,” a melodious voice joined the conversation, Jimin giggling when he sunk into his chair just across from Namjoon. Annoyed with the buttons on his shirt, Jimin tugged the last one free, letting both sides of the garment hang loose. 
Namjoon set his jaw in warning, already bracing himself for how insufferable Jimin would become with the arrival of the girl. Namjoon thought it was beneath him to interact with humans unless necessary, while Jimin preferred to see just how far he could push them. Jimin simply grinned back at Namjoon, slow and seductive, a muscle pulsing in the elder vampire’s cheek. 
“Control yourself, Jimin. You’re on thin ice,” Seokjin leaned back in his chair, his voice airy and high. His voice had even forced Namjoon somewhat stiff. “Taehyung, have you contacted Berwind?”
The owner of the estate the coven currently called home made his entrance, still in his tweed suit from earlier. Taehyung looked exactly like he did in the portrait of himself hanging above the grand staircase. It’s like time, for Taehyung, stopped in 1869. 
“Wait, why?” Hoseok straightened up, with distaste on his face when Taehyung took the opposite head of the table– across from Seokjin. “That guy is a blowhard.”
“Well, the blowhard might be our newest partner for marine affairs. You want a new ship, do you not?” Taehyung pointed out blandly, rubbing the grayish veins over his temples. “We’re going to have to host a party soon. He won’t agree to anything unless we get a selection of acolytes and fine wine.”
“She has five more minutes…” Seokjin murmured to himself, secretly wishing Nadia would give him an excuse to blow off steam. “Where is Jeongguk?”
“Hyung,” Namjoon cleared his throat to get Seokjin’s attention, pointing to the door leading into the butler’s pantry. 
Jeongguk emerged, his hands shoved into his pockets as a very sheepish looking set of sous chefs followed him with silver trays. 
“I don’t know why they expected us to eat food when the lack of blood has stolen our sense of taste,” Jeongguk drawled, a chef shakily placing a cordial glass in front of Seokjin. 
It contained the remainder of the AB- sample, the acolyte’s blood. The glass was hardly on the table before Yoongi snatched it up, draining it in one go. Anything to relieve the ache. Even after five hundred years, Yoongi could never get used to the feeling of being starved. 
“So sorry, Masters,” one of the chefs bowed, Namjoon’s eyes narrowing. Normally, he would have broken a limb for the forgetfulness, but he didn’t have it in him that evening. “Hors d'oeuvres will be out momentarily.”
Jeongguk scoffed, glancing curiously when Seokjin started tutting as the youngest vampire began to take his usual spot beside Namjoon. 
“What’s wrong?” 
“Leave a space between you and Namjoon-ah,” Seokjin ordered firmly. “The human will sit between you two, lest she decide to flee the table, you two will be able to restrain her swiftly.”
Jimin pouted, his lips stained with the blood he sipped from his cordial glass. Seokjin was about to get up to deal with Nadia failing to follow his order when every vampire in the room paused, clumsy footsteps hurrying in the direction of the dining room. Covered poorly by expensive perfume was the scent of unease, alcohol, and mortal vitality. 
“Cutting it close, Nadia,” Seokjin purred, the maid blushing as she ushered the young acolyte into the dining room. 
The girl, dressed in a velvet ruby cocktail dress, fidgeted with the short hem of the garment while gawking at the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Her racing pulse was audible and visible; veins fluttering at the base of her throat. 
“I apologize, Master Seokjin. I’m afraid Juliana and I got carried away with dressing Miss Y/N for dinner. It has been a while,” Nadia bowed, the human acolyte flinching when Jimin was abruptly at her side. “Please, enjoy dinner. I’ll take my leave, now.”
“Oh, our little dove! You’re in the Mugler dress, your maids chose so well…. Matches the rubies perfectly,” Jimin cooed while poking the choker around her neck, the rest of the vampires knowing that there was nothing sweet about Jimin’s approval. Jimin, despite the raised brow from Seokjin that was directed towards him, took up one of Y/N’s trembling hands, dragging her further into the room. 
“Thank you,” Y/N breathed, intimidated and sounding like she was far from flattered. Jimin delighted in the way her body completely locked up with his touch, her palm slick with perspiration. 
Stumbling in her heels, Y/N had no choice but to be escorted to the table by Jimin, her large eyes widening when she realized who she was to be seated between. Pulling out her chair like a perfect gentleman, Y/N snatched her hand back as soon as she tumbled onto the velvet cushion. Jimin didn’t seem to care, simply smirking, stalking back to his own place at the table. There was a pause, Y/N glancing around the room at both the fine decorations and the vampires, fingers still twitching at her dress hemline. It was likely she hadn’t worn something so revealing before. 
Y/N blinked when her sight landed on one of the heads of the table, the vampire in the portrait on the staircase staring back at her blankly. He looked precisely like he had in the painting, down to the light-colored suit. Sure, his face was a bit more drawn and he was much paler, but it was almost like he stepped out of the canvas like a realm-walker.
Nervously, she peeked to the left, where Namjoon was, the vampire taking a sip of a red liquid from a small glass, his leather gloves still on his large hands. He caught her gaze from the corner of his sharpened eyes, Y/N knowing at once what he was drinking– far too viscous to be wine, too red, it had to be blood. Whose blood it was, exactly, Y/N hoped she’d never know. 
“It’s yours, of course, remnants of the sample. Humans are so dim,” Jeongguk easily read her thoughts, not even having to put in effort to enter her mind. Even with the lack of effort, he could tell Y/N was uncomfortable with him probing around in her skull, the girl wincing and rubbing her forehead. 
“Do not sap her of energy yet, Jeongguk. She must eat so she can be useful,” Seokjin sighed, still tasting her on his tongue. Though she was malnourished, her blood was still the finest he had tasted in centuries. 
“What were they feeding you at that sanctimonious dump, pet?” Hoseok, still lazily slouching, drawled. Y/N hesitated, not knowing whether or not to reply, making Hoseok grow impatient. “Speak when spoken to. Articulate.”
“U-uh, um… organ meats, mostly. Lentils and kale,” Y/N squeaked, her complexion a touch green. 
“Poor little dove. How repulsive,” Jimin pouted, the expression teasing. 
Y/N opened her mouth, fidgeting in her seat, Taehyung watching her mortal movements with fascination– they could never quite sit still. Before she could speak again, squirming under the weight of seven ruby gazes, staff members dressed in suits and white gloves came from the butler’s pantry carrying dishes. One of the staff members was carrying a silver ice-bucket with a bottle of wine, Y/N eagerly waiting for more alcohol to take the edge off. Whatever she had earlier had long since worn off. 
“Good evening, Masters, Miss Y/N,” a man in a chef’s uniform began, standing beside Seokjin at the head of the table. “Tonight’s hors d'oeuvres is oysters rockefeller with Sambuca and garlic-buttered sautéed spinach, paired with Clos des Bouquinardieres Muscadet. Please enjoy.”
Jeongguk laughed when he read Y/N’s mind trying to wrap around unfamiliar words. Rubbing her forehead again, she stared at the odd thing placed in front of her. As someone poured wine for her– to her disappointment, only about an inch of liquid splashing into the glass– she was immensely curious about the seashell placed delicately on a tiny plate, containing something breaded within. 
“Never had seafood before?” Hoseok raised a dark eyebrow, ignoring the oyster and going straight for his wine. 
“This is seafood?” Y/N blurted, Jimin finding her innocence quite entertaining. She was like a young girl he’d write as his heroine in one of his tragedies. Hoseok, however, glared at Y/N’s failure to answer his question. “I’ve just had t-tuna before… M-master Hoseok.”
“Master! Look at that, the pet is already learning her place,” Hoseok’s laugh was boisterous, bouncing off of the great walls, a thin whimper leaving from the back of Y/N’s throat. Namjoon had heard whimpers like that millions of times: pure, involuntary fear. It made him smile behind the rim of his wine glass. 
“Enough. Eat,” Seokjin’s voice was a hiss, plucking up the small fork specifically for shellfish. “Yoongi. I want you to get in touch with some artists in Italy. We’ll invite them here when we host Berwind, you know how much he loves being in the company of talent.”
Yoongi chewed the oyster thoroughly, relieved that he could actually taste the flavor after just a small sip of the acolyte’s blood. All of the painters Yoongi once knew, the ones he actually wished could be present during a party, were long since dead and gone. He’d have to write to modern artists, who would be frothing at the mouth for an opportunity to meet Yoongi. What a bore. 
“I’ve seen Gianluca Traina, his work isn’t half-bad. I can reach out to him and Agostino Iacurci,” Yoongi leaned back, letting a staff member take his plate. His hands itched to paint, loathing that he’d have to sit through eleven more courses. In particular, as he watched the young human girl cautiously raise a fork to her mouth, he wanted to capture how she looked when she tasted a flavor brand-new to her. “They’re no Boticelli or Michelangelo, though.”
“Too bad your mentor wasn’t turned,” Namjoon spoke up, though Yoongi knew Namjoon really didn’t care one way or the other. 
“Da Vinci would have hated the modern age,” Yoongi muttered nonchalantly, Namjoon scoffing at the name-drop. Not that the human would have known who the artist was, Namjoon confirming that she had no idea who Leonardo da Vinci was when she peered at Yoongi vacantly, draining her wine glass with a shaky grip. 
Y/N felt the wine burning in her stomach, stuck between relieved that she was being ignored for the moment and filled with anticipation for the next time the attention would be on her. 
“Next we have the amuse-bouche. Pickled baby beets with herbed goat cheese, candied kumquats and basil chiffon. With it we have Sancerre.”
The chef reappeared, the next small plate and glass of wine placed before Y/N. The food, so far, were like works of art, and Y/N almost felt bad eating it. Especially when she thought about the bland, mushy pile of goo her fellow acolytes at the Sanctuary were picking at while she ate like a queen. 
Mercifully, all the vampires talked about for quite some time was the event they were planning for the following week, and they left Y/N alone. Her guard was not coming down any time soon, so she stayed quiet as a mouse through each course. 
Acorn squash soup garnished with pepitas, purple radish microgreens and sage oil with prosecco. Native lobster, roasted heritage carrots, carrot puree, buttermilk puree, spiced crumb and chardonnay. Kale and brussels sprout salad with maple-candied pecans, honeycrisp apples, pomegranate and lemon vinaigrette with sauvignon blanc. Ingredients, flavors, and textures Y/N never even dreamed of before. By the time she stuffed the last slice of apple from her salad into her mouth, Y/N was already feeling quite satiated, and the wine was dizzying up her head. Or perhaps it was Jeongguk still fishing though her mind. 
“Seven more courses, human. Don’t think you can leave this table before then,” Jeongguk reminded her mildly, her suspicions confirmed. Thankfully, she caught herself before she could grumble at him. 
“Tell me, little girl. Did you spend your entire life in that Sanctuary?” Seokjin asked, curious about how much she knew about vampires. That, and he was concerned about her purity; though judging by her innocence, he didn’t predict that to be too much of a problem. 
“No, Master Seokjin,” Y/N replied, apprehensive towards a round of questioning. 
“Elaborate.”
Swallowing, Y/N glanced down at the fish that was just delivered to her, stomach turning. She found it hard to look at any of the vampires for too long, but Seokjin’s face was so hauntingly beautiful, it hurt to look at. 
“I was brought to the Sanctuary ten years ago, when I was fifteen. I grew up on the outskirts of town and was raised by my grandmother. When she passed away, I drifted until I was caught by wardens who were testing human’s blood types on the street.”
“I’ve noticed those vans around town. Wardens drive them around looking for new acolytes,” Jeongguk remarked helpfully, when Hoseok looked distantly confused. 
“You have the rarest blood type in the world. How is it that you were not immediately sent to a Sanctuary upon your birth? It is the law,” Seokjin was frowning, extremely annoyed. Fifteen years of alluding a system set up so meticulously led him to believe she’d be wayward. 
“I was born off of the grid, not in a hospital. My grandmother faked my blood results later on, when we were visited by Sanctuary wardens,” Y/N spoke softly, too afraid to raise her voice. She didn’t like the sharpened edge to Seokjin’s tone. 
“I don’t understand how an elderly woman could have pulled that off,” Hoseok said, his mouth flattened into a line. “What happened to your parents, pet?”
Y/N flinched, reluctant to give up a vulnerability to the predators. She knew she wouldn’t be able to conceal her thoughts, however, with Jeongguk still prying into her head. With the fish cleared away, a roasted chicken was put in front of her– this time, with a glass of red wine. Before answering Hoseok, she sucked down the velvety liquid. 
“My mother died in childbirth, I never knew her. Apparently my father was just a fling, I didn’t know him, either. It was just me and grandma,” Y/N pushed a strand of pasta around on her plate, doodling shapes with the tip of her fork in the creamy sauce. 
“The little dove is an orphan. How tragic,” Jimin’s excitement was paramount. There was nothing he loved more than a heroine with an ill–fated past. Y/N was disturbed by the twinkle in his eyes, barely able to finish the rest of her chicken. 
“Um, it’s alright. You can’t really miss what you never knew,” Y/N spoke impulsively, like she was talking to Joseph or Meredith rather than seven vampires who were effectively perfect, lethal strangers. 
“Adorable,” Jimin gushed, licking his lips. Yoongi, beside Jimin, pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated with Jimin’s theatrics. It came naturally to Jimin, being a writer of dramas and screenplays, so Yoongi couldn’t actually fault him for it, but it was dreadful to withstand. 
Blood rushed to Y/N’s face, the three youngest vampires in the dining room becoming coiled and ready to pounce. Seokjin simply held up his hand disinterestedly, a silent order for the fledglings to get control of themselves.
“Oh! What’s this?” Y/N had become incredibly loosened up thanks to the seven various wines she tasted over the course of the evening, cocking her head at the small silver dish placed in front of her. 
“Miss, it’s a lime sorbet with mint to cleanse the palate before the second main course,” A staff member poured a bubbly wine into a skinny flute for her, presenting a miniature spoon for Y/N to use.
“Sor-bet…” Y/N repeated slowly, scooping up some of the treat, the iciness washing over her tongue bizarre and making her audibly exclaim. A frozen sweet wasn’t something she was able to have at the Sanctuary, and it brought a tear to her eye. 
“They brought out the Dom Perignon, what do they think, we have the Pope here?” Hoseok lifted his champagne flute to his face, watching the bubbles dance in the glass. 
“Is it expensive?” Y/N dared to ask, a distant part of her screaming to shut up. Hoseok’s expression darkened when she addressed him, so she instantly corrected herself. “Master Hoseok.”
“Taehyung will only drink expensive wines. That champagne you so hastily gulped down is the most expensive vintage wine that money can buy, pet,” Hoseok smirked, Y/N becoming embarrassed that she did, in fact, knock the drink back.
“You paint me as a snob,” Taehyung frowned, earning a dry chuckle from Jeongguk. 
“Take a look around this place, for Christ’s sake. Of course you’re a snob,” Jeongguk remarked, gesturing around the lavish dining room they were seated in.
Y/N was positively stuffed. In fact, she clasped a hand over her mouth when a rack of lamb and rice replaced her empty sorbet dish, not wanting to eat another bite. She felt if she did, the velvet dress she was in would rip open. 
“You will eat it all,” Seokjin barked when Y/N made no motion to pick up her fork, the sound making her flinch into Namjoon’s thick shoulder. The vampire stiffened, a disgusted look on his face, Y/N’s skin flashing with heat. “You will eat it, or I’ll allow Jimin to go over there and force-feed you.”
That threat terrified Y/N, Jimin’s grin widening when she caught his eye. Without another second spared, Y/N began cutting through the meat, much to Jimin’s disappointment. With a bereft sigh, Jimin leaned on his elbows, craving some trouble he could stir up. 
Diligently, Y/N picked her way through the final courses, nearly gagging on the rich chocolate truffles that ended the meal. She was laughed at again– that time by Hoseok, when she asked if she could really eat the ‘gold leaf’ dusted on top of the dessert. The final drink that was offered was an espresso ‘martini’, which is what careened Y/N out of tipsiness and straight into dizzy intoxication. Giggling for no particular reason, Y/N started folding her napkin into different shapes, forgetting who her company was. 
“She’s a pretty little dove, isn’t she?” Jimin held his face in his hands, ravenous even though he had plenty of human food in his stomach. 
“Those words are familiar,” Jeongguk deadpanned, Yoongi spotting where things were going a mile away. 
“I bet she’d look pretty all drained, too. Like the last girl,” Jimin’s voice was dreamy, and it was fortunate that Y/N was too distracted by her cocktail to pick up on what he was going on about. 
“Watch it,” Jeongguk warned, not wanting to end the evening with Jimin’s dramatics.
“Oh, come now, Jeongguk… don’t you want to pin her down, fangs in her throat?” Venom flooded into Jimin’s mouth, watching Y/N’s pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. “We could always find another, too, after we drain her. You take a wrist, I’ll–”
“Namjoon-ah,” Seokjin interrupted quietly, looking up towards the chandelier. The whole table went silent, Jimin’s mouth slamming shut, regret all over his sculpted face. With a grunt, Namjoon stood from his seat, slowly stalking around the table. 
Y/N’s attention towards the vampires was recaptured when she noticed Namjoon, eyes dark and determined, approaching Jimin. The silence deafening, Y/N watched curiously when Namjoon bent low, face close to Jimin’s. Even Y/N could sense Jimin’s fear, and it made her instantly nauseous. 
Namjoon gripped Jimin’s sculpted jaw, his gloved hands rough against Jimin’s skin, and for a moment, Y/N thought Namjoon was going to kiss the younger vampire. Narrowing his eyes, Namjoon squeezed Jimin’s jaw, Jimin going absolutely rigid when they made eye contact, the martini glass Jimin was holding shattering in his grasp. Horrified, Y/N watched Jimin shake, eyebrows scrunched up in agony, and she realized Namjoon was using his ‘gift’ on Jimin. For what, she wasn’t sure, but it was terrifying that he could inflict so much pain on even a vampire. 
“Enough,” Seokjin called, Namjoon releasing Jimin’s jaw at once, and the younger vampire gasped for breath, his body sagging over the table. “I told you you were on thin ice, Jimin.”
“Sorry,” Jimin heaved, only apologetic because he had to suffer from Namjoon’s Pain Illusion. The sensation of being burned alive was unbearable, but he didn’t regret what he said. Besides, it was trouble that he was craving earlier. 
“No you’re not,” Namjoon hissed, Y/N unable to process how scary Namjoon looked, standing beside Seokjin with his arms crossed. Y/N swore to herself, in that very moment, she would do everything in her power to avoid Namjoon using Pain Illusion on her. 
“Can we wrap this evening up now?” Yoongi asked, peeved. He wanted to isolate, to paint.  
“Not yet,” Seokjin twirled an empty wine glass contemplatively, his eyes then on Y/N. “Come here, little girl.”
“W-what? Why?” Y/N asked with dread, still nauseous. Seokjin clicked his tongue, agitated. 
Come here, little girl.
That time, Seokjin’s voice was in her head rather than out loud. Forgetting that he could use Compulsion, she felt her skin crawling hearing his dulcet tones inside of her head. Staring at her expectantly, Y/N was frozen in her seat. Seokjin snapped his fingers, and Namjoon rounded the table again, hooking one of his gloved hands under Y/N’s bicep. Roughly hauling her to her feet, she was effectively dragged to the head of the table, Y/N starting to hyperventilate and panic. Namjoon’s grip was bruising, her skin smarting when he let her go. 
Sit. 
Seokjin’s voice in her mind was firm and authoritative, spreading his legs expectantly. Y/N’s eyes bugged out of her head– there was no way on God’s green planet she was sitting on that vampire’s lap. Still borderline hysterical, she did the only thing she could think of: beg and plead. 
“P-please, please. Don’t hurt me,” Y/N had a tear running down her cheek, Seokjin’s expression hardening at the sight. 
Sit down.
Suddenly, Y/N’s spine went rigid. Seokjin’s mental suggestion didn’t seem so bad, then. Even though she was still crying and breathing heavily, her body moved on its own, lowering herself onto one of Seokjin’s thighs. The power of his suggestion, his Compulsion, was impossible to override, so embarrassingly, she was perched on Seokjin’s lap. The vampire curled a hand around her waist, his hold ironclad, to keep her in place. Panic setting in further, Y/N continued to beg the eldest vampire pathetically. 
“Please, I’m begging you,” Y/N whimpered, Seokjin setting his wine glass down and tracing his fingers over a steak knife beside it. 
“Jeongguk, Taehyung,” Seokjin sighed, exhausted. The little girl was proving to be difficult, so he’d need some persuasion to keep her quiet. Confused, Y/N looked at Jeongguk, more tears slipping down her face when she felt him worming her way into her memories. 
“I do not know if you’re aware how a coven operates…” Seokjin began, Y/N finding it hard to focus on his voice while Jeongguk was in her head. “But as the head of the coven, I must be the first to bite you. However, my covenmates… they’re starving.”
Chest heaving, Y/N hated the sturdy feeling of Seokjin’s chest pressed against her back. He was cold, plucking up the steak knife and totally indifferent to her hysteria. 
“Y/N, it’s okay!” A familiar, cheery voice had her head snapping in an opposite direction, pure amazement washing over her at the sight of the person across the table. 
It was Joseph, from the Sanctuary, dressed in his usual white linens and grinning at her. The sight of him had her tears drying up, even if she had no idea how her friend had gotten there. She didn’t even notice he had taken the spot that Taehyung once sat in. 
What Y/N wasn’t aware of was how Joseph managed to arrive at The Breakers. It was simple: Jeongguk found memories of Joseph in the acolyte’s mind, Seokjin pried the image of Joseph from Jeongguk’s report, and sent it to Taehyung, who then Glamored himself as the acolyte’s friend. The visual of her former friend was enough to have Y/N calming down somewhat, Taehyung keeping up the act by using words that ‘Joseph’ would. 
“I bet that meal was a lot better than the Sanctuary slop. We had canned tuna tonight.”
“Joey? How did you get here?” Y/N breathed, watching Joseph (Taehyung) push a hand through his dark curls, one of his common habits. 
You are going to be calm while I do this. 
Seokjin’s voice, a siren’s call in her brain, told her. She wasn’t entirely focused on the vampire whose lap she was sitting in, hardly aware that he was holding onto her wrist with a cold hand. All of her panic went away instantly, melting on Seokjin’s lap, limp for him. 
“Just visiting. Actually, it’s really nice here, isn’t it?” Joseph replied, Taehyung wondering just how close the two of them were as he saw Y/N through Joseph’s eyes. 
“I-I guess?” Y/N answered, still staring at her friend in disbelief. She froze when she felt something cold and sharp against her wrist, looking down to see that Seokjin had the steak knife against her skin. “Wait, what are you–”
“Y/N, I think you’ll be happy!” Her friend interrupted, distracting her. Taehyung inwardly smirked at how easy it was to fool her. 
“H-how? Ah!” Y/N yelped, Seokjin dragging the knife’s blade across her flesh, cutting into the skin. A three inch long gash was created, blood immediately spilling down her palm, Y/N out-of-body when Seokjin placed her wrist over the empty wine glass. 
“Look at me, Y/N. It’s alright. Hey, remember when we used to weed the garden together and see who could pull out the most dandelions?” 
“Uh-huh,” Y/N’s voice was far away, somehow relaxed in Seokjin’s arms and talking to her friend even though her wrist was just slit. Joseph was right, it was alright, everything was okay, and she’d be fine. “You’d always win.”
“That’s right, squirt. You could never beat me.”
His nickname for her had a stab of pain rocking through her. It really was Joseph!
“J-joey,” Y/N began, feeling lightheaded from the blood flowing from the gash on her wrist. “What were you trying to tell me when they took me away?”
Joseph seemed puzzled, Taehyung unfortunately not having an answer. Thinking on his feet, he composed himself, leaning forward, and came up with a response the girl would likely be satisfied with. 
“Oh, I said that I’d write to you every week. That I’d never forget you.”
Y/N didn’t reply, her expression wiping blank. Taehyung didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Surprisingly, Jeongguk couldn’t even decipher what she was thinking when he probed into her skull. All he felt coming from the girl was deep remorse. 
Then, Seokjin lifted her wrist again. Trembling, she turned to get a look at his perfect face, gasping sharply when the vampire brought her hand close to his face. Full lips parting, his tongue dragged along the cut he made on her wrist, and Y/N gawked in awe as she watched Seokjin’s eye color go from rusty to deep, dark red. 
“Vampire venom can cauterize wounds,” Taehyung’s low voice rang out, and when Y/N turned her head, Joseph was gone and Taehyung had returned to his seat. It was then that she realized she had been deceived, and her heart dropped. Joseph was never truly there, it was Taehyung Glamoring himself to make her docile. 
“Pass it around,” Seokjin spoke from behind her, his grip likely leaving a deep bruise on the small of her waist while Namjoon reached for the wine glass– nearly full to the brim with her blood. 
With horror, Y/N watched Namjoon take a deep gulp from the glass, color returning to his skin which took on a golden tone. His eyes, too, became richer in color, and in a daze, Y/N was still as the glass made its way around the table, each of the vampires seemingly coming back to life as soon as her blood touched their lips. 
Stay still, little girl. 
Seokjin, still ordering her around mentally, started to gather her hair in one of his fists, pushing it over her shoulder to expose the column of her neck. Helplessly, all Y/N could do was squeeze her eyes shut, knowing what was coming. 
A pair of cold, but plush, lips parted against her throat, the eldest vampire collecting her in his arms firmly as razor-sharp fangs brushed her skin. Gripping the edge of the dining table, she shrieked when she felt Seokjin’s fangs sink into her neck. 
There was a stinging sensation– probably the venom– but a head-to-toe pain flooded through her all at once. It was repulsive to feel Seokjin’s temperature immediately heat up, his chest becoming warm like a human’s, all because of her blood flowing into his mouth. Unable to move due to his supernatural strength keeping her caged, she felt hot tears pouring down her cheeks while Seokjin latched onto her. The recognizable sensation of blood leaving her body, the sensation she hated more than anything, was intensified now that it was literally being sucked out of her. 
“Please,” Y/N wheezed, broken. Everything was spinning, and her vision was dimming. 
Finally, Seokjin’s fangs retracted, the girl like a rag doll in his lap when he used his tongue to stop the bite from bleeding further. Though she was slight, simple, and weak, her blood was life-giving, and some of the best blood he had ever tasted. The emotion he was feeling, using the back of his hand to clean up the trail of blood dripping down his chin, was comparable to human amazement that he hadn’t felt for over eight hundred years. 
Y/N was completely shaken. Over the course of several minutes, she was manhandled and maimed, deceived and manipulated, and bitten. It was more horrible than she ever could have imagined, her head fuzzy and the side of her throat throbbing painfully. 
Get up. 
Seokjin’s voice haunted her, and she never wanted to hear it again. She knew, however, it was just the beginning of him residing in her mind, and it made her want to use the bloodied steak knife he used on her to cut her own throat. His mental suggestion was so powerful that she actually ended up struggling to her feet, finally out of the eldest vampire’s proximity. 
“What did I tell you all? She’s a good little pet,” Hoseok, the picture of vitality with her blood in his system, chuckled, Y/N’s knees buckling before she collapsed on the floor. 
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eatmeandbirthmeagain · 7 months ago
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I have literally read all you stories and im so so impressed. Im not sure if your taking requests or if. If not than im very sorry. If yes then could you please write one where a modern doctor ends up being reborn as a Nobel princess who is about to marry king baldwin. She could then cure him.
♧ A Better Life - King Baldwin x Reader ♧
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♧ Angst ♧
A/N: HELLO FRIENDS!!! I am back officially now!! Exams are over and the school year is done! I am so exited to be back!! Anon thank you so much for this beautiful request. This took me so long and I really hope you like it!!! This was an amazing one to return with, I hope yall enjoy it!!. As always this is based on the film Kingdom Of Heaven not the real historical figures. Enjoy!
TW: Leprosy, Slight mention of blood
Y/n remembered little to nothing from that night.
Simply getting into her car late, well after the sun had set, and driving. Then the lights. Then the crash. Everything else was fuzzy. Even in her life before the crash, the only knowledge she seemed to remember was what she had learnt in medical school all those years ago.
Nothing about her beautiful rooftop apartment where she lived alone. And certainly not the crippling loneliness she dreaded returning to every night after work at the hospital.
------------------------------
Y/n’s eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp, clutching at her pounding heart. After a few seconds of panic, she looked up at her surroundings.
There was no car, no wreckage, no blood.
Just a plush, white sheeted, four poster bed that held her trembling form. The curtains that hung around the top of the bed shrouded her view of the rest of the room, but from what she could see, an open balcony window allowed sun to shine through and into the large, beautifully decorated stone room.
Confusion soon replaced fear in the young doctor's mind. Was she in a hospital? No, it wasn't sterile enough to be a hospital. There was no beeping of machines, no bustling nurses. Something she was all too familiar with.
She tried to think back to what had happened, but all she could remember was the crash. Nothing else. Y/n pulled back the covers and cautiously stepped out of the bed. She barely got one foot on the ground before the large, wooden doors opened to reveal young woman carrying a tray with an assortment of dishes that y/n had never seen in her life.
“Good morning my lady” the young woman said with a smile, approaching y/n’s bedside.
“Good morning,” the doctor replied, trying to hide the confusion in her voice.
“I hope you are excited for today my lady, everybody in the maids chamber surely is!” the young woman said, her bright eyes practically glowing.
“I'm- excited for what?” y/n replied cautiously.
“Well your wedding of course, everybody has been anticipating this day for months now! Our kingdom will finally have a queen!” she was grinning now, y/n couldn't help but smile despite her confusion.
“Oh- yes! How could I have forgotten” the doctor said, once again attempting to hide the fact she had no idea where she was.
After the maid had left, y/n inspected the food. It looked delicious but eating was the last thing on her mind, for now. She slipped out of the bed to take a look around the room. There were books stacked on a shelf, a desk, a face washing basin and lots and lots of religious imagery, painted in typical pre-renaissance fashion.
Judging by the beautiful stone walls, she was most definitely not in the twenty-first century anymore. Nothing was boring and white. No white walls, no white marble countertops. Everything was handmade. Genuine. It was certainly a changeup from the old routine.
You see, y/n was intelligent. She always had been and on top of this, her years as a surgeon had taught her to act reasonable, calm, and logical even in the most outlandish situations.
Waking up in a different time period after a car wreck was no different.
She had to think of a plan.
“It's morning, people should be expecting me somewhere soon”. Turning to the bookshelf, y/n picked up a book and opened it. Handwritten. In Hebrew.
“That should place me somewhere in Israel, perhaps Jerusalem” she thought.
“And it's definitely before the renaissance, but after the birth of Christ”.
Placing the book back on the shelf, y/n continued to think. She had to figure out where she was and fast.
Y/n turned her attention to the other side of the room. The bed, a couch, and the open balcony doors. Approaching the balcony, y/n looked outside inspecting the area around the building she was in.
Knights. Many knights.
“Medieval “ was the first word that came to mind.
“That should place me somewhere around the 12th century-” was the last thing her mind concluded before the wooden doors opened again.
Six maids came into the room, each carrying something different. Some carried jewelry, some hairbrushes and combs, and others beautiful white fabric that appeared to be some kind of dress.
“Oh my lady, you have barely touched your breakfast!” one of them exclaimed as y/n entered the room from the balcony.
“You will need your strength for today!”
“Oh I'm terribly sorry, I forgot all about it! I was just getting some fresh air, I'm a little nervous” y/n said as calmly as she could, praying that they didn't notice something was off.
“That's alright dear” the oldest of the maids said, “it doesn't matter now because we need to get you dressed! Come, sit” she gestured to a vanity mirror and chair that y/n hadn't even noticed. 
--------------------------------
It felt like hours that the doctor sat in that chair, as the maids worked tirelessly on her hair and face. Braiding and brushing, applying makeup and finally helping her into the beautiful white dress robes.
They fit perfectly, just like a glove. As if they were made for just her and her alone.
“You look immaculate, your majesty,” one of the maids said, taking a step back to admire their future queen. Y/n smiled, for a moment forgetting her predicament.
It felt as though she had lived in this world her entire life.
“Come now darling, we don't want to keep the guests waiting!” the oldest maid said, taking the doctor's hand and leading her towards the door. Y/n followed blindly.
“This should be interesting,” she muttered.
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It was a short walk from her chambers to the church. There were already plenty of people waiting inside. Y/n barely had any time to think before a bouquet of flowers were shoved into her hands and she was walking down the aisle, people standing left and right staring at her.
Taking a deep breath, y/n steadied her hands and continued walking at a slow, measured pace.
“Come on y/n, this has to be the least nerve racking thing you've done all week”.
Looking up, she could see her “future husband” standing at the end of the aisle. It was strange, she couldn't see his face, he was wearing white robes and a veil that shrouded his features almost entirely. But from what she could see, it appeared he was wearing some kind of mask.
Then it all connected.
Not only had y/n taken a myriad of science and math subjects in highschool, she had also taken an ancient history class. One unit had specifically focused on the “Leper King of Jerusalem, Baldwin IV”. This must have been him.
As she approached the end of the aisle, her mind wandered to a patient she had treated with severe leprosy, contracted while he was on a tropical holiday. She remembered how much pain he had been in and her heart broke thinking about this poor king who had gone untreated for so long.
She was only snapped out of her thoughts when she came face to face with her soon to be husband. His eyes met hers and what she thought would have been a neutral feeling (since she did not yet know this man at all) turned quickly to a feeling that she had not experienced in what felt like years.
Love.
The doctor's heart skipped a beat looking into those eyes. Those beautiful, blue eyes. The mask he wore was polished to perfection, the metal was perfectly shaped into sculpted, masculine features.
He was beautiful.
Y/n was far too focused on just how captivating the man who stood before her was to pay any attention to whatever the priest was saying, until once again she was snapped out of thought by the large crowd cheering as they were pronounced husband and wife, in the name of the Lord.
-------------------------------
Later on, the guests had left and all had returned to somewhat calm after a day of celebration. Y/n was slightly shy at first during the celebrations, doing everything in her power to read the room and understand her place in this new world. But after a while, she began to enjoy herself.
Her “husband” had barely spoken a word all day, but she had caught him looking at her as she talked with his sister and associates. She was told by a few maids that after getting changed from her wedding attire, she would go and meet privately with her new husband.
She was nervous, but not even half as nervous as somebody else was...
Baldwin paced up and down his chambers until his legs were in agony. The day had been strenuous on his body and the pacing did not help.
The young king slumped down on his couch, cursing his frail body. He had watched her all day, his wonderful y/n. So full of life, so intelegent, speaking with everyone and enjoying her time while all he could do was sit and watch.
Oh how he had wished to join her, to dance with her, to speak with her, to hear every word her beautiful voice had to say, to look into her eyes. Those perfect eyes.
He hoped that she knew just how much he had fallen for her, even though they had not spoken a single word all day.
He cursed the mask that shrouded his emotions, forcing him to look cold and stern when all he wanted was her to know how warmly and deeply he felt for her. Baldwin sunk deeper into the couch cushions. His body craved sleep, craved a break from the pain. But he couldn't. He had to see her right this instant.
Taking a deep breath, or as deep as his failing lungs could take, the young king sat up and stared down into his hands, anticipating the moment y/n knocked on his door.
He did not have to wait long because no more than a minute after he sat up, a small knock came from the wooden door. Baldwin got to his feet, perhaps too fast. He steadied himself and called for her to enter. Y/n pushed open the door. She looked as beautiful as she did in her wedding dress.
“Good evening your majesty” she said with a graceful curtsey.
“Hello” he replied, suddenly feeling incredibly shy.
Y/n smiled. He was truly adorable. He looked so soft and warm in those robes. Good lord what was she thinking? She had barely met this man and yet she was acting like a teenager in love!
“Would you like to take a seat?” he offered, his voice gentle and kind. “Of course,” she replied. The two sat in silence for a moment. But it was not an awkward silence, more of a comfortable silence as the young couple took each other in.
It wasn't long before they got to talking. Two intelligent, young minds in the same room were bound to connect almost instantly. And that's just what they did.
Y/n tried to not say anything about her “world of the future”. That was until they were brought to the topic of his disease.
“So, you have no issue in being wed to a leper?” Baldwin had asked, his voice growing sad. Her heart broke for him in an instant, remembering how terribly people with his disease were treated at this time.
“Of course I don't” the doctor replied.
Her kind voice soothed something deep inside Baldwin. Something untouched for so many years. His eyes burned with tears but he dare not  let one fall.
“Really?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly.
“Of course! All I see is a beautiful, young man with a bright future. And from what I've heard, you're a wonderful ruler, and I know you will be a wonderful husband too”.
Baldwin smiled beneath the mask. He hoped she could see the smile through his eyes. Y/n took a deep breath before her next choice of words.
“You know, where I come from, lepers can be healed,” she said softly. Baldwin’s eyes widened.
“Truely?” he said in disbelief.
“Yes, but you can not tell anyone”
“I won't, of course! Please, share this with me” the young king said in a hushed voice taking her hands in his.
“Alright. I'm going to need a few things to do it and it may take a while-”
“Please, y/n. I'll do anything” Baldwin was on the verge of tears now. “Now I have you, I have a reason to live. I need to live, please” he begged.
Y/n’s heart sank as his previously strong demeanor shattered into a thousand pieces before her very eyes. As gently as she could, y/n wrapped her arms around her husband, pulling him into a gentle yet firm hug.
At that moment, the young doctor understood why all of this had happened. She was brought here for a reason. To cure this poor young man, to show him the love he deserves and to have a better life by his side.
“I promise Baldwin, I’ll make you well again. No matter what it takes. I'll do it”
538 notes · View notes
deceramicantiles · 7 months ago
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thesharktanksdriver · 1 month ago
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Devils may love?: thirst for connection, tearful goodbyes and trying despite the odds
Here’s part 2 by popular demand! I’m gonna start writing dmc1 soon and I shall be making a masterlist for this. Btw, comment if you’d like to added to a tag list or comment to give me ur opinions because I shall very much appreciate it and I love answering questions or geeking out over stuff especially with dmc now lol.
Links for: Masterlist, Part 1, part 3, part 4
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Your not sure how your still alive 
At this point its illogical 
Vergil has the amulet and knows Dante will come after him no matter if he even has you alive anymore 
So why are you still alive currently? 
Not that your complaining per say but your severely confused 
Even that Arkham guy seems to be thinking it as well
Speaking of which the more you look at him the more familiar he looks 
You can’t quite place it though 
But it’s something with his face that’s familiar 
Well it’s something you’d rather not think to hard about when the guy is stabbed in front of you by Vergil 
If your opinion of Arkham was bad before hearing he literally sacrificed his wife to become powerful or something certainly made you internally cheer as he fell to the floor
Blood pooling around him as Vergil remarks he has no use for the man anymore 
And yet 
“Keep moving, lest I have to carry you again” 
It stirs you from your thoughts as the twin looks at you 
Wordlessly you nod, stepping past arkhams body 
When Vergil turns he doesn’t see you drip your foot in the man’s blood 
Intentionally leaving a trail for Dante to find 
“If….if you killed him can you kill the jester next?” 
Whatever Vergil expected you to say it seems like that wasn’t what he thought 
Though you hope your unpredictability is seemingly a factor keeping you alive
“Jester?” He scoffs “you mean my brother?”
At that you can’t help but raise and eyebrow “no, I mean the weird ass jester demon. The one with the long nose, and annoying penchant for appearing out of nowhere. Have you not had to deal with his annoying nagging yet?”
“Evidently no since if I had we wouldn’t be having this conversation” 
“Fair. restrains or no restrains though, I will be finding out a way to curb stomp him if he pops out of nowhere again” 
“You’re a human. If he’s a demon your too weak to kill him let alone make a dent”
You shrug at that “I might be nothing more than an insect to him…but it doesn’t hurt to at least try. That’s all we can ever really do anyways. Keep trying even if it’s meaningless because there’s nothing else we can do. It’s what I do anyways. Things get hard, parents kick you to the curb yelling to never come back unless you decide to give up your “useless” dreams and everything looks like shit” pausing for a moment you can’t help but smile “keep trying even though every job turns you away and you have to drop out of school to try and get a full time job to afford a roof over your head and food…and despite it all you find a sketchy job advertisement for a business without a proper name yet and somehow end up with the most obnoxious idiot with a heart of gold as your boss who annoyingly calls you “honeypie”. And even if his family drama gets you wrapped up in getting kidnapped and brought to a demon tower, you keep trying even when the situation is against you. Because maybe that’s all you have”
Vergil stays silent after that, just ends up tugging you closer as he leads you to wherever he’s headed 
Somehow trauma dumping on him was kinda reliving even if he would probably kill you later
Best get shit off your chest than leave it bubbling in you
A trail of red follows behind you for your red coat idiot to hopefully find you 
Fortunately if you did make it out of the your now a pro at washing out blood so your shoes would probably be ok
Walking closely behind Vergil the two of you enter a large chamber
Carved stone and a chiseled floor lead to the centre of the room
And at that centre was a circular basin?
Your not really sure how to describe it
Or this place in general
The tower was old, that was certain with its general architecture and material wise
But walking though the place there was also an odd sense of foreign technological aspects to it
It was definitely too advanced for humans especially at the time it seemed like it was erected 2000 years back or so
So with that logic it was likely demonic related
Which made sense considering the purpose of the tower in the first place
A thrumming sound echos before that of heavy footsteps that makes you turn around just as Vergil does
A demon, a big looking one as well that walked on all 4
“I found you, seed of Sparda!. I told you that I remembered your rancid scent! No matter where you run to. You can never hide from me! And what’s this? A human pest as well?” It walks forward, bloody red eyes bleeding out as a singular curved horn tilted along with its head movements.
Before you have much time to react its claw comes down towards you and Vergil, but the blue half-demon pushed you back as he jumped to eliminate his threat
You watched him fight Dante atop the tower and seen his cut down smaller demons on the way here, but seeing him fight truly was something
Clean slices compared to Dante’s showy flare
Landing atop the demon as it crumbled beneath his feet
“Y-you are not the one I faced before…but this smell…there are two of them! That excrement of Sparda had two sons!”
“Yeah bud, you didn’t figure that out by looking at him. He didn’t just change wardrobe-“
A clink of a sword and its head splits leaving a gushing waterfall of blood to spill onto the ground
Vergil flips off its back, now back to your side
A glow emits from the body, blue and blinding
Vergil extends out a hand and it pulls itself to him
Seemingly absorbing it a pair of gauntlets and boots that keep their blinding glow
You can only watch what happens next
Vergil shows off and kinda plays? With his new weapons??? Like Dante does???
He kicks around the demons corpse and shows off his new gear
All while you watch dumbfounded
You also swear he’s watching your reaction?
Getting a small flicker of pride after another show of moves?
Was this like…a fear tactic or something?
A threat to keep you in line and not to run?
Because you already weren’t going to do that
Not when demons crawled around and every corner and for some reason he still needed you alive and eliminated them
Why would you leave when at least for now he was your reluctant bodyguard?
A spray of feathers waft around in the air and cascade down around you as Vergil watches your reaction
Yet again for something?
His brow twitches and his near permanent scowl returns, maybe you didn’t look afraid enough?
Two perfect halves of a beautiful red stone combine to make one 
Two remnants of a mother lost come together in the worse way possible 
Blood rains down the ceiling into a small pool in the middle of the circular room 
You and Vergil watch with anticipation 
Gritting your teeth waiting for something 
Anything big to happen 
And yet nothing 
You wait for a solid minute with the very quickly becoming agitated Vergil 
And nothing 
The irritation and anger rolling off him is palpable in waves that rivalled tsunamis 
You smartly make the decision to try and take a few precautionary steps away 
Especially as he mutters to himself if maybe more blood was needed 
You take a particularly large step away at that comment 
Shit, maybe while he was in this mindset you could slip away 
Dante was surely not too far behind-
An arm slides itself in a familiar manner across your shoulders 
Nearly instantly making your stress melt away as red leather and the overwhelming scent of blood, sweat, gunpowder and cheap cologne invade your senses 
You’d never thought you’d be this happy to smell Dante’s disgusting ass work Oder 
Something that he knew got on your nerves when he got back from a job and would chase you around trying to give you a big hug 
Just so you could smell the disgusting mix of scents under the excuse of “come here and give me some sugar, i missed you honeypie. Oh how the hours dragged on and on from my departure-“ 
Every time he did it you had half the mind to choke him out but instead you alternated to spritzing him with water like a cat 
It worked surpassingly well 
He even ended up hissing sometimes like a disgruntled cat, though you assumed that was either his inhuman traits peaking out or him playing along with the bit 
The ropes that rubbed so uncomfortably against your wrists the entire time that it slowly became a numbing pain
It’s notable though when the rope is cut and falling to the floor with a small thud 
Allowing you to see the redness of chaffed skin that would probably blister 
Before Dante addresses his brother he seems to take a careful moment to look you over 
Blue eyes tracing your body though not with his usual joking flirtatious edge 
This time it’s worry 
Anxiety that looks too foreign to be on his overly confident face 
You step behind him when the two begin a verbal exchange
A verbal exchange that once more become psychical while you watch again from the sidelines 
Mentally halfway through you kinda check out from the exhaustion 
It’s been a way too long…however many hours you’d been stuck here 
To be fair you had better things to worry about like survival than trying to figure out just how long you’d been kidnapped 
And then an unfamiliar shot rings out 
Not from ebony or ivory 
But instead a new smoking barrel from a familiar face beside you 
Two toned eyes stare at you in a mixture of surprise and confusion 
Holy shit-
“Mary?! The hell are you doing here?!?”
“We’ll talk later.” She briefly looks at you but then directs her angered gaze to Vergil “You force my father into this and kidnap my friend?!” 
she joins the fray despite being told off by Dante
Joining in on the battle with a certain rage in her eyes 
Two toned eyes that you now realize were the same as Arkham’s 
You think you now get why she talked about her mom and not her creepy ass dad
Wait that means that means her mom was-
Clapping then rings out 
The familiar grating voice of the jester filling the stone chamber 
His annoying voice mocking Mary and then Vergil as he makes quick work of the two 
And in the brightly coloured demons place once more is Arkham 
Keeping up the creepy performance before changing back to the jester and slamming her face into the ground 
You yell out for her, wanting to race over but Dante holds you back 
A look in his eyes that makes you pause 
exhaustion that rivalled your own 
He’s been fighting whatever was thrown at him up to this point 
Stabbed, impaled, clawed, shot at and everything else your mind can picture 
Not to mention him just duking it out with Vergil moments before the clowns arrival 
As the long nosed bastard pointed out, their both weak 
Something even more apparent as he then curb stomps Dante into the ground 
The impact of which sends you flying to the floor like everyone else in the room 
He switches back to the bald bastard 
Explaining why it didn’t work despite the two halves of the amulet and some sort of blood of Sparda
Apparently they needed the blood of a priestess just as Sparta did to seal off the demon world 
Something that is then quickly remedied with the bastard stabbing his own daughter in the leg to obtain it
Because she had the blood of that sacrificed priestess, due to her being that woman’s descendant 
Red streams through the small canals in the floor of the room to the centre 
Pooling like a ruby lake 
He monologues more as the jester about his plan of making sure everyone duked it out 
Then turning to you with a yellowed grin 
Apparently he kept you around as an entertainment factor but grew tired of how Vergil kept you alive for some reason 
Something he chides the half demon for 
But he’s tired of you
The one rogue misstep in his elaborate scheme 
Something he was going to make quick work of correcting if not for the 3 others in the room getting the jump on him 
But a red glow fills the room 
A platform rises and he ascends as everything shifts 
He kicks the others off the stage but you 
Leaving you clinging to consciousness as it ascends 
You reach out a hand with blurred vision hoping for anyone to grab it 
At the top of the tower Arkham boasts of becoming the new god of this world 
Statues surround the circular platform as he struts around 
But not before giving you a good kick in the gut 
The strength of which sends you rolling across and hitting the pole that begins a mechanism to pull up several bells
Bells you’d once thought to be statues 
Looking behind you see city lights twinkle like stars dotting the night sky 
Clouds circling around 
How you haven’t yet died from the oxygen being thin is beyond you but you attribute it to either demon nonsense or adrenaline pushing you past average the human limit 
Maybe both 
Blood spills out your mouth in painful coughs
Of course he had to aim for the lungs 
And while you cough he says you should be grateful 
Grateful to see the new god of this world before he ends your existence 
Grateful you get to be the first sacrifice of many 
Grateful he’ll do it in front of Dante to give you a chance to say goodbye 
What an ass
The sky shifts as he names the seven deadly sins 
A hellish portal opening up above and letting red aura flow down into him 
Surrounding him as the wind howls and demon screeches join in a symphony 
He begins to float and your left to cling to the support holding the bell 
His laugh echoing out as he ascends 
It makes your stomach curdle 
Doesn’t help afterwards that you begin to follow him upwards as well 
You nearly puke 
Son of a bitch-
The demon world isn’t what you expect it to look like 
Less fire and brimstone with the scent of rotten eggs and smoke 
But more like weird impressionist painting of jutting stone, flowing water, diamond-like sky and purple 
Just purple 
Blue and red 
A irony not lost on you 
It would’ve made you laugh in a mixture of hysteria and dread if you weren’t 90% sure that his kick earlier broke a rib and it was currently jabbing slightly into your lung 
Something even more apparent when you drop down and land harshly on a jutting slab of stone 
Talk about a rough landing 
And rough time for your lung because that rib has definitely now punctured it a bit more 
Dear god if you survive this your hospital bills were gonna be abysmal 
Arkham stands not far away in the form of some sort of demon 
Large imposing horns and insect-like wings 
He monologues about how this was Sparda’s true form
It explains why Dante who just joined the show seems less than amused at the spectacle
Even having the nerve to call him a backed up toilet 
That gets a laugh from you, a laugh you regret a moment later when you nearly cough up a lung 
Damn your hysteria making stupid decisions 
And damn Dante for actually being funny for once 
The fight between them is a blur once more 
Clashes of swords 
Yada yada 
Your vision is getting a bit more blurry than you’d like to think about 
Black dots appearing at the edges of your sight 
But you find the will to stand 
To get up 
To try 
Because what else can you do beside laying there 
This entire time you couldn’t do anything but be a punching bag, hostage, potential therapist and yelling for Dante 
If you were gonna die you might as well die trying
You get up just in time to see the fucked up copy of dante’s dad melt away into some amorphous blob of spasming shape 
Purple and glowing 
And plain ugly and kinda more pathetic than anything 
This is what he spent years obsessing over 
What he scarified his wife for 
What he nearly killed his daughter for 
God you hated this guy more than anything right now and all you wanted was to see him die 
And by god would you try to kill that fucking clown if it was the last thing you’d do 
“Dante! Got any spare guns?”
Briefly turning away from his fight with the blob he sends you a smirk “Sure thing honeypie! Curtesy of lady!” 
He throws you the weapon you’d seen Mary with earlier, some sort of canon. Her blood still stains the bayonetta in which Arkham stabbed her in the leg with, a reminder of who’s place your also fighting for “this one time I’ll let that slip! Don’t think it’ll happen again though you ass!” 
With Dante taking an up close and personal approach it distracts Arkham from you 
Too occupied clearing the bigger threat than the sniper
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t messing him up 
You aim with your admittedly unsteady vision when he’s about to get a hit on Dante 
Distracting him enough for the red coat devil to evade and get a hit in 
Dante can’t help but make a few quips here and there 
Somehow finding ways to make even the shitiest of situations the butt of the joke 
It was perhaps his greatest talent 
And perhaps his greatest cooping mechanism 
Though beside trauma responses you’d 100% agree the complete joke of what was Arkham 
The punchline though is when Vergil arrives just in time 
Putting aside even his weird rivalry with Dante to beat arkhams ass 
Though not enough to not talk about retrieving his rightful power 
Baby steps? 
Well whatever it’s something you guess 
At least he isn’t stabbing Dante again and hurtling down into hell with you thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes 
The two work together nearly seamlessly to take him down 
Stabbing into the blob that is Arkham as you shot yet another shot at him 
All this combines in making him flail around 
The twins push their respective swords through him to the others side 
Either grabbing the others sword
Hacking and slashing once more at the pathetic excuse for something that was once a man
With only a shot left you line up a your final shot despite how shaky your body is 
Waiting at the right moment as the twins of Sparda slice at him once more 
And you pull the trigger 
Sending yet another explosive shot at him 
He screams out 
Dange pulls out ebony and ivory, spinning them before looking briefly over his shoulder to send you a smirk 
It gives Arkham enough time to send ebony out his hand though luckily Vergil takes it 
Sending his brother an unimpressed look 
But still sending the briefest of glances your way for a split moment 
A smirk on his face as well no matter how minuscule it was 
“I’ll try it your way for once”
“Remember what what we used to say?”
“DoNt dO iT”
“Do it!” 
Vergil crosses ebony over ivory, you see both twins smirk 
“Jackpot”
The bullets swirl around one another like ribbons 
Creating a blinding light as they collide into Arkham 
His final words once more about having the power of Sparda 
He dies like a pathetic loser, shocking really 
The man who obsessed over a dead guy for years, sacrificed his wife and attempted to kill his daughter died as a pathetic blob 
You have to agree with Vergils dry remark of his final words not being classy 
It gets a chuckle from you as you scale down the stone debris while ebony is tossed back to Dante 
The odd spirit water surges around your ankles as Arkham melts away
Becoming nothing in the end, a fitting fate for someone like him 
Above a gaping hole where the water pours into The two amulets and a sword fall into a abyss that both of them jump into 
But not before Vergil grabs you to drag you in with him 
Again
“Motherfucker again?!? Come on-“
The moment Vergil’s feet splash on solid ground your let go off and fall very not so gracefully to the ground 
He runs to the sword before Dante can get it 
Pulling it from the ground and gazing at Dante’s half of the amulet that his twin was able to snatch 
Two pairs of Blue eyes narrowing at one another 
“Give that to me” he extends out his hand motioning for the amulet 
At that Dante looks at the necklace before tucking it behind him “no way, you got your own” 
Children, both these men were god damn children 
Getting up from the demon water you safely decided to limp off to the side 
You smell a fight coming just like how you can smell rain before it pours
You’ve gotten your wish of helping kill the clown, now your letting them finish their business 
It already felt as if you were intruding as it was 
Better not get involved 
“Well I want yours too” the sword is pointed out to Dante as the two circled one another 
“What are you gonna do with all that power, huh? No matter how hard you try, your never gonna be like father” that taunt even from your distance seemed to piss off Vergil royally with how you see his grip tighten on the demon blade
“You’re wasting time!” He makes the first move, running with the blade held ready to strike yet there’s no clang of metal hitting one another hitting your ears all the while water coursed passed them, rushing off the cliff down into the unknown of hell itself. Instead both caught the others swords with their bare hands. 
“We are the sons of Sparda!” Both begin to push the others blade back “within each of us flows his blood but more importantly his soul!” 
At that both successfully push the other away 
Sending water spraying everywhere 
For a moment Dante’s eyes connect with your own 
You see a spark in them you hadn’t seen once before 
“And now my soul is saying it wants to stop you!”
“Unfortunately our souls are at odds brother” Vergil raises at hand up to his eye level clenching it dramatically as he continued “I need more power” 
Did these two both go to acting school at some point?
Was being melodramatic as hell a demon thing? 
Because this was borderline Shakespeare level dramatics 
Or maybe you were hallucinating this due to the blood loss
Or because you were tired as all hell
Or maybe because you weren’t paid enough to deal with this-
“And we’re supposed to be twins”
“Twins…right” 
They might not see it but you can definitely see how their both twins with how overly dramatic this all was-
Blades clash and the smell of iron and gun smoke fill the air 
Blood flies 
And your left to watch it all from the sideline 
The adrenaline was beginning to ware off as the pain of your body sets in 
Every breath felt like glass was pressing in your lungs 
Jabbing at every inhale and exhale 
Blood being coughed out in between the flurry of gunshots and swords clashing 
God this sucked 
You think back at your entire life up until this moment and wonder if this was worth it all
Back to your childhood filled with expectations already laid on your shoulders 
The loneliness of parents who brushed your passions aside in favour of a letter on a piece of paper determining your worth to them 
The way in which high school was stress upon stress with few things to relive it 
Things like Mary’s company and the few electives you got to chose of your own volition 
No complicated science equations or mathematical formulas to memorize 
Just your own passions 
Like that poetry class 
And then it comes back to that night 
Collage applications in their hands that they tore in front of your face 
The ones you had picked on your own 
The fighting with your parents 
The way they threw you out without so much as a second thought 
Just saying to come back when you became sensible 
When you’d abandon your dreams to pursue what they’d decide for you 
How you could see in their eyes they expected you to come grovelling back after about a week 
Begging for them to take you back in 
But then came that rush of resentment 
You wouldn’t let them win 
So you moved on 
Tried to live because that’s all you could try to do 
Even if it meant dropping out in 12th grade to try and find a job to cover for an apartment and necessities 
Even if it meant abandoning everything else to at least try and make ends meet 
Even if it meant getting rejected from place to place until you found that fateful advertisement 
And the pain in the ass of a boss you were currently watching brawl with his brother 
The same boss who made you laugh 
Who walked you home on late nights and looked after you that one time you got sick 
The red coat wearing idiot who’d always offer you a slice of pizza or spoonful of his strawberry sundae 
Grinning all the while 
The boy a the same age as you yet had lived more than a lifetimes worth of fear and trauma, the same one who’d cling to you in moments of silence like you were his only lifeline 
And maybe he was yours as well 
Anchoring you when all the thoughts of doubt began to set in 
Of what you lost when leaving home 
But then pulling you back to realize you didn’t loose much at all besides Mary 
Because you never really had a home, nor parents or security 
You just had yourself and the weight on your back 
A weight now gone letting you decide what you wanted to do 
No matter how stupid it was to stay at a store that still didn’t have a proper name 
No matter how idiotic it was to stay with Dante with the risk because
He was the one person who hadn’t abandoned you
Who didn’t give up to save you from this nightmare tower 
Maybe if you’d stayed with your parents your life wouldn’t have ended up this way 
You’d be stuck as a lawyer or doctor but you’d have avoided this 
Probably later on settled down at 25 with a match they’d set you up with 
Expecting grandkids by 29 or something 
All the while you lived like with a good paying job and maybe a decent person you’d have to deal with for at least the next 40 years
Yet Somehow the thought of that left you more unhappy than your circumstances now even with all the pain 
Because for as shitty as this all was you’d at least lived for yourself for once 
Taken the reigns of your life in your hands instead of them being in another 
And you didn’t regret that 
Not one bit 
Hell, the only thing you regretted was not punching Arkham in his stupid jester face 
Because even if you died here in pain and coughing up a lung 
At least you died knowing it was your own choices leading up to here and not those of your parents 
And that was a lot more satisfying than anything 
Especially when you got to meet the dumbass you called both a boss and friend named Dante, meet Mary again and talk about poetry once more 
Somehow that had made you happier than anything 
Water splashes once more yet there’s no more clatter of swords and your attention is diverted to Vergil kneeling in the muddied water
Blood mixes in it 
Though your unsure if it’s from your own or a mix from both from the showdown between brothers 
Either way it runs down past Vergil to Dante at the edge of the waterfall
This felt like the end of this all 
With heavy difficulty you get up, using a stone pillar to support yourself 
“Am I….being defeated?” It’s uttered in disbelief as he stares down into the waters reflection 
“What’s wrong? Is that all you got?” Dante moves forward in a mix of mocking and anger, “come on get up, you can do better than that” 
With shaky legs you move toward the red stained twin, nearly toppling over when the ground rumbled beneath your feet.
“The portal to the human world is closing Dante.” Briefly he looks to you, something flashing in icy blue eyes as you stood a few feet from Dante using Mary’s gun to keep yourself propped up“because the amulets have been separated”
“Let’s finish this Vergil” there’s a pause “I have to stop you. even if that means killing you”. The look in his eyes is something akin to pure conviction and yet in the small shake of his grip you could see the hesitation he steeled away.
You remember the nights in which Dante would tell you about him and his brother when they were younger 
He bragged he’d always won when they’d fight with wooden swords 
His bravado and general overconfidence made you remark sarcastically that you were sure that had happened 
Getting in response an arm thrown around your shoulder and him resting his head atop yours 
A complaint of falling from his mouth yet he still looked satisfied with himself 
The same grin 
The same blue eyes that peaked past untamed white hair with a certain nostalgic haze 
Yet now those eyes hardened themselves 
And you can’t help but both hope and dread if he was right 
If he really won all those matches as a kid when Vergil readies his blade and Dante readies his own 
They charge 
Boots creating large splashes 
Water rushing past them 
Dante running away from you and Vergil headed to your direction near the edge 
Both yell while charging yet all you can focus on is the water and sickening slash 
Metal glimmers at the perfect angle to create a horizontal line of light
And then red 
Red spews across the air and mixes once more into the water 
With baited breath you wait and neither move 
Until the pained groan of Vergil stumbles from his lips and his necklace clatters along with the blades 
He picks it up as Dante puts away his sword 
Vergil takes a step back 
Clutching the necklace in a near crushing intensity 
Trying to convince him this isn’t the way would be for naught with him 
Vergil is someone who’d died of his own stubbornness and with his ideals 
It’s something both maddening and something you can’t help but respect in a odd way 
“No one can have this Dante. It’s mine, it belongs to a son of Sparda!” He takes more steps back towards the edge, shit no-
“Don’t do it!” Despite the pain you push forwards, despite the fact you know you won’t convince him, once more you try
Dante realizes what he’s about to do as well, surging forwards as you did but you’re both met with blade pointed to your necks. “Leave me and go, if neither of you want to be trapped in the demon world” eyes flicked between you and his brother as he clutches the amulet tightly “I’m staying, this place was our fathers home”. He gets closer to the edge, nearing the tip off point.  He leans back as you and Dante move forwards, hands outstretched to try and grab him. Though one is cut whilst the other is left untouched. 
Staring down as he’s encompassed by the unknown of hell you keep your eyes locked with his. Though he was an ass, an egocentric focused on a vain goal of his own pride you still can’t help but cry for him as your knees hit the hard rock and you reach your hand out despite the fact he’s too far gone to save. Because for as much as he detested his humanity, he was undoubtedly human in the most tragic sense. He was human in his pain, human in his hate, human in the way he held a passion for old poetry and longed for connection even if he’d never admit it. And he was certainly human when in the last moments before he disappeared into darkness his eyes stared deep into your own. Widening ever so slightly at the fact you still outstretched your hand to him, that you cried for him despite it all.
In those eyes in those last moments you see the human longing for companionship, of not wanting to be alone anymore. Whilst in your tear stained ones he sees the truth of the matter. You wanted to save him. Both here as he plunged into hell and back when you warned him of opening Pandora’s box, you did it because you wanted to save him. Because For some foolish reason you cared for him. 
(And that sticks with him far more than you’d ever know) 
Blood stains your shoulder as he places a hand on it 
The one Vergil sliced yet was healing and closing into a faded memory if not for the slice on the glove as well 
It snaps you from staring down into darkness, hand still reaching to grasp a hand that you’d never hold 
It closes tightly, leaving crescent indents in your palm 
“Let’s go” his words remain empty. Gone is his usual playfulness or lighthearted tone. Just empty and desolate.
Quietly you nod, getting up once more despite the pain with a small grimace 
You’d rather not let him know right now how injured you are 
He lost his brother again for fucks sake 
Hiding your limp and the strain of carrying Mary’s weapon you watch him pick up the sword he and Vergil raced to obtain earlier 
It’s not triumphant in any sort of way 
It’s just a tragedy 
One giant tragedy of two brothers
The sky back home is darkened by clouds as the destruction of the tower and demons loom like a veil of grief 
Wind blows through now abandoned buildings 
And silence permeates just about everything besides yours and Dante’s footsteps 
You nearly cry when you see Mary 
Her mismatched gaze locking with yours after a brief moment of surprise 
“Phew, What an ordeal” Dante acts nonchalant but you know he’s hiding his hurt. Mary’s canon is slung over his shoulder after he saw you struggle in carrying it awhile back. “You’re still here?” 
“I need that back” her eyes leave yours to linger on her canon before returning to you “and I need some answers from you later”. You nod, and Dante goes to hand her back the canon-
He pulls back at the last second “no late charges I hope. I also let them borrow it as well though seems like they already have the friend discount” 
Mary hums, “I’ll think of your charge. But for them it’s free”. Getting back her weapon she handle it with care, slinging it onto her back.
Dante moves and you stand beside him watching the sky, “we should be fine for now. But I’m sure they’ll be back soon, very soon”. Your hand grips his coat sleeve, and you feel his arm shake slightly.
“Are you crying?”
“It’s only the rain” the answer is immediate and yet despite the cloudy sky no water poured.
“The rain stopped already Dante” it comes more like a pained wheeze which gains a concerned look from both of them. They look like they’re gonna stop their conversation but you just grin in a silent gesture for them to continue. they need this, Dante needs this, and you won’t let yourself be the reason they stop.
“Devils never cry” 
“I see….maybe somewhere out there even a devil may cry when he loses a loved one. Don’t you think?” 
“Maybe…” there’s the slightest bit of hope in the response that makes you smile ever so slightly as you grip on his coat goes slack and your legs give out.
Distantly you hear both of them yell your name before succumbing to darkness.
As a kid the only activity your parents signed you up for that you enjoyed in any capacity was choir 
It was a pastime that had you away from under their thumb 
A small haven from the empty crypt you called a home 
It felt nice being apart of something as a collective and not on a stage alone with the spotlight solely on you 
All the other activities they had signed you up for were individual
So the attention was on you constantly 
If you messed up it would be noticed 
And if you faltered for even a moment their eyes would scowl from the crowd 
But in choir it was different, You harmonized with others 
Joining together no matter how small your role was to create a beautiful symphony of noise that echoed in the halls 
A lot of what you remember is just vague notes and melodies 
Latin dripping from your tongue and becoming garbled to the sands of time 
But you can’t help but think back to one song though
It was old and fractured and broken 
You couldn’t remember the lyrics but you did remember the melody and solemn organ 
your choir teacher at the time insisted you all try it 
At least to give it a chance despite its broken nature 
That melody of garbbled sounds you’ll never know the meaning to stuck with you in the depths of your mind 
And even when you forgot how you knew the melody in the first place it had remained 
That minute long chorus into some greater song dances in your mind once more 
You hum to it 
Singing with it as though you were back in those piers in white robes and little angel wings 
A halo of golden tinsel above your head 
But in that mass of voices you hear a familiar one 
Dante-
It pulls you from unconsciousness 
At first you feel before you properly understand anything around you 
Soft material under you 
Something heavy but warm laid over you 
And the rough material of bandages compressing your chest 
Distantly you hear the song quietly sung 
And then comes sight and your met with the sight of the wrecked store 
The jukebox is busted 
Pool table in two with the balls scattered on the floor 
Desk splintered in half 
Drum set and guitar smashed in the corner 
The fan was in pieces on the dirty and broken floor
Yet somehow miraculously the couch you were on was alright minus the greasy pizza stains you’d failed previously to wash out
Trying to sit up is met with instant regret, a sound of pain escaping you 
The material covering you that you now realize to be Dante’s jacket falling off to the ground 
The song stops 
But with that came the jingle of a familiar chain to a necklace guarding a key to the underworld 
“Easy there, you need to rest up before you start trying to do anything. Doctors orders” 
Gently, hands that had killed so many demons and spilled such blood pushes you back into laying down properly 
Then draping his coat back over you 
Thankfully it seemed he had the foresight to wash it 
A small victory
“How do you feel?”
“I’d say like hell but that be ironic” 
That gets a small chuckle from him 
On the small couch he sits himself by your legs
Not sitting in his typical spread out manner to ensure you have enough space to laze comfortably 
“Where’s Mary?”
“Mar- oh right lady. She’s off to get you some prescription. I opted to stay here and make sure you didn’t wake up and start trying to fix the place when half dead” the last part comes out a bit harsh but you guess you kinda deserve that.
“Ah…what’s with you calling her lady?”
“Said she preferred that now….that Mary died a long time ago” 
It goes back to an awkward silence 
Your mind racing with thoughts
His as well with how he tapped his finger against his leg 
Silence permeates with nothing to fill it
It’s uncomfortable
Not like the silence you’d used to have sparingly with him, especially when he once had a need to fill it with something
Yet again a tactic he used to defuse nerves
But now there’s nothing
He wants to say something
He always wants to talk but now he genuinely wants to say something
Yet he holds back
Let’s it die in his throat when he tunes his gaze to you
Guilt creeping up in him evident by how he quickly then averts his gaze
Unable to look at you
There’s a moment it looks like he wants to reach a hand to you 
To place it on your leg as a means of comfort
Yet he hesitates Pulling back as if his touch would burn you
All the while you lay on the couch with him by your feet 
This feels so weird 
You want to move but you know the reaction and answer you’ll get 
So you lay there 
A pillow propped up against the arm while his jacket acted as your blanket 
And silence permeates for minutes on end as he sits there
Observant and looking as if a single sound would send him into fight mode
A bit paranoid even for his traumatized teenage mind 
The juxbox is broken 
So there’s no way he can play something to calm himself down
A habit you noticed when he was particularly stressed 
But maybe-
“Were you singing earlier?”
Your voice feels raw, you hadn’t noticed it until just now 
Like you had garbled sand into glass 
You can’t sing like this 
But maybe he could 
“Yeah, why?” 
“What….what was that song you were singing?”
“It was something my mom taught me, uhhhh something like “devils never cry”? They made it into a kick ass rock song-”
“I learned it in choir class, it was my favourite. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it….can you sing it for me Dante?” 
He quirks a brow “you’re full of surprises you know. I’m not gonna lie and say I remember it well or that it’s accurate because I think it’s a translated version I was taught. but, whatever the patient wants I guess…All days, I'm looking in the Deep water flowing into me, Where are all tears, are they fallen? Tell me why I feel them in me? One day, they'll tell me what I'm exactly, Tears don't fall, I'll never heal them”
Mary- er lady helps with Dante in taking care of you 
Apparently after you passed out the two had rushed to a hospital while dealing with demons 
And your prediction of a rib poking into your lung was correct 
A bit too correct for your own sake 
Safe to say the bills were expensive and in the crossfire of all that your apartment wasn’t exempt from the destruction the hell tower you now learned was called the “temen-ni-Gru” had caused
Aka your building was destroyed in the madness and now you had to find someplace else to crash  
You’d be more upset if you had more to move and mourn
But honestly you had bare necessities 
And your apartment admittedly sucked so much so you were already looking for another place 
So for now you were crashing at the store 
That now finally had a name
Devil may cry 
A fitting name and much more easy to use instead of “the store”
Like you’d had to use for months up to this point 
Made you sound ominous when you said you worked at “the store” 
Anyways 
The two took shifts and turns 
One staying while the other went out to do whatever 
Presumably killing the few straggler demons that didn’t go down with the tower
Dantes been more silent than usual but at least for now you excuse it 
He lost his brother and now he had to look after you 
Not exactly a fun combination with the fact of the store needing to be fixed 
But with that comes talking with lady 
Catching up on what had happened 
And finally the talk you’d both been needing to have 
One seemingly long overdue when she sits down beside you 
Hands folded and the canon you now knew as Kalina Ann propped up on a folding chair 
You’d have to add buying new furniture for dmc to the list of stuff to do later 
“So….why’d you do it?” Lady is quiet, her words more like a secret than anything 
“Do what?”
“Run away?”
So they told People you ran away instead of them kicking you out?
You aren’t exactly surprised but did they really think it would make them look much better? 
A sigh voluntarily leaves you 
Depending on the lengths they went missing posters might be up 
You hope to whatever god there may or may not be that they wouldn’t that go that far
But considering this is the first time you’d stood your ground against them and didn’t come crawling back…
Well, control freaks will do what they can to reel you back in no matter the cost 
Especially since they were hinging on a cushy future in which they retired early and relied on you as an atm 
“Sure running away, that’s definitely what you call throwing your kid out to the curb because they won’t become a lawyer and saying not to come back until they changed their mind” the tone is slightly bitter but not aimed to her, moreso the circumstance
At hearing that you see her mismatched eyes widen a bit 
Pits of Emerald green and ruby red peering into that of your own 
Seeing truth and bitterness stew in them 
But at their core was sadness and hope 
Bitterness at the memories 
Yet a hope for the future 
Something she’d never quite seen in your eyes 
And it’s something you can’t see in hers anymore 
For the whole she’d been looking after you it’s been present 
Looming over the girl that had been your friend 
Grief
Loss 
And an overarching sense that she’s on the brink of collapse 
Can’t blame her either
Not after whatever she’s been through up till now 
All on her own after her mom died left to stew in anger 
Only for now the grief to hit her full force for not only Miss Ann
But also for the memory of what once was her family 
For her kind mother whom she talked about in earnest 
Who despite never meeting you always packed extra snacks for Mary to share with you 
For a father there but always absent
Nose stuck in his studies whom she talked of in hopes of earning his attention 
Until that faded as years passed 
And what’s left is a bitterness to the man who took everything 
Who tried to kill her 
Who killed her mom 
His own wife 
All for the sake of an obsession that would be for nothing because ultimately he only experienced the power he wanted for mere moments 
Leaving Mary the unfortunate victim in it all
You don’t have the right to continue complaining about your parental situation to her 
Not with what she’s experienced 
Not with what she’s lost in such a short period of time 
But her eyes are what stop you 
Brimming with emotion 
Two toned eyes of emerald green and ruby red 
They shine like jewels too 
Pretty and glimmering in the dull lighting of devil may cry 
“Why did you never tell me how bad they were to you?” Her question is quiet at first but gains volume from a faint whisper to a steadfast tone as she then asks “why didn’t you come to me when you were kicked out?”
“I just….at school and with you I wanted to be normal. I didn’t want to think about what’s at home when I walked through the doors I wanted to be my age for once, and I felt that way only with you till now.” As for that second question, it’s a bit of harder thing to admit to her let alone yourself “i was panicked…I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t want to be a burden-” 
“Burden?” It’s uttered in disbelief “how can you think like that! You’re never a burden to me! I was worried sick and they said you ran off! And I was alone and then I lost my mom”she pauses at that, going suddenly quiet as the words died in her mouth.
Your not really sure what to say after that 
Neither is she
She just stays motionless besides the shake in her hands
In all your years of knowing her you’d never seen her like this 
Even when she scraped her knee on the playground 
She’d always been strong 
Always held back tears even when her boyfriend in first year dumped her just before winter break 
Always had been the strong shoulder for you to lean on when you were upset 
And yet that girl is gone 
Mary is dead and lady is what’s left of that girl 
The bitterness 
The resentment 
the overwhelming grief of loosing both her parents 
And most importantly the loneliness of it all 
And your left to hold those pieces of her
Both emotionally as she breaks from the strenuous weight of everything crashing on her now 
And physically as you push past your discomfort and pain to hold her close 
She hesitates for a moment 
Unsure and unsteady 
But eases and pulls your closer 
Holding you as if you were her last lifeline 
Because in a way you are her lifeline 
You are the last good thing from Mary’s life that still remains 
And though that girl is dead, lady clings to that barest pinprick of light 
Because when being born again from rage and anger with her revenge now satiated 
What more does she have?
“I…I’m sorry” she’s desolate, quiet and a tad withdrawn until you pull her close. She’d always been the one you leaned on, but Mary was gone and it was time for you to repay the favour to what’s left of her.
“No, I’m sorry too. I should’ve contacted you, did anything sooner….i was scared and wanted to start over now that i had the chance. I should’ve thought of how you felt”
She’s silent for a few moments, but draws herself closer into your embrace. “We’re both pretty messed up huh?”
You can’t help but laugh a bit at that. “Yeah…guess we are. But we have each other again, and I think that’s what matters most right now”
She nods, and that’s all that needs to be said
….Well besides “I can get revenge on your parents-“ and “how about we talk about that later Lady”
He’s distant and stuck in his head more than before
It’s something that most wouldn’t notice since he tries to act like his typical self
Lady falls for it, though reluctantly because she doesn’t know him well but writes off why his smiles don’t reach his eyes
But you’d known Dante for about a year now
You’d known him long enough to notice when he’s off
It’s in the way his jokes aren’t the same
How he can’t properly look at you as he did before, with a sense of ease and joy that’s now damped
The drumming of his fingers and the thump of his boot against the floor creating soft creaks in the hardwood
you can tell whatever he didn’t say before was eating away at him
This wasn’t just grief (though that was still heavily apart of this) but rather something else that you can’t name until he was honest with it
Now, you wouldn’t particularly call yourself a confrontational person
You’d rather roll over than raise your voice or objection to your parents until that fateful night
And even then you mostly stood there being yelled at
You’d hardly name that a battle of words
But when it came to you, you wouldn’t do much to stand up for yourself
But this wasn’t about you
This was about Dante
And for as much as you could rot in silence like a forgotten fruit at the back of the fridge, you wouldn’t let Dante do the same
Not with how you see it absolutely eating at him
Just as it did to you before
Because you can see yourself so badly in him
And it hurts more than your currently broken chest
So when it’s finally his turn to stay with you while lady was out you take the chance
Because you can lose your apartment, your cold childhood home and what little shit you had
But you couldn’t lose him
You wouldn’t let him slip through your fingers and plunge into a different darkness that was all to similar to that of the hell Vergil voluntarily fell into
Not if you could do anything about it
“You’ve been more quiet as of late…”
“Really?”
“Yeah…”
It goes back to silence for a few minutes
This idiot isn’t taking the bait to air out his thoughts
Maybe you’d have to go the direct route instead
“So….are you gonna tell me what you wanted to say a few days ago?”
“Who’s to say I had anything on my mind”
You can’t help but roll your eyes at that, then reaching over to grab his shoulder. He was gonna run and you’re not letting him. “I know you well enough to know when you stuck in your head about something Dante…just please be honest and tell me. I don’t like seeing you distant like this”
There’s a pause in his actions at your touch, whatever was compelling him to run being stopped in his tracks. And then he answers “why’d you not say anything?”
“About what”
“Your injuries! You were hurt and on the brink of dying and you didn’t say anything about it!” 
“Dante you had just lost your brother. You had other things to deal with-“ 
“And I could’ve lost you too on top of that as well! Because I didn’t notice you were on the brink of dying and you didn’t say anything!” 
His eyes are clouded now in tears, glossy and making the blue shine like jewels
In any other scenario you’d admire the beauty in them
Yet all you see is pain refracted in the pools
Dante looks less his age and more like a scared little boy
But maybe that’s what he’s always been at heart
A scared boy still trapped in that hiding place as the house burned around him
Arms wrapped around himself to try and feel the fleeting warmth of his mothers touch
Loss drenches him to the bone
And you now realize that you’d nearly made it worse by brushing it off
But you can’t be fully to blame
Not when all your life you’d been raised to push away your own feelings
Your pain for others around you
And yet now he wants you to bare it to him
To ripe yourself open at its most tender
Because he was scared for you
Because he truly cared just as lady did
“You nearly died because of me, you were dragged into this because of me. Because I was selfish and couldn’t let go even when I knew it’d be dangerous. I….I shouldn’t have….you’d be safer if you left. Found another job and got away from here” it come out as a quiet whisper from him, his hair overshadowing his face and obscuring his eyes. You’d known him well enough though to know they were brimming with tears. You knew at the end there was also the unsaid notion of “away from me” Did this goof really think that after all this you’d leave? Knowing how much pain he was going through and had admitted to you he was scared of being alone again. Shaking your head your hand finds his, fingers linking together.
“You’re an idiot you know? You think I’m gonna leave you here when you still need me to remind you of the overdue bills? This place would go under if not for me. I’m not going anywhere” 
“I’m being serious here for once-“ 
“I know damn it, but you listen to me for a minute before you get it all up in your head and make a decision without my input” it’s a bit sharp but you need to right now, he’s spiraling and already trying to decide to push you away. With a groan you slowly lift yourself up, getting a sound of protest from him before you silenced him with your open palm telling him to stop. Hesitantly he does so, watching you struggle but eventually sit up, hand clenching his. “I’m happy here Dante” 
“Your happy here?” It’s spoken in disbelief. Maybe all your bitching had made him think otherwise but you did enjoy your time here, you wouldn’t trade it for the world or whatever cushy future your parents wanted. “Your happy here after all this? After you nearly died because of m-“
“I’m gonna stop you right there. We’ve had this conversation before and I didn’t know then but I know now why I want to stay despite the risks. Dante I never really lived before now. My life was made up for me and my outcome was predetermined before I was kicked out. And sure, maybe staying here is dangerous” you think of that future if you’d stayed and done what your parents wanted, an older unhappy version of you staring blankly in your mind “but danger is apart of life, you can’t live without it. And I’ve never been more happier, more free than I am here. So no, I don’t care about the danger I’m staying…understand?”. You see his eyes, they’re brimming with tears and more emotions than you can processed. But beneath it all you see Dante. The kind annoying dork who like his brother longed for companionship. His lips upturn ever so slightly as your free hand not entwined with his gently finds itself cupping his cheek, thumb wiping away a tear he didn’t realize had fallen. 
“I’m staying and I don’t intend on leaving anytime soon even when things get dicey….understand?”
“Yeah…loud and clear honeypie” 
You let the use of that horrid nickname slide once again with only a roll of your eyes. You’d never admit that it maybe made you smile, something you’ll deny vehemently when he inevitably brings it up later.  But for now at least it’s ok. 
You’re both gonna be ok.
“Hey Dante?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good to be back”
…….“good to have you back hon-“
“Finish that sentence and I’ll make you sign all the work orders required to fix this place”
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charlietheepicwriter7 · 1 year ago
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S̶̤̋̉t̸o̶̝̍r̵̛͠m̸̠͌͝
Look, I know I promised a continuation of "Get in the Water," but I had this idea and just had to write it, okay? So this is the non-canon sequel, the canon one is still in progress.
They escaped. Batman dragged Damian's frozen body away from the Lazarus Pit and through the tunnels as Danyal's screams-sobs-wails echoed behind them. Eventually the sound ebbed away and they emerged to the surface.
A debrief was demanded from everyone; even Todd was in the Cave. Damian trembled, his only sign of distress, his mind stuck on Danyal's face, his brother's voice rebounding around his head.
Father's debrief had been rough. Damian could barely explain what happened, why he was drawn to the waters, why Danyal wanted to drown him. He'd only explained the Danyal was someone he'd killed while with the League, and Father was the only one to doubt his explanation.
Damian took the first opportunity to escape to the showers. Stripping down, Damian turned the faucet and the bathroom lit up bright green.
He flinched away, and when he opened his eyes, the water was just water. A stone sunk into his stomach.
The next day, while Father was consulting with Justice League Dark, Grayson and Drake returned to the caves for their own investigation of the Pits. And while they found the cavern--found by tracking the batarang Father threw--it was desert dry. There was no sign of Lazarus Water, nor did it look like it had ever been there.
That night, as Damian was washing his face before bed, he filled the sink basin with water. He turned away for one second, but when he looked back, he almost dipped his face under the green slime oozing out the spout. He bolted, and when he returned with a startled Father, the water had returned to normal.
Grayson insisted on taking him out for lunch the following day, citing that Damian needed a "break." Damian was furious, but allowed it; Justice League Dark was visiting the cave to discuss the... incident, and Damian wanted to interrogate them. He... he needed to know if that was really Danyal or not. If his sweet brother could have been twisted after his murder into that monster, that Siren crooning at him to choose to die.
He'd never contemplated the fate of his brother's immortal soul before. Had he done this to him? Could Damian had avoided this by killing him honorably, instead of cowardly poisoning Danyal so he'd pass away in his sleep?
Damian allowed Grayson order for him. He wasn't hungry. The clouds above swirled ominously as he followed Grayson to a nearby awning with a picnic bench underneath.
Grayson took a bite of his gyro. "So? How have you been coping these past few days?"
"I'm not an invalid, Grayson," Damian hissed, glaring. "I'm fine."
A frozen breath brushed across his ear. "Ĺ̶̥̲̪̀̐ỉ̷̢̜̚a̴̧͖͛r̶̺̫̾͗̃͜,̶͕̐" Danyal whispered in his ear.
Grayson didn't notice or hear Danyal's voice. "You see, I don't believe you. One of your dead League friends is supernaturally gunning for you, Dami; it's normal to feel out of sorts."
Damian scoffed. "Nothing about this situation is normal."
He looked down at his food and sighed. "Yeah, that's for sure. I'm sorry, Damian. I wish this wasn't happening to you."
"And I wish the creature would just attack already," Damian griped. "It's the waiting that will kill me, not that fake."
Like someone had been listening, the sky opened up and it rained green throughout Gotham.
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soapysoapysoapysoapy · 1 month ago
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king!price x queen!reader pt 3 | inspired by: @dawnofvenus king!price
By the time Price carried you into the royal chambers, the heat between you had burned itself low, leaving only the soft crackle of the hearth and the slow thud of his heart under your cheek.
He didn’t drop you onto the bed like he sometimes did after a fight like that. No—tonight, he eased you down onto the thick furs with uncommon care, brushing the tangled mess of your hair back from your damp forehead. His thumb traced your cheek, lingering on the places where your tears had dried.
“You stay put,” he murmured, voice still low but stripped of its earlier edge. “I’ll draw the bath.”
You made a soft noise of protest, but your body betrayed you again, too heavy and sore to do anything but sink deeper into the furs as he stood. You watched through half-lidded eyes as your husband—your terrifying, overbearing, battle-hardened king—poured water from the copper pitcher into the deep stone basin near the fire. He moved with the efficiency of a soldier, but there was something gentle in the way he tested the heat with his hand before adding more cool water.
When he came back for you, his hands were steady as he stripped away the ruined remnants of your skirts and unlaced the bodice that had been shoved up in his frenzy. Piece by piece, he bared you—not like earlier, when it was rough and desperate, but like he was peeling away armor to get to something precious beneath.
His eyes flickered down your body, and you saw the change in his face as he spotted the bruises blooming on your hips, the faint bite marks on your throat, the red imprint of his fingers on your waist.
His jaw clenched. “Too rough,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Left marks I didn’t mean to.”
Your hand caught his wrist before he could turn away. “I’m not breakable, John. You know I like the way you take me.” Your voice was hoarse, but steady now. “Don’t go soft on me after you’ve already ruined me.”
That earned a faint snort from him, but the guilt still lingered behind his eyes as he bent to scoop you up again. “Stubborn little thing,” he grumbled, but his grip was careful as he lowered you into the steaming water.
The heat soaked into your sore muscles, drawing out a shuddering breath from deep in your chest. You sank deeper, eyes fluttering closed, and let yourself float in the weightless warmth.
But Price didn’t leave you there. No, his big hands were already dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out, and then trailing it over your skin. He worked in slow, steady circles—over your shoulders, down your arms, across your chest—his rough fingers lingering a little longer on the places he’d marked. His mouth followed, pressing soft kisses over every bruise like he could will them away.
“Made a mess of my queen,” he muttered against your skin, voice low and rough. “Let me make it right.”
Your hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. “You are making it right,” you whispered. “Right here. Like this.”
He huffed a breath against your collarbone but didn’t argue this time. Just kept washing you with that fierce, quiet devotion, working the cloth lower, down your thighs, between them—gentler now, where you were still raw and tender from his claiming.
When he was done, he set the cloth aside and just held you, his arms wrapped around your waist as you sat in the warm water between his knees, your back pressed to his chest. His lips found the crown of your head, lingering there like a benediction.
For a long, peaceful stretch, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the soft lapping of water against the stone.
It was Price who finally broke the silence, his voice a low rasp against your damp hair. “You’ll ride tomorrow. I won’t stop you.”
You blinked, tilting your head to look at him. His eyes were heavy-lidded but clear, no trace of the earlier anger—just tired acceptance.
“But you’ll come back to me,” he added, rough and quiet. “Every time. I need to hear you say it, dove.”
Your heart ached at the rawness in his tone, stripped of all that kingly pride.
You reached up, cupping his jaw with your wet palm, forcing him to look you in the eye. “I’ll always come back,” you murmured. “Always. To you.”
His exhale was shuddering, like you’d just loosened some invisible knot inside him. His mouth found yours again—not desperate this time, but soft. Slow. Like a man who had nearly lost something precious and was kissing it back into existence.
When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.
And for the first time that day, the storm between you was finally quiet.
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winxanity-ii · 5 months ago
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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 21 Chapter 21 | venus rising⌟
╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝
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❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘
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You woke with a gasp.
Your chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like you had been drowning. Your body jolted upright before your mind caught up, heart hammering so hard it echoed in your ears.
Something was wrong.
Your skin was damp, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to your brow despite the cool air seeping in from the open window. Your breathing was uneven, shuddering. When you reached up to wipe your face, your fingers came away wet.
Tears.
You blinked rapidly, swiping them away with the heel of your hand, confusion tightening your throat. You weren't crying—at least, you didn't think you were. But the evidence was there, clinging to your lashes, trailing down your cheeks.
Why?
No nightmare lingered. No fragmented memory. No reason for this hollow weight pressing against yoribs—s, heavy and unshakable.
You swallowed hard, forcing it down. It had to be exhaustion.
Last night—Apollo—the endless music, the warmth of his presence, the way his voice wrapped around you like sunlight. Maybe it had drained you more than you realized.
That had to be it.
Letting out a slow breath, you swung your legs over the bed, pressing your feet to the cool floor to ground yourself. The lingering haze clung to your mind as you stretched, muscles heavier than usual—but not unpleasantly so.
Moving toward the water basin in the corner, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished bronze mirror.
You looked... different.
Not in any obvious way. But something about the morning light—it kissed your skin, lingered a little too long, like it knew you. Like it belonged to you.
You shook the thought away.
Instead, you focused on the familiar routine of washing up, letting the cold water shock your system awake. As you dressed, an unconscious hum slipped from your lips.
A hymn.
To Apollo.
Your fingers stilled on the fabric of your tunic, the sound of your own voice catching you off guard. You hadn't meant to hum it. Hadn't even thought about it. Yet it had come so naturally.
A warmth settled in your chest—gentle, knowing.
You ignored it, shaking the feeling off as you adjusted your clothes and made your way to the door. Whatever last night had meant, it was over. It was morning, and you had things to do.
Taking a steadying breath, you pulled open the door—
Only to nearly walk straight into Callias.
The two of you froze, eyes locking in mutual surprise.
Callias stood mid-motion, one hand raised as if about to knock, the other balancing a small wooden tray. A simple meal rested on top—freshly cut fruit, a bit of cheese, some olives. The kind of food you might have grabbed between chores or on the way to the queen's chambers.
You blinked. He blinked back.
A beat of silence stretched between you before Callias let out a quiet chuckle, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips.
"Well, hello, sleepyhead," he teased, tilting his head slightly. "What made you so tired?"
The question caught you off guard. Your mind scrambled for an answer—one that made sense because how could you possibly explain it? That you'd spent the night with Apollo himself, playing for him, singing for him, lost in melodies that dimmed the stars?
So instead, you settled for something vague.
"You wouldn't believe me," you muttered, shaking your head.
Callias raised an eyebrow, smirk deepening. "Wouldn't I?" he challenged, leaning against the doorframe, eyes glinting with lazy amusement. "You were asleep almost all day."
Your breath caught.
"...What?"
Callias laughed, clearly amused by your reaction. "Yeah, it's almost noon," he said casually, shifting the tray so he could gesture toward the hallway.
The words hit like a stone sinking in water, dragging down into something deep and unsteady.
Noon?
You had gone to sleep just before dawn—only a few hours ago. At least, that's what you thought. You remembered the sky still dark when you finally lay down, Apollo's presence still lingering as you drifted off.
And now... it was noon?
You must have frozen completely because Callias chuckled again, though this time, curiosity edged into his amusement.
"Yeah, you were out," he continued. "But no worries. Prince Telemachus told the king and queen at breakfast that you'd be taking the morning off, so no one's disturbed you."
Telemachus?
Your thoughts whirled, struggling to keep up. You hadn't asked for the morning off. But... he had done it for you? Had gone out of his way to make sure no one expected anything from you after last night?
Something warm and strange settled in your chest, but it was quickly buried beneath the lingering shock.
"Are you okay?" Callias asked, his teasing tone dipping into something softer.
You forced a nod, though your thoughts still spun. "Yeah... just—didn't realize how tired I was."
Not a lie. Not entirely.
Callias studied you for a beat, sharp eyes scanning like he was debating whether to pry. But then, just as quickly, his usual carefree grin returned as he held out the tray. "Well, here, eat something. You probably need it after hibernating."
You took the tray with a small nod of thanks, though your mind was still sluggish, trying to catch up. So much had happened—Apollo, Cleo, your parents, everything—and yet, in reality, it had all been just one day.
The realization made your head spin.
Your body still carried the exhaustion of the Underworld, the weight of divine revelation pressing into your bones. Time had been strange since you entered the Underworld, slipping through your fingers like sand. But even then, you had never slept for so long.
"Anyway, I actually came to tell you about Venus tonight." Callias' grin widened, eyes gleaming with excitement.
You blinked, thrown by the shift. "Venus?"
"Yeah," he nodded, his enthusiasm infectious. "It'll be at its brightest tonight. The whole town is talking about it. Perfectly clear skies, the kind of thing you have to see." Your fingers tightened slightly around the tray as something twisted deep in your chest—not unpleasant, but unexpected.
Venus.
A memory surfaced unbidden, breaking through the fog.
"Tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," Telemachus had said, voice quieter than usual. "It lights up the sky like a beacon. I... was thinking—if you'd like, you could... join me?"
The way he had looked at you then—hopeful, hesitant—made your heart clench.
But before you could answer, Andreia had appeared.
Her presence had shattered the moment, her voice dripping with familiarity as she touched Telemachus' arm, claiming his attention like it was hers to take. He had turned to her, torn between duty and whatever had just passed between you.
And just like that, the offer had been swept away.
You had almost forgotten. Or maybe you had forced yourself to.
Callias' voice pulled you back to the present before you could spiral too deep.
"I was thinking we could go together," he said, his eagerness cutting through the weight pressing in your chest. "It's supposed to be stunning, and I don't want to go alone."
You hesitated, emotions warring inside you.
A part of you—a small, ugly part—wanted to refuse. To lock yourself away in your room and ignore the ache curling inside your chest. To pretend none of this mattered.
But another part of you—the part that refused to let Andreia's callousness dictate your choices—wanted to go.
What did it matter if Telemachus was watching Venus with Andreia?
What did it really matter?
You looked up at Callias, his expectant expression so open, so easy. Unlike Telemachus, who carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, Callias was light. No burdens, no expectations. Just here, grinning at you like nothing was complicated at all.
And maybe, for tonight, you needed that.
You took a breath, shoving the ache of Telemachus and Andreia down. Letting it settle beneath the surface.
"Alright," you said, forcing a small smile. "I'll go."
Callias' grin widened, his whole face lighting up. "Perfect! I'll meet you in the square after sunset."
You nodded, watching as he stepped back with an easy wave before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
The tray in your hands felt heavier than before.
Exhaling slowly, you closed the door behind you and turned back into your room.
For the first time in what felt like days, you had plans. Not with Telemachus. Not with duty pressing against your back.
But with someone who simply wanted to enjoy the stars.
And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what you needed.
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As the day stretched on, you noticed something felt off.
It wasn't something you could name—not fully.
It started the moment you woke, lingering at the edges of your mind like the remnants of a dream you couldn't quite grasp. The air felt heavier, the familiar scents of the palace—sea salt, aged stone, fresh linens—were sharper, more defined, as if you were experiencing them for the first time.
At first, you brushed it off—exhaustion, the weight of yesterday, your mind still catching up to the reality that had shifted beneath your feet.
But as the hours passed, the feeling didn't fade.
If anything, it grew stronger.
Every sound, every color, every sensation felt amplified, as if you had been seeing the world through a veil this entire time, and now, without warning, it had been ripped away.
Something had changed.
You had changed.
But you couldn't explain how.
And you weren't sure if you were ready to.
The sky had darkened by the time you made your way down to the courtyard, the last streaks of twilight fading into the deep indigo of night. Stars pricked through the heavens like scattered embers, and in the east, Venus shone the brightest—a beacon against the endless dark.
You exhaled, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders.
Tonight was simple. Meet Callias. Watch Venus. Let the night be just a night.
This was fine. You were fine.
You weren't thinking about the way Apollo had looked at you like you were his to cherish, weren't thinking about the way Telemachus had asked you to see Venus with him, only for Andreia to steal that moment away.
No. You weren't thinking about any of that.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, you had Callias.
And yet, as you approached the courtyard, your steps slowed.
Something stirred in the distance.
Not Callias—not yet.
Beyond the stone archway, at the entrance to the palace grounds, a small caravan was being prepared.
Horses shifted under the weight of their bridles, their breath visible in the cool night air. Royal attendants moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting saddles, tightening straps, securing supplies. Lanterns flickered, casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls.
You didn't have to wonder who it was for.
Then, you saw them.
Telemachus and Andreia stood just beyond the main path, illuminated by the soft golden glow of the torches.
Your breath hitched—just for a moment.
She stood close to Telemachus. Too close.
Her fingers barely grazed his arm, but the touch lingered. She was speaking, head tilted just so, lips curved in an easy, confident smile. The way she looked at him—like she knew she was the center of his attention, like she expected it—made your stomach churn.
But it was Telemachus' expression that truly caught you.
He wasn't smiling.
His posture was stiff, hands clasped tightly in front of him. He nodded as she spoke, but his gaze flickered—to the ground, to the attendants, to the caravan. Anywhere but her.
Anywhere but here.
It was the same look he wore when he was enduring something he didn't want but knew he couldn't refuse.
You should have looked away.
You should have kept walking, let the night unfold as it was meant to—without letting yourself drown in the weight of something you couldn't change.
But you didn't.
Something about them—the almost-blue of her dress, the tension in his shoulders, the way the torches illuminated them like a portrait painted in gold—held you there.
This was what could have been yours.
But it wasn't.
Not anymore.
A cool breeze brushed past, making you pull your shawl tighter, and for the briefest moment, you let yourself feel it.
The ache.
The loss.
The quiet, unbearable knowing that whatever had existed between you and Telemachus—that unspoken, fragile thing—was now on the verge of shambles.
And then—
"___!"
The voice snapped you out of your thoughts, light and familiar.
You turned, blinking quickly as Callias strode into view, his usual easy grin in place. He looked effortlessly put together, as always—his brown curls tousled from the wind, a thin gold chain catching the torchlight at his throat.
Behind you, the caravan began to move—horses led forward, wheels creaking against the stone path as the procession disappeared into the night.
Telemachus and Andreia turned as well, their figures half-illuminated in the shifting glow.
And for just a second—a single, fleeting second—Telemachus' gaze found yours.
Your breath caught.
Something flickered across his face—something unreadable, something buried too deep to name.
But then, just as quickly, he looked away, shifting his attention back to Andreia as she spoke.
And that was that.
Callias came to a stop beside you, watching the caravan fade into the dark before turning back to you with an amused tilt of his head.
"You were staring," he noted, teasing but light. "Do I even need to ask why?"
You swallowed, forcing a small, dismissive smile. "Not at all."
He studied you for a moment, his usual playfulness tempered by something quieter, more knowing. But whatever he wanted to say, he held back. Instead, he threw an arm over your shoulders, tugging you lightly toward the garden terraces.
"Good thing I'm here to rescue you from your thoughts," he said cheerfully. "Come on, we have stars to see. And I, for one, refuse to let you mope under a sky this clear."
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, and fell into step beside him.
The night stretched before you, open and endless, the sky above glittering with stars.
.☆.       .✩.            .☆.
By the time you and Callias reached the stargazing spot, both of you were panting slightly, the climb steeper than expected. The winding paths of Ithaca weren't anything new to you, but under the cover of night—with the occasional loose stone threatening to send you tumbling—it felt far more treacherous than it should have.
Callias let out a dramatic huff beside you, swiping his curls away from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You know," he started, breath coming in short bursts, "for an island, Ithaca sure has an ungodly amount of hills."
You let out a breathless laugh. "One would think being surrounded by the sea would make it flatter," you teased, shaking your head.
"Exactly!" Callias threw his hands up. "Mountains? Fine. Valleys? Sure. But this?" He gestured vaguely at the incline you'd just conquered, his frustration exaggerated enough to make you laugh again.
The cool night air brushed against your skin, and as you finally lifted your gaze, the sight before you made the ache in your legs seem like a small price to pay.
The stargazing area had been arranged with far more preparation than you'd expected. Ithaca, despite its deep-rooted love for land and sky, didn't typically host large stargazing gatherings. Most preferred quiet moments, watching from their own homes, sharing the night with close friends or family.
But this—this was different.
The clearing had been carefully prepared, no doubt orchestrated by Andreia herself. Blankets covered the grass while small wooden trays sat between each seating arrangement, filled with fresh figs, olives, and honeyed almonds.
Lanterns lined the outskirts, casting a warm, flickering glow—just enough to move around without overpowering the brilliance of the stars.
Already, a handful of servants from both Bronte and Ithaca had settled in, chatting in hushed voices, adjusting their seats. Others lingered by the edges, watching as the last of the caravan settled into place.
It was beautiful, you had to admit, even if it left a strange weight in your chest.
Your gaze instinctively drifted skyward, drawn by habit and expectation. But instead of the vast, glittering expanse of stars you had imagined, drifting clouds veiled the heavens. The familiar constellations flickered faintly behind them, their shapes blurred and broken, swallowed and revealed in slow-moving patterns.
It wasn't unusual for clouds to pass through, but it felt almost... untimely. As though the heavens had drawn a curtain over something you were meant to see.
Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting as you scanned the sky, searching—searching for the one light you had been waiting for.
Venus should have been visible by now.
Yet, for a long, stretching moment, it was nowhere to be found.
A pang of disappointment nudged at your ribs, though you weren't sure why. It was just a planet, just another celestial body tracing its path through the heavens. And yet...
"Don't tell we crawled up this hill for a cloudy sky," Callias groaned beside you, following your gaze with a half-hearted glare at the heavens. He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his sleeve. "If Venus is hiding after all that effort, I'm taking it as a personal betrayal."
You let out a small, breathy laugh, though your fingers unconsciously tightened at your sides.
"Just wait," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It'll show."
Callias barely gave you a moment before grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward a group already seated near the edge of the gathering. "C'mon," he grinned, excitement buzzing in his tone. "There are a few people I want you to meet."
You let him lead you, weaving through clusters of people, careful not to step too close to the edge of the hill.
Your nerves kicked in when you realized where he was taking you—to a Brontean group, already settled comfortably in a small circle.
Three figures—two women and one man—looked up as Callias approached, their faces illuminated by the soft lantern glow.
The first woman, a foreign-looking girl with deep brown skin framed by a golden-wrapped headscarf, was the first to notice you. Her dark eyes flickered with curiosity, lips twitching in amusement as she nudged the girl beside her.
The second woman—lighter in complexion, black curls tumbling over her shoulders, an air of quiet confidence around her—lifted her gaze from a bowl of figs, sharp blue eyes assessing you quickly.
The man, broad-shouldered with a trimmed beard and golden rings adorning his fingers, smirked as Callias approached.
"If it isn't Ithaca's favorite socialite," he teased, shifting slightly to make room.
Callias rolled his eyes but grinned, tugging you closer. "Everyone, this is ____, the newest addition to my very selective circle of friends."
The woman with the golden scarf hummed, tilting her head. "So this is the one Callias won't shut up about," she mused. "Well, aren't you a pretty lamb ready for slaughter?"
You blinked, caught off guard, while Callias groaned dramatically, shooting her an unimpressed look.
"Asta, that's not how we greet people."
The woman—Asta—shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I think it is."
The dark-haired woman smirked, leaning forward. "You have been talking about her a lot, Cal," she admitted, popping a fig into her mouth.
Callias nudged her foot. "I do have other things to talk about, you know."
"Sure," the man chuckled. "Like wine. And how much you hate horses."
Callias narrowed his eyes. "You're all terrible. Scooch over, we're sitting."
With a dramatic sigh, Asta made room, and Callias pulled you down beside him, flashing you a quick wink before turning back to the group.
The dark-haired woman studied you for a moment before offering a smooth smile. "I'm Lysandra," she introduced herself. "Lady Andreia's personal attendant."
Your breath hitched slightly, but you nodded, keeping your expression neutral.
Lysandra seemed to catch your hesitation because she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Don't worry," she murmured, amusement flickering in her gaze. "I'm not here to test your loyalty or anything. Honestly, I'm just here for the stars and good company."
You offered a small smile, though your stomach still twisted uncomfortably.
Beside her, the man stretched, letting out a small sigh as he adjusted the rings on his fingers.
"And I'm Kieran," he said. "Bronte's Treasury Overseer and resident merchant-troublemaker. Whatever you need, I can find it—for a price, of course." His grin was easygoing, but his eyes were sharp, something calculated beneath the charm.
"And I," Asta cut in, her accent unfamiliar, "am just Asta. No fancy titles, no noble houses. Just a wandering soul who somehow ended up in Bronte."
You nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer presence of them all.
Callias, sensing your nerves, nudged you lightly.
"Relax," he whispered. "They don't bite." He paused, side-eyeing Asta, who merely raised an eyebrow. "Most of them don't."
That pulled a small, reluctant laugh from you, easing some of the tension in your chest.
Kieran, always one to seize an opportunity, leaned back on his hands with a grin. "So, Callias," he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him. "What exactly have you been up to? It feels like we haven't seen you in ages."
Callias scoffed, waving him off. "You literally saw me earlier today. At lunch. And at dinner."
Asta snorted, shaking her head. "You mean we saw you grab a bite before immediately disappearing."
Lysandra smirked, adding in smoothly. "And even when you do stay, you can't stop talking about your new bestie." She glanced at you teasingly, amusement glimmering in her green eyes. "It's honestly kind of cute."
You blinked, caught between mild shock and embarrassment. Callias? Talking about you?
Callias groaned loudly, tossing his head back in dramatic exasperation. "Oh, for the love of the gods—" He shot Lysandra a playfully betrayed look. "You're all just mad I finally found someone who appreciates my charm."
Asta smirked. "Or someone who hasn't yet figured out how exhausting you are."
Laughter rippled through the group, warm and easy, and despite the lingering tension in your chest, you couldn't help but smile.
Callias placed a hand over his heart, dramatically wounded. "If this is how you're gonna treat me, then I'm leaving."
"No, you're not," Kieran said, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't dare leave your bestie behind."
Callias grumbled something under his breath, but his grin gave him away. He leaned back onto his elbows, shaking his head in mock defeat.
Asta, still watching you with sharp curiosity, tilted her head. "So, ____," she said, smoothly bringing you into the conversation. "What's it like working under Ithaca's rule?"
Kieran perked up beside her, nudging Lysandra with his elbow. "Yeah! How's the pay? I might switch over."
Lysandra swatted his arm without looking. "You wouldn't last a week in Ithaca."
You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. "It's... not bad," you admitted, adjusting the fabric of your tunic as you as you considered your answer. "The royal family is warmer than most would expect."
Asta arched a brow, intrigued. "Warmer, huh?"
You nodded. "It wasn't always like this," you said, your voice softening in thought. "Before King Odysseus returned, things were... tense. The palace felt like it was holding its breath. The queen was strong, but the suitors brought uncertainty. It was hard to feel secure."
Your fingers traced absent patterns into your sleeve. "But ever since the king came home, things have been different. There's a new kind of peace in Ithaca. He's fair but firm. He sees people, not just titles."
Kieran hummed, considering. "Not bad," he mused. "Maybe I should switch over."
Lysandra groaned and flicked an olive at him. He barely dodged it. "Oh, shut up."
Then, she turned her gaze toward you, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "So, ____, what's he really like?"
You blinked, caught off guard. "Who?"
"The great King Odysseus, of course," she clarified. "Word of his return spread all the way to Bronte. Everyone was talking about it—the king who defeated death itself to come home."
Asta hummed in agreement. "It's a big reason why we're here, actually. Along with the whole Prince Andros situation, of course."
At the mention of Andros, a shadow flickered across Kieran's face before he scoffed.
"The 'Andros situation'—what a polite fucking way to put it," he muttered, voice edged with sarcasm. He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands. "More like the clean-up of a fool. Serves him right."
Asta shot him a warning look. "Careful," she said, voice even but pointed. "Someone might overhear and snitch to the princess."
Kieran rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. We're not in Bronte, Asta. What's she gonna do? Have me executed in Ithaca?"
Asta arched a brow, adjusting her seat. "No. But the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."
Kieran's smirk faded into a scowl. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Yeah. What a fast one, the princess is," he muttered, irritation laced through his voice.
Then, his sharp gaze flicked to you.
"Speaking of which," he said, tilting his head. "What have you heard on your end?"
You blinked. "Pardon?"
Kieran leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "C'mon. We're not gonna snitch. I just mean, what rumors have you heard? About Princess Andreia? About your prince?" he urged, tilting his head toward the clearing, subtly motioning with his hand.
Your chest tightened at the phrasing—your prince—before following his gesture, your gaze landing on the opposite side of the clearing, where the best seats for stargazing had been arranged.
Andreia sat in a broad wooden chair—one brought just for her—an ornate cushion beneath her to keep her comfortable on the rocky ground. She was speaking to Telemachus, lips curved into an easy, knowing smile. Her hands moved lightly as she spoke, graceful, practiced, but her expression betrayed little true emotion.
Telemachus, however, wasn't looking at her.
His face remained calm, polite. But his eyes were already fixed skyward, waiting for the clouds to part and reveal Venus. His fingers tapped absently against his knee, his mind clearly elsewhere.
You weren't sure why you kept watching him. Maybe it was the way his expression barely changed, the way his body sat there—composed, proper—while his hands betrayed his thoughts. The rhythmic tapping against his knee, the quiet inhale through his nose every few moments, the way his shoulders never fully relaxed despite Andreia's presence.
As if a memory had been scraped to the surface, Callias' words returned with startling clarity.
"One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip... Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."
Your stomach tightened.
How long had it been since he told you that? A week? A day? Less? Everything that had happened—the Underworld, Apollo, your own unraveling—had swallowed your focus so completely that you had forgotten.
Just how much had she accomplished in that time?
Had she already planted her roots deeper into Ithaca's court? Had she secured her place by his side while you were tangled in your own problems, failing to notice?
Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your tunic.
What has she gained while I wasn't paying attention?
The thought made your skin crawl.
Not because of duty. Not because of political maneuvering—those had always existed, always shaped the lives of the powerful.
No, what unsettled you was Andreia herself.
"...the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."
Asta's words echoed fresh in your mind, sharp and foreboding.
And the truth was, she was right.
Andreia wasn't just here to bask in Ithaca's hospitality. She wasn't lingering at Telemachus' side out of passing interest.
She was moving.
Every smile, every carefully placed word, every touch Telemachus never stopped—she was shifting the board, playing the game.
Your lips pressed into a thin line as your gaze lingered on her.
The dress she wore tonight was a lighter seafoam blue, not green—a color closer to Ithaca's than Bronte's. A subtle change, but deliberate. A symbol of someone adjusting, assimilating. She was embedding herself within Ithaca's court, reshaping her image to make it easier for others to see her as belonging here.
Beside its prince.
Your eyes flicked back to him.
His hands had gone still, resting idly against his knee. His face was polite, but distant.
Waiting for the clouds to move.
Not looking at her.
Your grip loosened slightly.
For all of Andreia's efforts, for all of her presence—
Telemachus was not looking at her.
He was looking up.
And for just a moment, you let yourself believe—maybe Asta was wrong.
Maybe, no matter how much Andreia tried to weave herself into his world, she would never truly have him.
You opened your mouth, ready to answer Kieran—to say something, maybe that you weren't sure, that you hadn't heard anything worth repeating.
But before you could get a word out—
A half-eaten fig flew across the blanket and smacked Kieran in the shoulder.
"Gods, do you lot even know how to ask a normal question?" Callias huffed, stretching out lazily as if he hadn't just launched fruit at someone. "What ever happened to 'Hey, ____! What'' your favorite color?' Or 'Wow, that's a nice shawl, where'd you get it?' You know—questions that don't make people think they're about to be interrogated."
Kieran let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically rubbing his shoulder as if the fig had done any real damage. "Callias, you are insufferable."
"Selfish,"Lysandra agreed, shaking her head in mock disappointment.
"So selfish," Asta echoed, plucking the remains of the fig from where it had rolled onto the blanket and tossing it at Callias in retaliation. He dodged effortlessly, flashing them a smug grin.
"You're all just mad that I have social skills," Callias shot back, wagging a finger at them.
"You mean the skills of an annoying little brother," Lysandra muttered.
Kieran rolled his eyes and turned back to you. "This is the first Ithacan servant we've actually had a chance to talk to since being here—ever—and he want us to waste time with trivial nonsense?" He shot Callias a pointed look before glancing back at you. "I, for one, think we should make good use of the opportunity."
That... surprised you.
"You've... never spoken to any of the other servants?" you asked, hesitantly. "Is it... forbidden?"
The moment the words left your lips, the energy around the group shifted. A brief, noticeable silence settled, the once-playful air turning heavier, more serious.
Asta was the first to break it. "Not explicitly," she admitted, rolling a small olive between her fingers. "But it's an unwritten rule for Brontes not to be too communicative with outsiders."
Lysandra nodded, leaning back on her hands. "It's about presenting an image—one of strength, unity. The less our servants talk, the more disciplined and devoted our homeland appears to others. It's..." She hesitated, then settled on, "A way to maintain control, I suppose."
Kieran, however, scoffed loudly, completely unimpressed. "It's bullshit is what it is. The whole thing's designed to make us miserable. Keeps us longing for home, thinking about how much better we had it before leaving." His jaw tensed slightly, and for the first time since meeting him, there was no teasing in his voice—just frustration.
Asta arched a brow, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. "You've been awfully bold lately, Kieran." She propped her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement. "What happened to the perfect, quiet little merchant's son from Bronte?"
Kieran shot her an unimpressed glare. "He got a taste of freedom—of Ithaca—and now he's got a spine," he retorted dryly. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression brightened.
"Oh! Tadros is passing out wine!"
He practically jolted upright, pointing toward the far end of the clearing before turning to Lysandra and tugging her arm. "Come on! Let's go before all the good stuff's gone!"
Lysandra rolled her eyes, though a faint smile played at her lips. "Fine, you child," she muttered, already getting to her feet.
Asta followed suit, stretching her arms above her head. "I'll help carry enough back for everyone," she said before shooting a smirk at Kieran. "Not that you'd be any help with that."
"You wound me," Kieran gasped, clutching his chest dramatically before grinning and leading the way toward the group of Bronte servants gathered around the wine.
As they walked off, you exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation still lingering. The laughter and chatter faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the night and the distant murmur of the gathering around the wine.
You turned toward Callias, curiosity—and unease—pressing against your chest too strongly to ignore.
"Is it really true?" you asked, voice quieter now that it was just the two of you. "That Bronte's servants aren't allowed to speak to Ithacans?"
Callias glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.
"Yeah, it's true," he admitted. "At least, that's how it's supposed to be."
Leaning back on his hands, he tilted his head toward the sky, his face thoughtful. "But I've never been one to stick to all the rules—especially not when the princess herself is out here making 'alliances.'" His lips curled into a knowing smirk, but there was something else behind it. Something tired.
His words made your stomach twist. You hesitated before asking carefully, "Have you... gotten into trouble because of... me?"
The smirk faltered—just for a second. It was quick, barely noticeable, but you caught it before he forced an easy grin back into place.
He shrugged, brushing invisible dust from his tunic as if the question meant nothing. "Of course not," he said lightly. "Like Kieran said, what could she do to us here? This isn't Bronte."
For some reason, you didn't believe him.
But instead of pressing the issue, you simply nodded in quiet acceptance. Maybe it was better not to know.
A flicker of movement caught your attention from the corner of your eye. A Bronte servant approached, their steps quick but measured, head slightly bowed as they reached Callias.
"The princess has requested your presence," they said in a hushed voice. "She wants you near her... and to play the panpipes."
A brief, loaded silence followed.
Callias didn't move at first, absorbing the words. Then, without hesitation, he gave a short nod. "Of course," he said, voice neutral. The servant inclined their head and disappeared back into the gathering like a shadow.
Once they were gone, Callias let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Well. That's that," he muttered, exhaling sharply before turning back to you. "Sorry, ____."
"You don't have to apologize, Callias," you assured him, offering a small smile. "She would've noticed you were here sooner or later anyway."
His gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, instead of dwelling on it, he grinned—though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You're right," he said. "Still—kind of a shame. I was having fun."
You chuckled softly. "Me too."
Callias stood, stretching his arms above his head before rolling out his shoulders. "Tell you what," he said, glancing down at you with a playful tilt of his head. "Tomorrow, let's hang out. No princess, no obligations—just a normal, rule-breaking Bronte servant and his new bestie."
The casual way he said it made you smile. "Alright," you agreed, nudging his foot with yours. "Tomorrow, then."
His grin widened before he took a step back. "Great. I'll come find you."
With that, he turned, heading toward the main gathering—toward Andreia, who was waiting.
You watched him go, the easy energy he always carried feeling just a little heavier tonight. As he disappeared into the crowd, you let out a small breath, shaking off the weight of it all.
Tomorrow.
That was something to look forward to.
But tonight wasn't over just yet.
Before you could dwell too much on Callias' departure, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you back to the present.
Kieran, Lysandra, and Asta returned, carrying a few clay cups of wine between them. Kieran was the first to plop down beside you, exhaling like he'd just completed some impossible task. Lysandra and Asta followed, setting down a small flask with the remaining wine.
Asta's sharp eyes swept over the circle, immediately picking up on the absence.
"Where's Callias?" she asked, brow furrowing.
You hesitated, then sighed. "Princess Andreia sent for him."
That was all it took for the mood to drop.
Asta's mouth tightened into a thin line. Kieran scoffed, shaking his head as he handed you a cup of wine, and Lysandra sighed heavily, settling in beside Asta.
Kieran took a swig from his cup, grumbling, "Figures. The four of us finally get some time together, and she takes him. As always." He rubbed a hand down his face, exasperated.
Asta hummed in agreement. "It's no different than back home," she said, swirling her wine before taking a small sip. She turned to Lysandra. "Does she ever talk about why she loves picking on Callias so much?"
Lysandra frowned, clearly considering the question before shaking her head. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Since we've come to Ithaca, I haven't been as close to her. It's not like before."
Kieran clicked his tongue. "Bet she caught on," he muttered, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Or another servant ratted them out. You know how Bronte royals are when they travel. They love pitting their servants against each other."
His words struck something in you, but before you could dwell on it, his gaze flickered to you. His expression softened slightly, the usual sharpness easing.
"Hey," he said, nudging your arm with his elbow. "I just wanna say—if we made you uncomfortable earlier, I'm sorry. We can be... a bit much."
You blinked, then quickly shook your head. "No, it's alright. I wasn't uncomfortable," you reassured, offering a small smile. "It was nice... getting to talk to others."
Lysandra tilted her head, watching you for a moment before speaking.
"I know you were mostly here for Callias," she said gently. "And you might not be comfortable around the rest of us just yet—but we did enjoy getting to know you." She paused, then smiled. "Hopefully, we'll get to do it again."
Something about the sincerity in her voice made your chest warm slightly. You nodded, gratitude settling in your bones. "I'd like that," you admitted.
After that, you excused yourself, stretching as you stood. The others bid you a casual farewell, already shifting their conversation elsewhere.
You wandered a short distance away, their chatter fading into the background as you searched for a quieter spot. Then, finally, you found it.
A ledge.
It wasn't far from where they sat, but it felt separate enough to offer some peace. The land sloped downward slightly before opening to a ledge overlooking the sea. You made your way toward it, the faint salt of the ocean thick in the cool night air.
Settling down, you placed your cup beside you, the clay cool against the stone.
Below, the waves crashed against the cliffs, the water an endless abyss of dark blue and silver, illuminated only by the moonlight breaking through scattered clouds. The distant roar of the sea filled the silence, steady and unrelenting, constant and unfazed by mortal worries.
Above, the sky stretched wide, stars blinking in and out as the clouds drifted lazily. Orion and Perseus had already emerged, their familiar figures standing boldly in the heavens.
But Venus—
Venus was still hidden.
You sighed softly, watching as the clouds shifted, waiting.
The wind carried the scent of salt and damp earth, the waves below crashing rhythmically against the cliffs. Above, the thinning clouds slowly unveiled the vast cosmos, stars flickering into view one by one. The night stretched endless—vast—as if you were floating somewhere between the sky and the sea, caught in a strange, quiet stillness.
You traced the familiar constellations absently, mind drifting, thoughts slipping into a hazy blur—until a voice cut through the quiet.
"Now, now. Sitting all alone, looking all broody? You're gonna make me think you're lonely."
You barely smothered the startled yelp that nearly escaped, your hand flying to cover your mouth. Heart hammering, you turned sharply to your left, only to find—
Hermes.
The god lounged beside you as if he'd been there the whole time, one knee propped up, chin resting lazily against his palm. His golden eyes gleamed with mischief, lips curled into a lopsided grin that spelled nothing but trouble.
"Gods," you whispered breathlessly, pressing a hand to your chest in a feeble attempt to slow your racing heart.
Hermes chuckled, straightening slightly. "Startled you?"
You shot him a look, still trying to calm your nerves. "Just a little," you muttered, exhaling through your nose.
"Good." He winked, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'd hate to think I'm losing my touch."
You shook your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. But before you could respond, Hermes tilted his head, his grin turning sly.
"Speaking of trouble..." he drawled, voice dipping into something playfully accusatory. "Aren't you a little troublemaker? What happened to 'Don't get into trouble without me'? I leave you alone for one afternoon, and you almost get me singed by Hades."
You winced at the reminder, guilt pooling in your stomach. "Ah..." You scratched at your cheek, looking away. "Sorry about that. I—I really didn't mean to—"
Hermes let out a bark of laughter, waving off your apology with an easy flick of his wrist. "No worries. Lucky for you, Persephone made sure you wouldn't get any punishments. Even Hades liked you a little—but don't expect him to admit it."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Hades?"
"Mhm." Hermes leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with interest. "I gotta say, I'm impressed. How did you do it? I was all set to be the one escorting your soul when your time came, and yet, here you are. Breathing. Living." He made a dramatic gesture with his hands. "Existing."
You cleared your throat, turning your gaze back out to sea as you scratched your chin, recalling the moment. "I, uh... just repeated the phrase you whispered to me. The one about the threshold."
Hermes blinked. Once. Twice.
"That's it?"
You nodded.
He stared for another beat before leaning back with an amused hum, tapping a finger against his chin.
"Huh."
Silence stretched between you, the waves below filling the space with their rhythmic crash. You weren't sure if Hermes was still mulling over your words or simply enjoying the way you squirmed under his unreadable gaze.
Then, his lips curled into a smirk, golden eyes glinting with mischief.
"Besides that, a little birdie told me you've learned of your favor to my insufferable big brother." He gave a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his curls as if the thought physically pained him. "Congratulations, little musician. You're officially tied to one of the most dramatic gods on Olympus. And that's saying something."
You couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you murmured, though something about his words stirred an uncomfortable thought in the back of your mind.
Favor of a god.
Cleo's voice slithered through your memories like a whisper in the dark.
"You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are?"
Your stomach twisted. The cold breeze suddenly felt sharper against your skin. You fidgeted, clearing your throat to steady your voice.
"Hermes," you started hesitantly, shifting to fully face him. "Could you... help me with something?"
His brows lifted slightly, amusement softening into curiosity. "Of course. I am very helpful, you know."
You hesitated, heart pounding. The words felt heavy in your throat, but after everything—Cleo, the Underworld, Telemachus—you needed an answer. Even if you weren't sure you'd like it.
Taking a slow breath, you forced the words out.
"Was I... supposed to die?"
Hermes froze.
It was brief—a flicker, a second of unnatural stillness—but you caught it. His smirk faltered, his body tensed ever so slightly before he quickly masked it with a scoff.
"Where on earth did you get that idea?" he asked, tilting his head with an easy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
You shifted under his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. "I—I don't know," you admitted, gripping the fabric of your clothes. "It's just... things have been strange lately. And Cleo—" You swallowed hard. "She said it. That it was supposed to be me down there. And when I asked Polites, he just told me to ask you."
But you weren't done. The thoughts had already started unraveling, spilling from your lips before you could stop them.
"And then Telemachus—he said favors never end well. That they come with consequences. And what if this is mine? What if—" Your breath hitched, words tumbling out too fast, chest tightening with something raw and unspoken. "What if I was supposed to die, and Apollo changed it? What if I was never meant to be here at all?"
Your voice cracked, and you clenched your jaw, willing yourself to calm down. But the fear had already crept in, clawing up your spine, coiling in your stomach. It had been lurking in the background all day, shadowing every thought, every breath. And now, as you finally voiced it, the weight of it nearly crushed you.
Your heart pounded against your ribs, the cold air too thin, too sharp. You curled in slightly, gripping your arms to ground yourself as a quiet tremble ran through your limbs.
Then, warm fingers pressed gently against the top of your head.
A strange sensation rushed over you—soft, golden warmth eased the tightness in your chest, smoothing over the edges of your nerves. Your shoulders relaxed before you could stop them, the tension draining from your body like water slipping through your fingers.
You blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
Hermes huffed, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he ruffled your hair like you were a child fretting over nothing. "There we go," he murmured. "No need for all that panic, little musician."
You exhaled shakily, realizing just how fast your heart had been racing. The warmth from his touch settled deep in your chest, lingering like sunlight after a storm.
Hermes watched you for a moment, then clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a smirk. "Look at you. All teary-eyed." He leaned in, swiping away a stray tear with his thumb before you'd even noticed it was there.
The touch was quick, fleeting—but it sent a shiver through you nonetheless.
"Unfortunately," he continued, tone lighter now, "that particular question is a little outside my jurisdiction."
You frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, my dear little mortal," he said, tapping your nose playfully, "whether or not you were meant to die is Apollo's business, not mine."
Your heart sank. "So you don't know?"
"Oh, I probably do," he teased, grinning when you huffed. "But that's a family secret, you see. Divine intervention and all that."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a finger, cutting you off.
"What I can promise you, though," he said, voice dipping into something softer, more certain, "is that you don't have to worry about dying anytime soon."
Your breath caught at the quiet sincerity in his words.
He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before his smirk returned, gentler this time. "I won't allow it."
His voice was light, teasing as always, but something in the way he said it—the certainty, the quiet weight—made your chest tighten.
A promise.
A reassurance.
And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.
The warmth of Hermes' words settled deep in your chest, lingering like the last traces of sunlight on your skin. It was strange—comforting, even—how easily he could dispel your fears with a smirk and a well-placed touch. You hadn't realized just how much you needed to hear it, how much you had been carrying, until now. Your fingers flexed slightly against your lap, testing the weight of your own relief.
Hermes, for his part, looked entirely at ease. His golden eyes glinted with satisfaction as he rocked back slightly, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. His usual mischievous grin played at his lips—but then, something shifted.
His gaze flickered past your shoulder, his smirk softening into something more knowing—resigned, almost.
"Well," he exhaled through his nose, "looks like our little heart-to-heart is about to be cut short."
You frowned. "What do you—"
"You'll see," he interrupted, smile turning lopsided, teasing. "I'll be seeing you soon, little musician."
There was something in his tone—something weighty beneath the ease—but before you could question it, a sharp crack split through the quiet.
A twig snapping.
Your breath caught. The sound was close—too close. The night air thickened, charged with something unseen, your pulse skipping as your senses sharpened.
A shadow shifted just beyond the tree line, stepping hesitantly into the torch-lit clearing.
Telemachus.
Your stomach twisted at the sight of him. He stood just at the edge of the light, framed by the silver glow of the stars, his posture stiff—almost uncertain. His dark eyes found yours instantly, the flickering torches casting restless shadows across his face.
"____," he said softly, clearing his throat before glancing away, as if collecting himself. Then, quieter, more hesitant—"Can we talk?"
Instinctively, you turned slightly, expecting Hermes' presence beside you, a snide remark or knowing grin at your expense.
But when you looked, the space where he had been was empty.
The only thing that remained was the whisper of the wind, as if he had never been there at all.
Your mind reeled, struggling to catch up. Hermes was gone. Telemachus was here. And now—he was asking to talk.
You swallowed hard, pushing down the tangle of emotions threatening to resurface.
"Of course," you murmured, voice steadier than you felt.
Because despite the uncertainty, the exhaustion, the unresolved weight between you—one thing was clear.
Whatever Telemachus had to say, you were ready to hear it.
He moved quietly, lowering himself beside you on the ledge. The air between you settled into something fragile yet familiar—not tense, but not entirely at ease either.
Neither of you spoke.
For a long moment, you just sat there, listening to the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. The wind carried the scent of salt and cypress, weaving through the silence like a presence of its own.
He exhaled slowly, barely audible over the night's quiet hum. His fingers flexed against his knees, gripping the fabric of his tunic like it was the only thing anchoring him. At first, his posture was rigid, but as the silence stretched, his shoulders slumped slightly—like something within him had finally given in.
You turned toward him just as he lowered his head, eyes cast downward, expression caught somewhere between thoughtfulness and quiet remorse. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but he hesitated.
And then, finally, he looked at you.
His brown eyes met yours, raw and unguarded, holding an intensity that sent your heart skittering, bracing yourself for whatever was to come, and then—
"I'm sorry," he murmured. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was immense. "For everything."
His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing into his skin. "I've been acting like a fool. I see it now," he admitted, his tone edged with frustration—though not at you. "The way I've treated you, the way I've kept things from you... I don't know why I thought that was fair. As if you could read my mind, as if you could just... understand the weight of everything I've been trying to juggle without me even telling you."
He let out a breath, shaking his head. "That's not fair to you. It never was."
You said nothing, letting him speak, letting him unravel what had clearly been building inside him.
His hand dragged over his face before dropping limply to his lap. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed. "Lady Andreia. She... " He hesitated, then forced himself to say it. "She proposed a marriage alliance the first time we spoke alone."
A sharp pang shot through your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing on the way his face twisted, on the flicker of barely contained disgust in his eyes.
"I didn't see it coming," he continued, voice tight. "Not at all. I thought—" He scoffed at himself. "I thought she was just trying to recover after losing her brother. I never imagined she'd have her sights set on me, on Ithaca. Gods, I was blind to it. Completely blindsided."
His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into every word. "And then I went to my parents. I told them everything." He let out a humorless laugh. "They weren't surprised. Not really. My father, being who he is, took it in stride. He spoke of alternatives—military alliances, cultural exchanges—but I could see it in his eyes." He exhaled sharply. "He was testing me. Seeing if I would choose duty over myself."
His voice dropped, quieter now. "And my mother... she reminded me that Andreia isn't just a princess. She's a girl who lost her brother, trying to secure a future for herself the only way she's ever been taught." His gaze flickered toward the sky, though he didn't really seem to see it. "And I hated it. Hated that it made sense. Hated that I could understand why she was doing this. Hated that I didn't know how to escape it without making things worse."
Silence settled between you, heavy and unmoving.
And then, in a voice quieter than before, Telemachus whispered, "I should have told you the moment it happened."
Your breath caught.
His hands trembled slightly as he flexed his fingers, his expression twisting into something deeply regretful. "I should have come to you," he admitted, his voice cracking at the edges. "I should have let you know instead of making you piece things together on your own. Instead of making you feel like I was shutting you out."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and when he spoke again. "I didn't want you to—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening.
Didn't want you to what? Worry? Hurt? See how much it was affecting him?
Whatever it was, he didn't say it.
Instead, he let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. "But by doing that, I made it worse," he admitted. "I made you worry anyway. I made you doubt things I should have been clear about from the start. And now..." He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Now I've only made a mess of things. Because I was too much of a fool to realize how much keeping this from you would hurt you."
He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers clenching briefly in frustration before dropping to his lap again. "I don't know how to fix this," he admitted, voice raw. "But I don't want there to be distance between us. Not anymore."
His gaze found yours again, and this time, there was something desperate in it. Something pleading.
"I just... I need you to know that, no matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want..." He swallowed hard, breath unsteady. "It's you I trust. It's you I care about."
His voice barely made it above a whisper, but the weight of his words crashed into you like a wave.
There was no uncertainty in his gaze—only truth, raw and unspoken, laid bare beneath the moonlight.
As you stared into his eyes, a part of you—the one that had spent so long second-guessing, doubting, questioning—shouted in triumph. See? it whispered, See? You were foolish to doubt him. Shame followed close behind, a quiet, creeping thing. Had you truly been so blind to his feelings all this time?
But despite that relief, one thing stood out, repeating over and over in your mind like a mantra, sticking to you like a burr you couldn't shake:
"No matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want... It's you I trust. It's you I care about."
Telemachus trusts you. He cares about you.
Does that... does that mean he—?
Your breath hitched, stomach tightening with a rush of something overwhelming, something far too big to process all at once. It was one thing to feel the connection between you, to share these quiet, stolen moments, but to hear him say it, to know that he put you above all else, was another thing entirely.
Your heart pounded, so loud you thought he might hear it. You swallowed, gaze flickering away for a moment, as if breaking eye contact might steady you. But it didn't.
Slowly, cautiously, you lifted your gaze back to his, and before you could stop yourself, the question slipped from your lips, soft and uncertain. "You... care about me?"
Telemachus stilled.
For just a fraction of a second, his entire body locked up, eyes widening slightly before he coughed, looking away. His grip on his knees tightened, and you saw it—the moment of panic, the scramble for an excuse, the way his lips parted like he might try to laugh it off, to dismiss the weight of his words.
But instead of denial, instead of some hurried deflection, he exhaled slowly. His shoulders loosened, a tired, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips.
And then, before you could react, he reached over and took your hand in his.
The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you. His fingers brushed against your skin, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing patterns along the back of your hand. His hold was firm but gentle, as if grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.
"Of course, ____," he murmured, quiet but certain. "Why wouldn't I care for the one I love?"
Your breath faltered.
Your entire body locked up, as though the words had physically struck you.
The one I love.
The rush of emotions that overtook you was near unbearable. Happiness, fear, disbelief—all of it at once, making your head spin. Your fingers trembled in his hold, and you barely managed to whisper his name. "Telemachus..."
But the prince wasn't finished.
He shook his head, his grip tightening slightly, his other hand covering yours like he was trying to reassure you, trying to make sure you understood. Then, carefully, he shifted, angling himself toward you fully, his expression raw with something so painfully tender it made your heart ache.
"____, you have to understand," he said, voice softer now, carrying the weight of years, of things left unspoken. "This isn't something new, something I just realized. It's been there—gods, it's always been there. I just..." He let out a breath, lips pressing together before continuing.
"I think I first knew when we were children," he admitted, voice tinged with nostalgia. "The first time I heard you singing to my mother, soothing her when nothing else could. You had this way of making the world feel... lighter. Safer." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Even then, I think I was falling for you. Slowly. Every day. In ways I didn't even recognize until it was too late."
You felt your throat tighten, emotion clawing its way up, making it difficult to breathe.
"I always thought I had time," he confessed, his fingers curling slightly against your skin. "Time to gather the courage, to find the right moment. But then everything started shifting—my father's return, Bronte, the favor. And suddenly, I realized how quickly things could be taken away." His eyes flickered with something pained, something desperate. "I realized I couldn't wait anymore."
Slowly, carefully, he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek—warm, reverent. Your breath hitched, your skin tingling where he touched. When you met his gaze again, it was filled with something so deep, so consuming, it nearly swallowed you whole.
"But I understand," he murmured, softer now, as if afraid to break the moment. "I understand that this isn't simple. That I can't just throw caution to the wind and expect you to do the same." His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, featherlight. "I know that for me, it's easy to say I don't care about titles or expectations. But for you... it's different."
Your heart clenched. He understood. He truly understood.
"I would be a fool to ignore that," he continued. "A fool to act as though this isn't complicated, as though it doesn't put an unfair burden on you." His voice dropped lower, the vulnerability in his tone making your chest ache. "But I don't care what the world says. I don't care what Andreia wants, or what my parents expect, or what the gods themselves decide."
He swallowed, eyes dark and unwavering.
"I'm saying this because I need you to know. Not because I expect an answer, not because I want to rush you into something you're not ready for." His lips curled into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "I just need you to know that from this moment on, I will be vying for your love."
Your breath caught in your throat.
"You don't have to take my heart," he whispered, "but it's yours regardless."
Your chest was so tight it hurt, your emotions swirling so wildly you could barely keep yourself together.
Telemachus gave you a small, almost pleading smile. "You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "Not now. Not yet. I just... " His thumb brushed against your cheek once more, reverent, tender. "I just want to spend this moment with you. If you'll let me."
Your vision blurred slightly, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb, wiping it away as gently as if he were handling something fragile.
A soft, trembling smile curled at your lips. "Okay," you whispered.
And so, you sat there, your hands still clasped in his, his warmth anchoring you as the world stilled around you.
And as if the heavens themselves had been waiting for this moment, the clouds above shifted, parting just enough to reveal a brilliant glow.
Venus peeked out from the darkness, luminous and radiant, casting a gentle silver light over you both.
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A/N: AHHHHH IT HAPPENED!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉 I know y'all were starving for romance faster, but I just had to take my time with it, lmaooo 😭😭. the way I was KICKING UP MY FEET writing this... pure ✨delicious✨ agony. also, I had to keep it 10k—I could not cut it up and risk ruining the tension. the build-up, the divine drama, the slow unraveling??? *chef's kiss*. y'all needed to feel all of it. and that little almost/not confession?? Yeahhh... I needed that. 😌 also, shameless plug-in but plz check out my sis's (k_nayee) book 'Warrior'! It's an EPIC fic basically a 'what-if' if penelope were the warrior tyring to get home instead of odysseus 👀 y'all i'm not even gon lie it's good asf and im mad cuz she won't let me be her editor so i can read ahead 💔💔but seriuosuly i'm trynna not to ramble cuz the fanservices "MWAH" never knew i needed to have odysseus more than his son until i read it y'all! here's link to the other sites shes posted on tumblr, wattpad, quotev
Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya
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boop-le-snoot · 9 months ago
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kinktober #1
Lovesong
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kinktober day one | daddy kink | cw: 18+, self-explanatory. actually rather vanilla-ish. he is sweet. no violence whatsoever. | word count 3,2k | click here for full list of planned fics | author's note under the cut |
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Clean water. A bedroll that didn't reek of mildew and filthy iron. Clean clothing, practically a luxury in current circumstances. The villager who had brought it was a small, mousy thing with a baby strapped to her chest, with it being the probable reason uruks left her alone and let her pass throughout the camp unbothered. The southern folk had a variety of coloured fabrics unlike anything encountered by most non-nobles in the West lands. Including you.
You carefully wrapped up your new clothes in your threadbare towel and gathered your necessities before exiting your temporary dwelling. A nearby uruk gave you an appraising glance and, having received your nod, gestured in the appropriate direction. It was not a secret you were a favourite amongst the many slaves and servants. Truthfully, you were never a slave in the first place, but those were semantics that hardly mattered. You worked for your keep like everyone else.
The bathing area was guarded by two Uruks, ones you knew, and they knew you. Greetings were exchanged and the two traded a quick salacious glance as they let you pass through the thick shrubbery surrounding the pools of hot springs. It was a blessing for your party to stumble upon them during your wandering through the Southlands.
Despite their normal state of battle-rugged filth, Uruks did like to bathe. Sure, their standards of cleanliness were much different from humans, and even further than those of Elves, but such was their wild nature. Uruks could be no more at fault for their habits than races considered noble.
It was this realisation that brought you to know the strange scarred Elf sat sprawled against the side of the basin. At least you guessed he was an Elf, or had been, at some point. His rangy, sharp features and pointed ears coupled with the scarring covering every inch of his body made for a mesmerising view. Like a difficult puzzle, he elicited feelings of awe, wonder and trepidation. His eyes opened, two angular slits, and surveyed your approaching form.
On silent feet and watched by his bottomless pools of liquid onyx, you briskly deposited your items on a nearby stone and slid out of your filthy, ragged clothes. The only thing that was subject to salvage was underwear. Relief washed over you as warm, dry air gently touched your bare skin slick with stale sweat and dirt.
“Melmë.” He spoke up suddenly. Water splashed over the edges.
“Adar,” you replied, bowing your head respectfully.
The final article of clothing - a pair of underwear - slid swiftly down your legs. You hurried to step into the pool, acutely aware the way Adar's silent appraisal of your body sent shivers down your flesh. Having spent so long in an Uruk camp, self-consciousness was a thing of the past.
It was anticipation that coiled in your tummy. Expectant, you dunked underwater to wet your hair and run fingers through it to dislodge any debris. Arms connected with your torso, bringing you up above the water. Adar's chest, all lean, textured skin, connected with your back. Where the water was lukewarm, he was pleasantly warm. His palms slid over your chest, brushing past your erect nipples with a petal-soft touch.
You sighed. Adar rumbled.
“Have you forgotten your manners?” His voice resonated throughout your skull as a wry observation.
In truth, you did. The mere prospect of feeling clean had overshadowed everything else in your mind, giving you tunnel vision. Even now, faced well with the prospect of punishment, you could hardly care. Hardly focus on anything beside the scent of soap and, perhaps, the slowly hardening appendage twitching at your rear. You hummed non-commitally and hummed some more when Adar's arms tightened up to keep you in place.
“What you say?” Voice lower, harsher, his strong arms squeezed you just shy of painful.
“I did forget my manners,” you chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating a clever plan to evade Adar's grasp and make a dash for the soap.
“...” Impatient rumble, hand sneaking to none-too-gently grope at your breast.
“Adar!” You quickly added, halting the hand and turning touch towards gentle. Electric sparks shot through your nipple as Adar toyed with it, flicking the hardened nub with the calloused pad of his thumb. You sighed, locking your hips in place. There was a limit to misbehaving.
Somewhat of a theatrical sigh left the Uruk. “You must apologise and make amends, melmë,” he chided, switching his hands to award your other nipple the same arduous torture. A lick of flame burnt bright in the pit of your belly and Adar instantly knew of it, having brought a large hand to press your hips against his own, daring you to push back.
“I am sorry,” you sputtered. For forgetting to greet him properly, yes, but not for wanting a bath. You remained frozen, awaiting a rough grab or a harsh tweak to your abused breast, heart fluttering somewhere in your throat.
It didn't come. Instead, you felt the ghost of a smile brush over the shell of your ear. “There. Was it truly difficult?” The rumble of his voice curved around your budding arousal and pushed it towards forefront.
“No, Adar,” you said. It sounded very close to petulant whining.
It only seemed to amuse him further. He did not laugh, no, but nonetheless the splashing of water was joined by a terse, scratchy noise. A rich sound you echoed with the ghost of a grin.
“Well, then.” Adar released your hip and reached somewhere behind himself.
All business-like, he brought the object in front of you and released your breast to rub it in between his palms underwater. Scents of pine and lye made you sigh in relief and happiness as water foamed. As Adar's hands connected with your skin to drag the fragrant bar along your stomach, your shoulders dropped.
Slowly, he scrubbed at the soft parts of your front. Palms applied gentle pressure, scrubbing away the grime, with fingertips trailing behind, blunt nails raking over clean skin, leaving discoloured lines that disappeared as soon as they were made. Not leaning into the touch was not an option. Your breasts pushed forward, you shamelessly threw your head back and to the side, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
Adar's wet black tresses smelled of smoke on the water. Swallowing the urge to nose at the strong line of his jaw, you pushed yourself further into his hands as they slid up, cleansing your sides and ribcage. Your nipples stood proud and hard, peeking just above the water. Patient as ever, Adar slid the soap once, twice over your breasts and moved on to scrub under your collarbones.
“Adar...” You mumbled, breasts tingling.
“Patience is a virtue,” he chuffed, taking a sharp dive down. He traced your hipbones, squeezed and rubbed the meat on top of them before using them as handles to make you take a step forward. Grumbling, you did, and were rewarded with a pinching squeeze at your ass cheek and a click of his tongue. “Impertinent!”
As Adar's hands made quick work of your neck and back, you mumbled. “I am sorry. It has been such a long time...” You trailed off into a mewl as he squeezed the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving kitten. It never ceased to make your knees weak. There was something so - possessive, commanding - impertinent, damn it! In that gesture. A new wave of heat flooded your face. Whether one borne of indignation or pleasure was yet to be determined by you.
Adar could read you like an open book in any case. He pretended not to notice the audible hitch in your breath whenever he lost his temper and did something particularly audacious. Like now, for example, when he finished stripping the outermost layer of your skin and abruptly pulled you into himself, backing up all the way to the shallow end of the pool. Your pebbling nipples ignored and hips securely held by his lithe, strong arms, you found yourself sat firmly atop his lap.
The basic instinct was to slam your knees together, irregardless of his long legs falling open and his twitching length slipping along your center. Adar allowed no such luxury. With an ease clearly mocking, he pried open your legs to hang over his as he splayed comfortably in shallow waters. Soapy water dulled the sensation somewhat but did nothing to cool the sheer heat coming from his half-erect cock. Squirming, you were rewarded with another twitch and an irritated rumble.
“Melmë.” A warning.
“Adar.” A breathed acknowledgement. A mewling squeal, really.
He tsk-ed and shook his head, followed by a low mumble of quenya that got past your ears when he used his palms to glide over the inside of your thighs right to where he was most wanted.
“Stay still.” He commanded, unvoiced threat obvious in his voice. “We are getting clean.”
“No funny business,” you muttered demurely, moreso to remind yourself. Adar's punishment was never outright cruel - despite his supposed ‘universally evil’ nature he did not ever take unwilling lovers or bestow harm upon them they did not ask for. He did get creative with enforcing consequences, though. His patience was of an Elven standard.
As for punishment, so for praise. Being and staying good was by far more rewarding than riling him up into a lustful frenzy. You sat patiently, choking down every shiver, as he slowly, tenderly massaged the fat above your pubic bone and squeezed the plump parts of your cunt. Even with so little stimulation, little zaps of lightning, miniature thunderbolts erupted from your clit and into the depths of your cunt.
Your eyelashes fluttered, wet and heavy, and you closed your eyes with a sigh, allowing your body to fall lax atop the tall male. He responded with a long, satisfied sigh and a teasing pat to your pussy. Continuing his clever ministrations, Adar was fully prepared for the jerk that him dipping two fingers between your outer lips provoked in your body.
“Talya,” he whispered, hot breath caressing the shell of your ear. Steady.
“Adar!” You whined, embarrassed. Being spoken to as if you were a spooked horse: a new low even for you. The wave of lust it elicited was undeniable. You weren't fully ready to submit to it just yet. Neither was it going to forsake you: with your clit held firmly between Adar's fingers, shameful lust throbbed.
“Lapta, melmë.” He released your clit to dip down to your entrance, creeping lower, past the tender skin of your perineum, and brushed over your puckered rosebud. You could not hold back the whine. “Sshh,” Adar rumbled gently, but relented, bringing his wandering hand back up to rest over your cunt as his cock, now standing tall and proud, poked at the junction of your leg and hip.
Begging every God for Adar to do something and fighting every urge to squirm and press against nearest available surface, you panted loud, aware of his dark eyes intently studying the side of your face. Every look cut sharper than Elvish make blades; you dared not to open your eyes, instead remaining lax-mouthed and knit-browed under Adar's scrutiny.
The longer you waited, the harder he became. When your bottom lip disappeared under your incisor - a small act of rebellion - you felt Adar's own lips stretch into a grin against your temple.
“You are being so good for me,” he said. The pace of his hand atop your mound picked up slightly, parting your outer lips in the process. He was almost touching your clit and you were almost going insane. “Do you feel clean?”
“Yes, Adar,” you said quickly, thoughtlessly. Whatever he was asking for, the answer would be yes irregardless.
“Are you certain?” The male absent-mindedly rubbed his cheek over yours, as if he was deep in important thought. A soft gasp erupted from you; he smiled. “We must be through with what we do, melmë.” His fingers - O Valar! - finally dipped inside tour slit and massaged the sides of your clit. The slippery wetness that surrounded it was unmistakable even underwater. Adar's cock twitched, again, hot and demanding against your leg. “You must tell me if I was thorough.”
“Ah, yes, Adar!” You moaned brokenly as he rubbed the V of his index and middle finger over your clit, rising the hood of it up and down but not quite touching the sensitive pearl itself. “T-thank you, Adar.”
The pace picked up, his fingers being much too close to where you wanted him most and tortuously not enough.
“You are thankful?” He inquired impishly.
“Yesss,” you hissed as a slippery finger accidentally connected with your pearl, causing your whole pelvis to clench pitifully around nothing. It brought your focus towards the empty, achy feeling in the pit of your belly. “Thank you, Adar.”
A quick, silent kiss to your temple was your reward. “Ah!” He huffed. “You are too good to me, melmë. What about your reward?”
“M-my reward?” You gasped.
“Mhm,” Adar hummed non-commitally as his cock jerked in curiosity.
Any reward for you in this scenario was guaranteed to be pleasurable for him and he knew it. He moulded you like putty in his hands, like a sculptor carved angels out of hard blocks of marble. Your body, warm with arousal and quivering at the most miniscule of touches, sang to him in a choir of rushing blood, flushed cheeks and thrumming pulse in areas most sensitive.
Engorged with need, your clit pulsed. Although your head was fogged by an opaque haze, the words of your deepest desire did not come easy.
“Um,” you said eloquently, words tangling on your tongue as soon as your lust-addled mind formulated them into something resembling a coherent sentence.
“Yes?”
This particular whine you could not contain. “Please do not make me say it, Adar...” You whispered wetly.
He chuckled. “How else am I supposed to find out what it is you desire? I cannot read minds, melmë.” He answered, voice tilted, mocking and encouraging in equal parts. Another “accidental” brush over your clit had you in shambles, quivering and stuttering where you sat.
“I want... You inside of me,” you moaned in shameful yearning.
Two long fingers had no problems with finding the puffy edges to your welcoming entrance and curled expertly. It did very little to quell the hunger in the very depths of it but your cunt held onto the digits nonetheless. Adar's cock pulsed as his hips shifted, seemingly, on their own accord and disobedient to their stoic master's will. Adar was rapidly losing his patience.
“N-no,” you protested. “I want...”
“You want my cock?” Voice like thick crushed velvet, molten like hot honey, Adar demanded your obedience. “Carpa! Say it!”
“I want your cock, Adar!” You whined, giving into the urge to bear down on his fingers and simultaneously clench up around them.
It wasn't particularly graceful nor gentle when Adar withdrew his fingers from your aching cunt and lifted you out of the bath just enough for your ass to be raised above water level. Resting your forearms on the hard ground, you blindly pushed back towards him, your bare cunt coming in contact with his hip. Within seconds the blunt, leaking tip of his cock was nosing at your entrance, silken head parting your lips to slip inside of you.
The ache within your loins was strong. Powerful enough for you to forsake any pretense of patience and propriety and impale yourself right on that long, solid cock so hard it knocked the air out of your lungs. At last! The vast emptiness within you filled, your back fell into a natural arch as your buttocks connected with the firmness of Adar's hips and thighs. You felt the deep, calming breath he took as his belly expanded with it.
A muttered curse preceded the drag of his cock as Adar withdrew, slowly, savouring the hug of your slick walls swollen and throbbing with need. Inadvertedly you clenched in response, already missing the head of his cock nestled deep within your cunt. It was all the encouragement he needed to slam inside of you with a feral growl baring his teeth and putting the whites of his eyes on display.
You moaned, long and loud, way exceeded in your capacity to care for the harsh surface hurting the delicate skin of your forearms. Only the steady push and pull of Adar's hips kept you tethered in this reality. Not the ominously shaking bushes and not the low rumble of the ever-awake Uruk campsite derailed you from the journey to your peak.
Adar's hands palmed - no, pawed at your breasts. He tweaked your nipples just the way you liked it, pistoning his hips in and out of you at a rapid pace. Savouring your moans and clenching of your cunt around him. Groaning with the force of your combined desire, jagged and jumbled mixture of Quenya and Common Tongue.
Tethering on the edge, you mewled for him.
“Adar...”
It seemed like he'd lied previously about his mind reading ability or a lack of thereof. He knew exactly what you needed and how you needed it, brining his palm to force it between your legs. You clit pulsed as he rubbed at it, adding the squelching noises of your cunt into the cacophony of your moans and splashing of water. His other hand grasped your throat, pulling your body backwards into him like a taut bowstring.
Moist and spit-slick, his mouth covered yours just as the heat in your belly exploded like an inferno. Heatwaves and aftershocks followed and Adar fucked you right through them, pulse after pulse echoing on his cock, prolonging your orgasm and wringing out his. His cock spasmed within you and he moaned right into yourself mouth, tongue snagging on your teeth, yours and his clashing.
You couldn't care less. The full feeling of his cock plugging your cunt full of his seed and the slack, sated if fleeting expression on his face was your own little spot of heaven in the utter (and often literal) Mordor of your surroundings. You sucked on Adar's tongue - gently, akin to a kitten - and safely deposited the memory of this into the very depths of your mind. Comforts had a tendency not to last.
You lamented the loss of Adar within you as soon as he softened enough to wetly slip out. An absence of his cock within you was so hard, it became a presence. Dripping with seed, your pussy clenched around nothing - ever the insatiable thing - and you made efforts to escape Adar's grasp.
Futile.
“We must get clean again,” he stated matter-of-fact, gathering you even closer to himself as his fingers turned your forearms up to display the dirt and scratches that resulted from your chaotic coupling.
When they were clean, Adar's lips traced each line, single-minded and petal-soft. His eyes were eons away.
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Polished up the Uruks here a little bit and give them some half-decent semblance of a society, if to make some sense of what Adar is/does. If my Quenya sucks, I am sorry. I'm better with Sindarin :c
we are getting nasty in the bath because, well, I've seen the state of his camps and I'm pretty sure a UTI in those circumstances may actually be deadly. some kind of sauronian morgothian super-evil-bacteria is what we don't need in our sexy times 💀
Contrary to the single playlist theme of this kinktober compilation, I had Adam Sandler's stand up show playing in the background when I wrote this. Specifically the song about Chris Farley repeated like 3 times. Who knew my personal style icon could sing that well!? Damn! Go Adam!
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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year ago
Note
https://www.tumblr.com/dilemmaontwolegs/739719861708701696/lando-i-swear-that-boy-and-his-hospital-pics-and
Now we’re gonna need the bday gift part , pretty please
Pity Fuck {2} || LN4
Part One
Lando watched you squirm in your seat while you tried to hold a conversation with his mother. The birthday dinner was greatly appreciated but in all honestly he just wanted to get you home so he could get his real present. You shifted on your seat again and all but choked on your drink, some of the rouge liquid running down your parted lips.
He knew that look.
You excused yourself and disappeared to the restrooms at the back of the restaurant, Lando seconds behind. You had barely locked the door when he knocked, and you took a steadying breath before letting him in.
“Hello, love,” he said with a grin. “Everything okay?”
“Mhmm,” you hummed as you remained as still as possible. “Just perfect.”
He reached for your hips and pulled you against him, the shift making you moan and your toes curl in your heels. “What’s that, love?”
“N-nothing,” you lied.
He clearly didn’t believe you and for good reason too. Your nipples were stiff peaks pressed against the thin material of your dress and your pupils were blown out with desire. His hands roamed your body and over the swell of your ass before he gripped it tightly and squeezed.
“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, shuddering as the stimulation became too much.
Lando knew you were horny but he couldn’t believe you had come without his cock, his tongue or even his fingers. A frown started to crease his forehead until he felt it beneath his finger, just as he as letting go of your ass. Something hard, nestled between your cheeks.
“What have you got there, my love?” he asked as he stepped around you and lifted the dress up. “Oh my…”
His deep chuckle warmed your nape as he saw the butt plug you had inserted while you were getting ready for the evening. You were preparing yourself for the gift you were going to let him have when you got home but you hadn’t expected it to be so pleasurable. You had let his mother think you were drunk, that explained why your walking was so unstable, but each step had caused stars to dance around your vision.
“For me?” Lando asked as he knelt behind your and saw your thigh were slick with the evidence of your enjoyment and he ran his tongue through it, gathering the taste that was far better than any Michelin Star meal. “I can’t wait, baby, please don’t make me wait until we get home.”
Your legs trembled at his begging and your lips parted with the answer before you could think clearly. Your hands scrambled for the wash basin, gripping the edge tightly as you bit your lips to silence the cry of pleasure that nearly erupted when he grabbed the butt plug and gently pulled. Your body resisted as if it wasn’t ready to give up the pleasuring device but you breathed deeply through it knowing something better was coming soon.
You flinched at the sound of metal hitting stone and send Lando a warning glare since your families and friends were on the other side of the wall. The sound of the plug being carelessly tossed into the wash basin was quickly forgotten when he buried two fingers in your dripping cunt, coating them with your arousal before using it to prep your ass.
Your lip was swollen from clenching it between your teeth and Lando took great delight seeing it in the reflection of the mirror. “Ready, baby?”
You nodded, fearful of using your voice and not being able to control it’s volume.
“Fuck I love you,” he praised as he shoved his trousers down and freed his erection. You almost growled with frustration when he thrust his hips forward and buried himself in your cunt but he soon pulled out. “Nature’s lube, baby.”
Your breath caught in your throat when you felt the head of cock press against your hole, his dick a lot thicker and longer than the plug was. Small shifts of his hips rocked him against you, easing you open more each time until, like an elastic band, the resistance snapped and he was seated inside you.
“Fuuuuuck,” he moaned, his eyes closed and his lips parted. “You’re so fucking tight, baby.”
You felt so full you could hardly breathe and you pressed a hand to your stomach sure that you would be able to feel him, the idea making your heart beat with a needy throb in your pussy. As is he could sense it, he reached over your hip and teased your clit with his middle finger as he started to pull out slowly. It was sweet torture to feel his cock dragging along your walls before slowly pushing back in.
“Faster,” you choked, pushing back against him until his hips met your skin. “I can take it, please, Lando…”
Your whines urged his to through caution to the wind and he abandoned your clit so he could grip your hips and drive himself into oblivion. “Touch yourself, baby, wanna feel you come on my cock.”
Your hand slipped between your legs and you coated your fingers with the free flowing nectar that ran down your thighs, using it to glide your fingers over your puffy and sensitive clit. A ragged breath escaped your lungs and Lando buried his face in your neck to keep his own sounds muted. His teeth grazed your racing pulse before his lips sealed over it and sucked. The culmination of his touch on your skin, the sight in the mirror, the sound of your bodies uniting and the smell of sex in the air, drove you over the edge and head first into a screaming orgasm before Lando’s hand clamped over your mouth.
A choked groan warmed your ear as your body clamped down on Lando’s cock, milking him into an explosive release that filled your ass with a flood of warmth. Hypersensitive, you whimpered with his withdrawal and clamped your legs shut as your cunt throbbed with aftershocks.
Lando grinned at your fucked out reflection before he caught your chin and turned you to face him, his lips praising you with kisses before his voice followed. “You took me so well, baby. Best birthday present ever.”
“Was meant to be at home,” you panted with your recovery, leaning into his embrace as your legs wobbled weakly. “I’m not going to make you wait a year again.”
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j-k-writes · 8 months ago
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The Bronze Targaryen - 2
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Summary - After his mother's death in 115 AC Y/N Targaryen is summoned by his father Daemon to King's Landing in the hopes of forming a betrothal between the new heir to Runstone and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
Warnings - description (?) of skinning a deer, general HOTD warnings
I am not trying to make Daemon a bad guy, in fact (Y/N) is a bit of an unreliable narrator so take a lot of his bias against Daemon and others with a grain of salt.
(Y/N) watched with a small smile as Phantom ate the chunks of red meat the young lord tossed his way. (Y/N) set his knife aside the dead deer, and he whistled for the hawk to come to him. Ever loyal, the bird obeyed, perching comfortably on (Y/N)’s shoulder. He raised his hand to Phantom, guiding him to his perch and stroking the soft feathers before returning back to his deer. 
(Y/N) skinned his deer in peace, Osric Stone the only one interrupting the young lord with his coming and goings. 
“Your grandsire worries for you.” Osric popped a grape from (Y/N)’s plate into his mouth. 
(Y/N) laughed, pulling the top half of the skin over the deer before starting back in with his knife. “And how would you know? I don’t recall my grandsire taking counsel in the stable.” 
Osric shrugged, “A baseborn son goes unnoticed by you lords, I hear lots of things I’m not meant to.”  
(Y/N) shot Osric an honest smile, pausing his movements to turn to look at the dark-haired teen. Osric returned his smile, stepping close to (Y/N). “And what exactly do you hear Osric?” 
Osric leaned in, stopping close enough for the young heir to feel his breath against his skin, “I hear that your grandsire is worried about you, as am I.” 
(Y/N) rolled his eyes, pulling back which caused Osric to straighten stepping back into his place. “I am fine, Osric, I feel better than I have since my mother-” He paused, clearing his throat. “You needn't worry.” 
“You isolate yourself (Y/N),” Osric insisted, “You spend your time sparing and hunting, you do not see to Runestone-” 
“I am not Lord of Runestone.” 
“But you will be.” Osric stepped close again, placing his hand on (Y/N)'s bicep causing the heir to once again stop his movements, “And it’s your duty as heir to learn these things. You can not just forgo your duties because you’re angry.” 
“I told you what he did.” (Y/N) placed his knife down, mourning his moment of peace. “What he plotted with Daemon to do.” 
“He did not plot with Daemon-” 
“What would you call it?” (Y/N) shook his head, biting out a disbelieving laugh. 
“I would call it your grandsire being Lord of Runestone while your father is a prince of the realm.” Osric said, “I do not need to explain to you, My Prince, what power titles can grant you do I?” 
“Don’t call me that.” (Y/N) froze, “I am not a prince, I am to be Lord of Runestone.” 
“And yet you remain a prince. Denying it will not make it any less true.” Osric laughed at him, shaking his head. He gathered his things from where they were placed. “I will take my leave, M’lord.” 
Osric left him alone with his dead deer, his hawk, and his thoughts. Sighing (Y/N) set, once again, upon his task. He spent the rest of the afternoon in silence only interrupted by the soft screechs of Phantom begging for more scraps. 
He let the winds wash over him as he worked, cool air calming his mind. He let the worries of his grandsire and Osric flee his mind as he mindlessly pulled skin from meat and joints. He placed his father and his true title at the back of his mind, letting his knife seamlessly sever the tail bone and the hide fell away completely. He would not let a title spoken by a friend ruin his day, and he would not let Daemon Targaryen anger him further. The prince had no right to (Y/N)’ emotions. 
(Y/N) bathed his hands in the water basin, watching the water turn crimson around his skin. Phantom screeched behind him, startling (Y/N). He turned to look at the hawk, only to startle further as a louder screech echoed through the air. He looked up at the sound, movements halting at the sight of The Blood Wyrm flying overhead. 
Prince Daemon had come to collect his son.
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“A raven would not have sufficed?” (Y/N) smiled down at the parchment in his hands. 
‘Prince (Y/N) Targaryen, heir to Runestone, is formally summoned to Kingslanding by King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the Realm.’ 
“You can ignore a raven.” 
“Does it not embarrass you?” (Y/N) placed the parchment on the table, meeting his father’s pointed gaze, “To have to come to collect me like I am a common criminal? Tell me, father, what did you tell my uncle to get him to write this?” 
He saw his grandsire wince behind him, “(Y/N) please.” 
Daemon Targaryen was an intimidating man. His campaign in the step stones had done nothing to soften his features, his violet eyes were sharp and cutting as they bore into (Y/N)’s matching pair. Although his hair was significantly shorter than the last time the two had come face to face Daemon’s white hair still stood strikingly against his dark wardrobe, and the shorter haircut only intensified his sharp features. 
Yorbert was right to fear him, (Y/N) mused. But (Y/N) was his son, and a man grown, Daemon did not scare him anymore. 
“You are to come with me back to Kingslanding.” Daemon’s lip curled as he spoke, giving away his frustration. “By order of The King.” 
“I do believe the exact words were ‘formal summon’ not order.” 
Yorbert glared at his grandson, “(Y/N)-” 
“Lord Yorbert, please leave us.” 
(Y/N) watched as his grandsire obediently left the room, he could feel his father’s gaze linger on him and he met his eyes when the door softly clicked shut. His father walked toward the seat across from him, placing his palms on its back. (Y/N) watched as his father took a deep breath before facing his son once again. 
“What are your intentions, (Y/N)?” 
(Y/N) laughed, unable to help himself. “My intentions?” 
“Yes, (Y/N) your intentions. You are a prince of the realm, and yet when I summon you to do your duties you respond like an insolent child!” 
(Y/N) scoffed, standing up and running his hands through his hair, “‘My duties’? My duties are here on Runestone father, they are not to be a political bargaining tool for you and the lords of my uncles’ court!” 
Daemon’s face contorted in anger at his sons mention of Runestone, volume raising, “You are a Targaryen prince-” 
“I am the future Lord Royce of Runestone!” (Y/N) yelled back. 
His father’s knuckles were white with strain as his grip on the back of the chair tightened. He laughed in disbelief at (Y/N). “I have let these lords fill your mind with poison for too long. You will come to Kingslanding, and you will start to act like the dragon you are.” 
“You’re the one who left father, do not blame those who raised your son when you would not.” 
“Is that what that bronze bitch-” 
“Do not call her that!” (Y/N) seethed, knocking the pitcher off the table in his rage sending wine spilled over the tile floor, “She was everything I had while you were off fucking your whores and fighting your wars! You do not get to show up after years of absence and demand my obedience and respect!” 
“I am your sire, I deserve your respect.” 
“You have not earned it.” 
Daemon laughed, causing (Y/N) to anger further, “Kostā deny ziry tresy, yn iksā hae olvie iā zaldrīzes hae aōha ancestors.” 
(Y/N)’s jaw tightened at the ancient language, refusing to give his father the satisfaction of understanding his words. “I wish you a safe flight back to Kingslanding father, for you will be alone.” 
(Y/N) made for the door to the room, hand pausing on the door knob at his father’s next words. 
“I will be flying back tomorrow (Y/N), but not alone.” 
(Y/N) scoffed, turning around to retort the statement but the smug smile on his father’s face made any witty statement die on his tongue, “What.” 
“Your grandsire has already given me leave to return with you to Kingslanding.” Daemon said, folding his hands behind his back, “Now go pack your things, we leave on the morrow.”
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“He hoped I would obey!” Thunk. 
“He said he ‘hoped I would obey’ and yet he gave Daemon leave to take me anyways!” Thunk. 
“Should you not be packing cousin?” Ser Gerold watched as his young cousin loosed arrow after arrow into the already abused target. 
“He let me stand there and argue knowing my words were void and my wants were worthless.” Thunk. 
“You should be saying your goodbyes (Y/N) ,” Gerold sighed, “I know you consider the stable boy your friend, and no matter your qualms with Lord Yerbort-” 
(Y/N) whipped around, seething, “Did you not hear me? He has betrayed me, he is handing his only heir to the rats of Kingslanding.” 
“He did not betray you, cousin.” 
(Y/N) had immediately gone to find his grandsire after leaving his father. Begging him to claim his father’s words as false, only for his grandsire to sigh and speak (Y/N)’s worst fear. 
“He is telling true my boy.” 
(Y/N) paled, “But- no. No, you said it was my choice.”
His grandsire sighed, refusing to meet his heir’s eyes, “This is a royal summons from The King, (Y/N). I cannot brush off your uncle as I can your father. I did hope you would obey and it would not come to my command but you are more Daemon than you know (Y/N).” 
(Y/N) had left him after that, ignoring his pleas for him to stay as he slammed the door. Gerold had found him in the yard an hour later, the sun had started to drift past the tree line, leaving the yard shadowed as (Y/N) stewed. 
“I have no love for your father, but Lord Yorbert is right. Your grandsire is Lord of Runestone, your uncle is King, he cannot just disobey his summons, and neither can you try as you might.” 
“This is my father’s scheme, and his alone.” (Y/N) scoffed, returning to his target, and notching another arrow. 
“Well I’m sure you will uncover it soon enough, but you will do so in Kingslanding.” Ser Gerold gave him an apologetic smile, ���I will be sad to see you go cousin.” 
(Y/N) gave him a soft smile back, “Maybe if I do not pack I can delay.” 
His cousin laughed, “Your father will be taking you to Kingslanding on the morrow (Y/N). He will drag you to Kingslanding himself and call for your things later if he must.” 
“You are more Daemon than you know (Y/N).” 
(Y/N) paused, calling out to Ser Gerold, “Do you think I am like my father, cousin?” 
Ser Gerold paused, eyes widening at the question. He steeled himself, fixing his expression before giving (Y/N) a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I will send some maids to help pack your things, you should rest, (Y/N). You have a long journey ahead of you.” 
And with that Ser Gerold left the young heir in the yard. 
The sun had fully set when (Y/N) finally returned to the keep. They had already packed most of his things by the time he’d entered his chambers. The room was sad to look at, a lifetime of memories and collected contents packed away into tiny chests in mere hours. He sighed to himself and stripped from his outer clothes, folding them and placing them on a chair as he began packing the things the maids hadn’t touched. When he was satisfied with his work he called for a servant, asking for a plate of food and wine to be brought to him. 
“Oh, and if it’s not too much trouble can you please summon Osric Stone to my chambers.” 
Thirty minutes later there was a knock at his chamber doors. 
“Come in.” 
“I hear you’re leaving on the morrow.” 
(Y/N) turned, locking eyes with the stable boy who had a plate of food and wine in his hands. Osric places them down on the table, giving (Y/N) a sad look. 
(Y/N) nodded, “My grandfather has given Daemon his permission.” 
“So this is goodbye?” 
(Y/N) stood, walking toward his closest friend. He shook his head, taking Osric’s hand in his, “I will return, whatever noble lady I am to marry will be the Lady of Runestone, she should live here with me.” 
“You do not yet know who you’re to be betrothed to?” Osric raised an eyebrow. 
“No,” (Y/N) mused, taking Osric’s face in hand, “I did not ask, it does not matter. I will do my duty as husband and that is it.” 
Osric let out a bitter laugh, stepping back from (Y/N), “You will do your duty? You will not try to love her?” 
“It doesn’t matter-” 
“You will spend your life with this girl, (Y/N). You should try to find happiness in the marriage.” 
“I find my happiness with you, that is enough.” 
Osric laughed, shaking his head at the boy. “I am not coming with you (Y/N).” 
(Y/N) took a step toward the stable boy, once again taking his hands in his, “You could, say the word and I will take you with me.” 
“My place is here, (Y/N).” 
“And so is mine.” 
Osric smiled softly, “Yes, but your place is the future Lord of Runestone, mine is as a stable hand.” 
(Y/N) opened his mouth to retort but Osric continued on, “You knew this (Y/N), you have always known this. As you have always known you would have to marry some lady from a noble family and have children of your own to be future vale lords. 
“I do care for you (Y/N).” Osric placed his hand on the boy's cheek, “But our paths in life will never cross.” 
He placed a chaste kiss on (Y/N)’s cheek, “I wish you luck on your journey M’lord.” 
For the second time that night (Y/N) was left standing alone. 
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The size of the host his grandsire had prepared was pitiful. There were maybe five of the household guards, the rest of the host made up of maids and serving boys. There was one carriage, if it could be called that, awaiting him in the yard. The rest of the transport consisted of wagons carrying chests and the guards' horses. 
“If my grandsire is insistent on sending me away, the least he could do is provide sufficient transport.” (Y/N) sneered, placing the last of his things into a wagon, and turning to Ser Gerold. 
Before his cousin could reply his father and grandsire entered the yard. Ser Gerold straightened, posture stiffening at the sight of The Rogue Prince. His father looked amused at the sight of his son by the wagons. 
‘He would take pleasure in this farce’, (Y/N) thought. 
“What are you doing?” His father smiled at him. 
“Packing my things.” (Y/N) replied, “I will need clothes in Kingslanding will I not?” 
His father laughed, a genuine laugh that made (Y/N) uneasy, “Funny. No, I mean why are you packing it into that?” 
“Where else would I put it?” (Y/N) furrowed his brow, he could not decipher the tone of his father’s words, but he did not appreciate being made a fool of. 
“With your horse.” Daemon replied, pointing his head in the direction of the stables where sure enough horses and a smaller wagon were being prepped, “You will be returning to Kingslanding with me.” 
‘With him?’ (Y/N) thought, looking to his grandsire for an explanation, ‘He cannot mean-’ 
“On dragon-back?” (Y/N) paled, “I cannot- but-” 
(Y/N) looked to his grandsire, seeing no surprise in his expression. Why would there be? The pitiful host was not to escort his heir but to escort the lesser of his belongings, he was getting a proper escort- a Targaryen dragon. 
“Unpack the most important things,” His father instructed, “The rest will reach Kingslanding later.” 
Then his father departed for the stables himself, leaving (Y/N) with his cousin and grandsire. 
“Goodluck cousin,” His cousin wrapped him in his arms, “We will await your return eagerly.” 
He smiled at his cousin as he released him, “Thank you, Gerold.” 
Ser Gerold ruffled his hair like he did when (Y/N) was a boy, and (Y/N) swatted at his hand. His cousin left laughing, taking some of (Y/N)’s chests with him over to the stables as he walked away. (Y/N) turned to his grandsire, who smiled at him, stepping close to his heir. 
“I am sad to see you go, my boy.” 
“I do not have to leave grandsire,” (Y/N) clasped his grandsire’s hands,“I can stay here.” 
“You and I both know that is no longer an option, (Y/N).” Yorbert eyes watered, he unraveled their hands, and placed his palm to his grandson’s smooth cheek, “I am sorry my boy, truly I am, but this is how it must be.” 
(Y/N) scoffed, trying to pull away. 
“Please,” Yorbert grasped him harder, preventing the teen from stalking away. “I do not wish to part ways with you angry at me, (Y/N). I need you to understand I had no choice, I cannot deny the king. But after this business, you will return to Runestone and this will all be in the past.” 
“This business is my marriage,” (Y/N) said, “I cannot leave that in the past.” 
“No, I suppose you cannot.” Yorbert sighed, releasing the teen. 
“I am still angry,” (Y/N) said, and Yorbert nodded. 
“I-” 
“But I understand why you did it.” He was still impossibly angry at his grandsire, but he knew how long his business in Kinglanding could take, and he did not wish to part for so long on ill terms. Yorbert smiled, hugging his grandson. He placed a frail hand on the back of (Y/N)’s head, confirming to (Y/N) that he made the right choice.
“That is all I can ask for.” 
He and Daemon departed with few riders accompanying them. Daemon brought little with him to Runestone, all of his things placed in his horse’s saddlebags. He looked smug atop his horse, too smug for (Y/N)’s liking and he yearned to knock the white-haired man from his horse. All thoughts of his anger disappeared as they approached Caraxes, quickly replaced with trepidation. 
Caraxes roared, his breath blowing (Y/N)’s hair in all directions and (Y/N) halted his horse. He stared at the large red beast, eyes wide and heart pounding in his chest. The workers, as nervous as he was, transferred his things from the wagon to the dragon’s saddlebags as (Y/N) stood there motionless. 
He watched his father approach the beast, placing his hand atop his snout, his father seemed to whisper to Caraxes before motioning for (Y/N) to approach. 
“Come,” Daemon said, eyes uncharacteristically soft. 
(Y/N) dismounted, approaching The Blood Wyrm with trepidation. Caraxes shifted, eyes peering dangerously into the young prince’s eyes, causing (Y/N) to freeze in place; just a few feet away from the beast. Daemon whispered comfort to the dragon, urging his son closer. 
“Give him your hand, he won’t hurt you,” Daemon smiled. “You are a dragon lord, (Y/N). Remember that.” 
“I have never touched a dragon, father, let alone ridden one.” (Y/N) stepped closer, hand shaking as he placed it close to the red dragon's snout. Caraxes stiffened, sniffing the hand, before sighing contently and placing the tip of his nose to the boy's hand, not unlike a cat. He smiled softly to himself at the thought. 
Daemon was pleased, that much was obvious by the look on his face, “You are a dragon (Y/N), no matter what you wish to believe.” 
---
Translations:
“Kostā deny ziry tresy, yn iksā hae olvie iā zaldrīzes hae aōha ancestors.”  - "You may deny it, son, but you are as much a dragon as your ancestors."
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