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okiedokrie · 11 months ago

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Meet Me In Amsterdam

Summary: "Minghao finds himself under a mentorship program from one of the most brilliant artist in the contemporary circle, where he meets Y/N and bond with their journey through art, overcoming traumas, and hopeless romanticism of the life and love around them. But all things come to an end at some point, the mentorship program ends, and they both go back to their lives. But they do meet again to finish what they started; 'if there is a next time, meet me in Amsterdam.'"

Characters/Pairing: Artist!Minghao x Artist!Fem!Reader

Genre: smut, some angst, fluff

AU/Trope Info: Non-idol AU!, idiots to lovers

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: Religious themes, implication of past sexual assault, homophobia mention, some cursing, food mentions, smut warnings under the cut

Rating: 18+

A/N: this is for the @svthub 2024 world tour collab! Thanks to @whipped-for-kpop-fics and @hobeemin for beta-reading!

Smut Warnings: oral (f receiving), sex in a church, unprotected sex, implied creampie

The air in Minghao's studio is dizzying. A broken exhaust and paint fumes don't really mix, and his open windows could only do so much. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Touching grass may solve his problem, but he doesn't feel like dealing with the morning dew on the grass.

He quickly closed his windows before packing all his belongings in his commuting bag, opting to rush to a recent exhibit that opened. Minghao knew very little about the artist, but a change of scenery might help quell his throbbing headache.

Minghao took this opportunity to space out during the commute to the gallery, popping on his headphones and trying to ignore the touchy couples in the train car with him. He wonders what it'll feel like to find his person like them; Minghao only craves the warmth of another's arms.

He wonders what it'll feel like to fall for someone, to be comfortable with vulnerability and the trusting bond between two lovers. Ever the hopeless romantic, he'd love to love and be loved.

He snapped out of his thoughts when the intercom buzzed to life, announcing the arrival at Minghao’s stop. Adjusting the strap of his messenger bag, he pushed his way through the busy crowd to head out of the station. The walk to the gallery was calm and relatively quiet. This part of the city mostly had walking paths rather than roads, so it was really only bustling with people and the occasional bicycle.

Arriving at the gallery, the pieces were gorgeous, as expected. This artist was well known in the contemporary circle, so it's no surprise that the gallery is almost busier than the outside. Minghao felt drawn to one piece in particular, the warm tones, swirling and melting into one another, blending into a flame-like flow; it was stationary yet moving.

He hears a chuckle behind him, only to see an older man, about mid-forties, smiling at him. “I see you enjoy this piece; you have great taste. What's your name, boy?”

Minghao is a little flustered, but he introduces himself nonetheless. The man before him introduced himself as the artist and noticed Minghao's paint-stained hands before asking if he was an artist himself. Minghao confirmed the older man’s speculations, offering to show some of his work as photos on his phone. The older man was impressed by Minghao’s talent and potential, and he then mentioned that he had an apprenticeship program open, but it was in Amsterdam.

Minghao agreed a little too enthusiastically, seeing as this man quite literally defined an era of art in a way nobody else has.

It was only a few weeks after that interaction, but Minghao found himself on a flight to Amsterdam.

Taking in the city's air, Minghao feels a sense of dread washing over him, and the hustle and bustle of a new city scares him a bit. Being alone in a foreign land wasn't why his nerves were all over the place; no, it was the fact that he felt this opportunity wasn't meant to be his.

Sure, his mentor got the opportunity to see his work before he accepted the offer, but still, he feels this mentorship program would've been more suited to someone more fitting.

Nonetheless, Minghao is here now. And he swears he'll make the most of the time he spends here.

Taking one of the many old trains out of the airport, the rumbling train rails helped ground him a little; the sound was new and familiar at the same time. He thought back to his small studio back home, wondering how well it'd hold up in the year he'd be gone.

Minghao is snapped out of his daydreams when the train arrives at his station. He lugs his luggage to what will be his living quarters for the rest of his time here. Wiping his palms over his sweats, he finally takes the time to haul his bags over the stairs to the small apartment that was provided to him. His mentor mentioned that he has a roommate, another artist in the program, so he doesn't let his stuff get too comfortable in the main room.

Instead, he randomly picks one of the rooms, hoping his roommate doesn't mind. If they did, it's not as if he's opposed to switching.

He hums a simple melody while setting his bags to the side, still catching up to the jetlag and too tired to put anything away. He inspects the room, noting that it is a little dusty. He has to settle his sheets and wipe everything down before he can get too comfortable.

He thinks that heading out for brunch is a good idea, guessing that his roommate would most likely want to get situated in peace. He gets his wallet and phone and heads out to find somewhere to eat.

The streets weren't too busy. It was midday and the middle of the week, and most likely, people were still at their jobs. Still, they were full of people to the point that Minghao felt the pressure of needing to always be on the move. He constantly tried to go with the flow of the crowds while trying to find an establishment he could eat at, preferably something to quell his growing homesickness.

He stumbles across what seems to be a small business with very familiar-looking signs. Bingo! It's a Chinese restaurant! He thanks whatever force managed to lead him here before he enters the restaurant. The distinct smell of the classic spice mix calms his nerves, and his posture relaxes significantly.

The man at the counter doesn't look up from his paper, pointing at a booth near the back where Minghao could set his stuff before ordering. The curt behavior of the man doesn't phase him; in fact, it comforts him. He sets his bag down before standing at the counter, reading over the signs that were both in Mandarin and English. He starts ordering his food in Mandarin, finally getting the man at the counter to notice him. He nods in understanding, taking his order diligently before yelling his order at the cook at the back.

He pays, nods at the man again, and gets situated at his table. Getting comfortable with the smell of the food cooking and the chatter of the people around him. He fiddles with his phone a little, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram to see what his friends are up to. Mingyu got another modeling gig, Jungkook with his new single, and Dokyeom got to play Orpheus in Hadestown.

Soon enough, he doesn't realize how much time has passed, only noticing that his food was ready when the waitress hurriedly slides his food onto the table and takes his table number. Mumbling thanks, which he believes she ignores, Minghao starts to eat his food.

This is so good, actually; I need to post this to my story.

Minghao took a picture of his food. The digital camera shutter almost distracted him from the sound of someone bumping into the table next to him.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry!” A feminine voice said, frantically apologizing to the patron at said table, holding her hip. She desperately tried to wipe up anything that was spilled, apologizing profusely. Minghao got up from his table and offered to help her, wiping up the mess with her like the gentleman he was. Once the table was free from any spills, she apologized again to the person at the table and Minghao for troubling him.

“It’s fine; accidents happen all the time. Just be more mindful next time.” He says calmly, returning to his booth before a smaller hand grabs his arm.

“Uh, I can't find a place to sit. Would you mind sharing a table with me?” she asked shyly but politely. Minghao shakes his head no. Offering her a polite smile as they walk back to their now shared table, she leaves her items in his care before going to order her food.

Minghao finally gets to enjoy the food he ordered. The decadent aroma was mouth-watering, and most importantly, it reminded him of home. It helps warm him up, literally and figuratively. He chews slowly, savoring the flavors of his food as usual. He'd always been a slow eater, slow enough for the lady he shares a table with to get her food and finish eating with him.

They both get up from their table with a curt nod of acknowledgment. Thinking this would be the last time they'd ever interact, Minghao didn't bother introducing himself. And neither does she.

Yet, Minghao can't seem to shake the feeling of disappointment once he leaves her.

Minghao finally arrives at his apartment, ready to settle down after a long day of exploring the city and taking photos of places that inspire him. He closes the door, running a hand through his hair to look around the living room.

He nearly dropped his camera when he saw the girl from the restaurant staring back at him, and he almost dropped the tray of paints from the shock.

“What are you doing here?!” She asked, surprised and on alert. Minghao could only guess what emotions she was going through at that moment. A random man she met once is suddenly in her apartment. Oh dear.

Minghao starts to feel panic settle into him, too. Both of them look like deer in headlights, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Oh- uh- fuck, I live here!” Minghao says frantically, holding both his hands up in a show of innocence, showing his copy of the keys to their apartment.

Her posture immediately relaxed a little, “Oh uh, so, you're my roommate? I'm Y/n, by the way.” She says, still a little weary of him. He doesn't blame her; he did come in unannounced.

“It's nice to meet you again, I mean. I'm Minghao. Let's try to get along for this mentorship program, yeah?” He says, scratching the back of his head. “I'm gonna go head to bed; I'm exhausted from all the traveling, so uh, yeah.”

Minghao hoped his exit wasn't too awkward. Maybe it was, but he was too tired to deal with the intricacies of small talk. He changed his sheets quickly, throwing the old sheets into the wash before doing his nightly routine. He crashed into his new, cool sheets and drifted off into dreamland.

It was the next morning, and the warmth of the sunlight was seeping in through the cracks between the curtains. He blinks away the sleep from his eyes, rubbing his face into his palms. He sits up and shakes his head to fight off the rest of his fatigue. He was always a morning person, but the jetlag is making it a bit too difficult for him to uphold that.

His morning routine was simple: shower, get dressed, make-up and hair, breakfast, and out. He rarely breaks from this simple pattern, which consistently makes life easier for him. So it came as a surprise to him that he didn't have to make breakfast this time since his roommate kindly left a portion for him.

He thinks this is such a nice gesture to leave for the guy who scared her half to death yesterday. Maybe this was a sort of peace offering to make getting along easier? Either way, he won't complain—it's just another thing to make his life a little easier.

His roommate is nowhere to be seen, most likely already on his way to the studio to meet their mentor. So Minghao also leaves the apartment, making sure to lock the door on his way out. He pops his headphones on, listening to his favorite commute playlist with a lightness in his step, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

The train ride to the studio was calm; the morning train was much less busy than the afternoon one he took when he arrived, so he got the opportunity to sit down and enjoy the book he recently got. It was a story about two soulmates finding each other in the middle of a city that was new to both of them; he thinks that maybe he's starting to lean into the hopeless romantic stereotype that his friends would always compare him to, which, he could never beat the allegations.

His mind drifts to his art, and he describes how the romanticization of life became a heavy inspiration for his work. Minghao loves the strokes of color on the canvas as much as he loves life, and his passion for existence weaves itself between the fibers of his canvas.

After being snapped out of his daydreams by the conductor, he feels a sense of deja vu; he finds himself in his head constantly these days. He is always such a dreamer.

The doors of the train open with a mechanical hiss, old rails squeaking under the friction. He thinks the train still needs to go through the desperately needed maintenance. Same train, same. He thought to himself, stuffing his book back into his back with a huff.

Minghao takes in the scenery around him; this part of the city is much less busy than where his apartment was, so he could finally appreciate the city's beauty without the pressure of constantly having to be on the move.

His mentor's building comes into view. It is an older building; the exterior has long since been weathered, but history still makes it gorgeous. He noticed that buildings, most of them having yet to be touched since they were first built, added a charm to an otherwise monotonous city.

He pushes in the door, noting that his only option for getting to the studio is a set of ancient, creaky wooden steps. Minghao is lightheaded from looking at the flight of stairs, so he doesn't bother counting how many floors he has to climb just to get to his mentor.

I have to climb this every day. I don't need to bother with leg day here. He thought to himself, already making the long trek up the stairs.

It wasn’t that long—about 5 minutes of walking time—but it felt like an eternity to him. Walking was no issue; walking upstairs? Torture. The first treadmill was a step design, so it may not be an exaggeration.

Minghao finally reaches the top of the stairwell, pausing to catch his breath in an attempt to look presentable to his mentor and possibly his roommate. He stands by the door for a while, mentally preparing himself for the first day of the program. He arrives earlier than the agreed-upon time, so he's not in a rush to make his presence known.

He takes his water bottle out of his bag, puts cool water in it, and helps his poor self finally calm down from his mini workout. He curses whoever designed this stairwell. A five-story building should have an elevator, and arguing that it doesn't need one feels like a hate crime.

He stops himself before arguing with fictitious architects, who are probably long gone, about how old the building looks. Anyway, he finally has a hand on the doorknob to the studio; taking a deep breath one last time, he twists the knob and pushes the door open, the old wood creaking in protest from the force of him opening it. He cringes internally, the squeak passing straight through his skull, making him want to grind his teeth in annoyance.

Still, he doesn’t show his disdain for this geriatric building on his face since his mentor and roommate both whip their heads around to see him at the doorway. Suddenly, having two sets of eyes on you doesn't help the nerves.

He offers a polite smile, successfully fighting his grimace with a more pleasant expression. Both his mentor and roommate smile back. He noticed his mentor was a lot more relaxed than when he first met him, which makes sense. He is where he's most comfortable—in his very own studio.

Minghao feels the same about his tiny studio back home. He steps further into the bright studio, closing the door behind him. The studio's top floor and many large windows bring loads of natural light, making it feel more comfortable and inviting. Couple that with the fact that it's in a relatively quiet part of the city, and he feels as if his mentor really put thought into every detail of his permanent studio.

Minghao wonders when he will be able to get the studio of his dreams in his art career, but for now, he admires the studio. His mentor greets him and urges him to explore and get acquainted with the space. Since he'll be spending most of his time here in Amsterdam. Minghao nods, dropping his bag on the cubbies near the door and carefully walking around the studio, avoiding the items and canvases scattered around the floor. His mentor seemed to have an organized chaos mindset, seemingly not bothered by the mess or the health hazard tripping on any of these might cause.

He finds it amusing how much of his mentor he finds out about just from looking around his workspace. He has a husband, married young, it seems. He has twin girls, who he can only assume are grown now. He used to have a dog, a poodle named ‘Cloud’ despite being a black poodle. He made prints of older paintings before sending them off to an auction for fundraisers. He remembers those fundraisers very fondly, it seems.

Minghao also finds the bathroom and takes note of its location for future use; he’s definitely going to use that. He joins his mentor and roommate by the window, then takes the time to drink their morning coffee and watch the birds. His mentor offers him coffee, but Minghao asks if he has tea. His mentor confirms that he does and points toward his pantry, which is just a wooden cubby that he appropriated to be a pantry after he got tired of getting his snacks off the floor, sighting back pains.

Minghao calmly prepares his tea, passively listening to the conversation between his mentor and roommate. They seem to get along well. Maybe his mentor has some fondness for her because she reminds him of his daughters. He could only guess, though.

Minghao finishes making his tea and finally joins them by the window. “Are you guys birdwatching?” he asks, joining in the conversation.

“Yes! Mr. Jones was talking about how his youngest loved visiting his studio just to view the birds.” His roommate answers, his mentor confirming it. Though he does mention that she doesn’t visit as often—after all, she has a family of her own now—when she visits, she brings his grandchildren with her, which makes the old man happy.

He adopted his twin girls pretty early in life, seeing them as inspiration for most of his work. The way his mentor talks about his family and life with so much pride makes Minghao think about his future. He wonders if he’ll ever be as proud of his life as his mentor is, but considering he’ll be learning everything this man can offer, he’s pretty confident about that, at least.

After finishing their morning drinks, his mentor started his first assignment for them, one of many he’d assign throughout the program. His mentor was a patient and calm man. His instruction and tips for injecting emotion into your piece were very cohesive; it was almost like he got it down to a science. His enthusiasm and passion for his work were truly remarkable, and getting to witness it and learn from him felt surreal.

Minghao feels proud of having the opportunity to have him as a mentor. At the end of the day, instead of feeling exhausted, he's excited to learn more from him tomorrow.

You and Minghao are heading home together after a long day with your mentor, walking silently through the streets; you think that maybe he just doesn't like you, seeing how he practically jumps at every accidental graze of your hands with each other.

You don't really blame him either; your first impression wasn't exactly the greatest, seeing as someone cussed you out in the middle of a Chinese restaurant. That impression was a strong one, but unfortunately, not a good one.

Minghao and you shuffle into the same train car, getting pressed together as a consequence of rush hour. You try not to think about what your roommate, who is basically still a stranger to you, feels like. He's warm, and you can definitely feel that he is in shape. You definitely try not to think about how tall he is or how handsome he is.

He's so polite, too, and very gentlemanly. He's always conscious of his movement and language around you, protecting you from being squeezed in this tiny train car without him even noticing. It was basically second nature to him.

Oh, you're never going to survive with this man for a year; you're definitely not going to stay sane with him living with you. Your mind starts reeling, cursing whatever deity thought it was funny to send over a walking wet dream of a roommate to your sex-deprived self.

You'd hope Minghao doesn't notice how you fought for your life, trying to have decent thoughts. You felt extremely guilty for thinking of him as such, he's just minding his business, and you're acting like some horny teenager. You hope you don't offend him with how much you flinch in every interaction with him.

The last thing you'd want is for him to think he was the problem.

Luckily for you, Minghao always seemed to be in his head most of the time, mindlessly picking at the stitching of his shirt and spacing out, it seems. At least you don't have to worry about him secretly being a mind-reader. The chances are low, but they're never zero.

You also take this as an opportunity to start spacing out, looking out the window to watch the buildings and trees pass by quickly, enjoying the golden glow of the setting sun over the city. This scene makes you feel bittersweet, as if another day has passed.

You wanted nothing more than to crash in your bed and sleep until the next morning, but for now, in the middle of this train car, you had to be vigilant of your surroundings. Not just because you're a newbie to this place but because you absolutely cannot get so distracted that you start to lean into your roommate like some deranged weirdo subconsciously.

The train conductor announcing your stop seemed to snap both you and Minghao out of your daydreams. “Could I hold onto you? I don't wanna get swept up in this crowd,” you asked politely, unable to meet his eyes.

“Uh, sure, hold on.” He said, adjusting his messenger bag so it doesn't block your reach of his arm.

Minghao navigates the flowing crowd with a form of familiarity. It surprised you how well he managed to adjust to the movement of such a busy city. Then again, he could have already come from a much busier city than Amsterdam. Still, you need to learn more about him to make assumptions.

Minghao weaves the two of you through the crowds and out of the station, successfully reaching fresh air once you make it to a calmer sidewalk that was already near your apartment. You wanted to ask him so many questions. You realistically had a little over a year to do so, yet you know how quickly a year actually goes by, so you wanted to work quickly, but not too quickly, that you scare the poor man away.

Arriving at your apartment, Minghao fishes his keys out of his pocket to unlock the door, opens it, and gestures for you to enter first. You say a small ‘thank you’ before entering, taking your shoes off at the entrance and hanging up your coat.

Minghao follows you after you hear the door click behind you. The shuffling of his items as they are hung indicates that he is settling down for the day.

“Hey, Minghao?” You start, wanting to lead a conversation to eliminate the awkwardness between you and your roommate; he hums, fully turning his body to you as if to signal that he is listening. “I just wanted to know what you thought of Mr. Jones. You know, not as a mentor, but as a person.” You asked, thinking it was a safe place to start getting to know him.

He thinks about it momentarily, “I can't say right now; I've only ever known him as a leading force in the contemporary circle, but other than that? Not much. Judging from his relationship with his daughters, he seems like a good father and good husband, as he still spoke about his husband fondly and was pleasant to be around. But other than that, I don't know.” He shrugged, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don't know,” You answer truthfully, “I like him a lot; he reminds me of my dad somewhat, you know, except maybe less of a religious nut.” You joke, gauging to see Minghao's reaction to it; luckily for you, Minghao finds it funny. Offering a restrained pfft- at your quip.

“Yeah, I get that; my dad was the same too. But I like him a lot less than Mr. Jones.” He said through laughter, running his hands through his hair. “I'll go take a shower; see you around, Y/n.”

And with that, he disappears into his en-suite.

You celebrate the tiny progress you made with your roommate, and you get to exchange words with him that aren't just common pleasantries. This motivates you to fan the spark of this new friendship, and maybe more, if you play your cards right.

It's too early to say you liked him, but he is objectively very attractive. So you can't really blame yourself for ogling at him. Respectfully, of course.

You also prepare for your night routine, opting to go through your entire skincare routine for the first time in forever after showering. You put on your best pajamas and tuck yourself into bed, dreaming of the day your hot roommate sees you how you want him to.

Kidding, not really.

Minghao has yet to learn what he's doing.

He'd been staring blankly at his canvas for what seemed like a solid 20 minutes, these inner thoughts fighting for dominance and splattering their metaphorical blood all over the pristine canvas.

He wanted to paint something so badly, but alas, getting struck with a severe art block on the second day of his mentorship felt like a sick joke from fate. His mentor watches over their shoulders, monitoring their progress. He seemed to notice Minghao's growing frustration from being stuck, “I think you should take a break, son. You should enjoy some tea by the window and clear your mind to make room for new ideas.” he said gently with a hand on Minghao’s shoulder.

Minghao agrees with him, finally setting his brush down to make his tea as usual before getting comfortable on one of the chairs by the window. He watches the trees sway in the wind, the birds playing on a random rooftop, and the clouds drifting slowly. All of these help calm his racing mind, which is preoccupied with so many things to think about that he doesn't have room to think about new ideas.

Minghao has a nasty habit of overthinking and holding onto ideas that no longer serve him a purpose. He thinks back to the first time he did this, the day he decided to become an artist. He's always known that he wanted to be an artist. He was eight at the time, telling his parents about his dreams for the future.

Unfortunately, they disapproved of such plans. The first thought Minghao ever held onto was, “You need to aspire to get a real job, not just some useless skill that will leave you with no money.”

The second thought Minghao held onto happened at around the age of 17, just before graduating high school. He decided not to go to college, seeing that he still held out hope that he could become a great artist one day. He wanted to prioritize honing his skills, and his parents, once again, didn't approve of that.

That was the first time he ever felt fear from his parents. Before, he was only met with stern lecturing and maybe being grounded, but he never saw his dad that angry before or ever since. Since that day, Minghao has held onto the following: “If you're going to choose to throw your life away, then so be it. Just don't come crawling back here when you end up on the streets!”

Minghao doesn't want to recall the last thought he held onto; the memory is still fresh and feels like a weapon being used against him. He wished it didn't turn out that way, but it did. And there's nothing he could do to change the facts.

Minghao savors the flavors of his tea before finally trying his best to get rid of all those thoughts he holds onto. He's far away from his parents, far away from the people who could hurt him, and far away from the past.

He finally stops overthinking as soon as he sets his cup down, wiping off his palms on his pants before joining his roommate and mentor again. His head was finally free of any troubles he might've had. But he knows he's never truly free, only temporarily setting it aside to focus on his current goals.

He feels a sense of pride while he is painting this time. Strokes of vibrant color dance across the weaving of the canvas, and his brush glides smoothly and freely across it, finding a path of its own, making its mark like it was always meant to do.

In a way, it was freeing to paint without the pressure of making it look ‘good’, Minghao only had to focus on laying a color down the way it wanted to lay, and this show of emotion sparked a flame of determination in Minghao that he thought he lost so long ago.

Minghao finally sees the colors for what they are again, and in a way, he starts falling in love with creating again. His joy is evident on his face, and the controlled strokes slowly turn into free ones with every passing moment.

He looks away from his canvas once to look at you, and he smiles the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. And you realize his smile is contagious, absolutely stunning in a way you've never felt before.

That smile was detrimental to your poor little heart, your small crush on him only worsening. You think it's a bit unfair that the universe had to dangle such a gorgeous specimen in front of you. You didn't even have an idea if he was single or not. He could have a wife and kids back home and you'd be none the wiser.

Still, you enjoy his company while you can. After all, it's not like you applied for this mentorship just to mingle. You were here to learn under a great artist, and to gain the experiences necessary to advance your career and skill.

Having a hot roommate is a nice touch, though.

“Hey Minghao?” You ask from the living room, looking up from your book to look at him in your tiny kitchen.

“Yeah?” He replied, not looking up from the stove. It was the weekend, and Minghao offered to make dinner as you’ve been making breakfast for the past few days.

“Are you in a relationship? If you don’t mind me asking.” You asked, the question has been bugging you for a while now, ever since you realized your tiny crush. You’d feel incredibly guilty if he was in a relationship and you tried shooting your shot with him.

“No. But why do you ask?” He said simply, focusing more of his attention to not burning the food. Stir-frying the noodles with familiarity.

“Nothing, I just thought about it.” You paused, “We’re friends, right?” You finished with a question, thinking that maybe your line of questioning might be too much for someone who doesn’t even consider you more than a roommate.

“Of course. I like your company, I don’t have a reason to try and alienate you.” He said, now with more focus on you as he turned the fire of the stove down. Plating your food in one of the plates your apartment came with.

“Cool. We’re cool.” You said a little awkwardly, thinking that maybe your questioning was a bit too on the nose. Even if he wasn’t a mind-reader, he’ll surely be able to tell that you’re interested in him just from your weird line of questioning in recent days. Surely Minghao isn’t dense.

Minghao called you over to your dining room table, saying that dinner was already served. You rise from your comfortable position on the couch, making your way over to the tiny table in the space between the living room and kitchen.

“I hope you like the food, it's something I always used to make in college. It was one of the few luxuries I could afford, but it’s still very delicious,” he said, serving you a portion before taking some for himself.

“Thank you for making dinner. This looks amazing, I’m honored to try it.” You said, taking in the sight of the food that Minghao made with care. Minghao feels a sense of pride from your praise, sure, he’s not the best cook, but he’s definitely proud of the progress he made in recent years.

Cooking was one of the first skills Minghao had to learn when he got kicked out of his parents’ place. Having focused all his energy on studying before, he only really had the time to learn how to take care of himself once he was on his own.

Watching you eat his food enthusiastically made Minghao unexpectedly happy. Sharing something he was proud of is often how he tries to get close to people, the little piece of vulnerability made him feel closer to them, like offering a piece of himself to them.

To you, this may have felt like a simple dinner, a meal between two friends in the comfort of their own home. But to Minghao, this was him accepting you into his space. Finally being comfortable enough to associate you to a dish he holds almost sacred.

The days easily turned into weeks, weeks into months, and before you knew it, it's already six months into your mentorship program. The days began to blur into each other, the most interesting thing that happened in the six months was your budding relationship with your roommate, whom you found out to be as much of a hopeless romantic as you are.

Your weekdays were spent at the studio, diligently working under your mentor and improving your art. While your weekdays were spent unwinding and spending time with your new friend. Minghao's taste in movies doesn't differ much from yours, opting to watch romantic movies with happy endings.

It was during one of these movie nights that Minghao asked you a question, “Do you believe in true love? ‘The one’, so to speak. Someone that is a perfect fit for you as you are to them.”

You think about this question for a bit, “Yeah, I do. It's a little silly to ask for perfection, but if someone is perfect to you, I think that's pretty plausible. Though, I do think true love is more of a choice than just aimlessly searching for them, you know?” You answered carefully, eyes still glued to the tv screen.

“I see,” Minghao started, “do you have an idea what your ‘one’ might be like?” He asked, this time a little more determined to get a more pointed answer from you.

“Not necessarily, but I already have a feeling that I know them already.” You said, relaxing and leaning back onto the couch, “Or, at least I hope I do. And I hope they see me like that too.” You sighed, wishful thinking taking over you again.

Over time, your little crush on Minghao had grown into a genuine romantic interest, especially since learning that he was single a few weeks ago, you started to see him in a different light. Almost as if the confirmation of his availability gave your subconscious the green light to start thirsting over him like a horny teenager.

It also didn’t help that he got comfortable enough to walk around the house shirtless, or worse, with just a towel loosely around his hips, sitting low as he’s fresh out of the shower. This put you in a loop, almost all thoughts being occupied by him in a sick and twisted way.

Some days, you convince yourself that Minghao does this on purpose, trying to kill you in the reflection of the light from his sweet, wet abs.

“Y/n?” He said, breathless. With a whiny tone in his naturally airy voice.

“Hao? You’re back from your run?” You ask from the kitchen. Trying not to think about how delicious his voice sounded.

“Yeah, I picked up some bread on the way back. Thought it’s go well with the soup you’re making.” He replied as he placed a paper bag of fresh bread on the counter. You turn away from the stove to check out the selection he brought back.

“Hm, you got good taste. I didn’t expect any less.” You say with a proud smile, Minghao’s chest fills with a sense of pride as well. It was always validating to hear from someone else that they trusted your judgment.

The two of you had the day off today, your mentor visiting his daughters somewhere on the other side of the country. Giving the two of you free reign to settle chores that you haven’t been keeping up with.

Minghao offers to help you set the table, but you tell him to take a shower first. Letting that sweat dry on him might make him sick. Or worse, sticky.

He laughs that off, “Oh please, I think you’d want that.” He said suggestively.

That was a new development too. Minghao is getting bolder with his jokes. His jokes were always tasteful, never trying to push your boundaries. But sometimes you wish he did, just so you’d have the excuse to tell him how much you wanted him.

But for now, with Minghao not showing any interest in acting upon his suggestive jokes, you swallow down the urge to jump his bones. For now, at least.

Your mentor returned from his family visit the next day, with an assignment for both of you.

Sitting in the studio as usual, your mentor explains what your assignment entails, and how it’ll most likely span the rest of your time here in Amsterdam. He took it upon himself to assign it as a final project for the two of you, finishing this would finish their apprenticeship.

“A local cathedral reached out to me looking for my services. They wanted a mural painted for the interior because it started to look a little too clean after renovations. I think this would be a good opportunity for the two of you to show me what you’ve learned. I give you half a year to finish it, and then, you’ll be done with your mentorship.” He said, voice wispy like a proud father recalling the time when his children were just small, not looking at them, all grown up, he can’t help but tear up.

You and Minghao look at each other, unable to fathom this amazing opportunity that has presented itself to you. You and Minghao eagerly accept the offer, excitedly heading out to check out the said church so you two can plan out what to do for the mural.

The people attending the church are already briefed on the situation, happily showing you around their shiny new church, happy to find new artists to commission for this project. You and Minghao take photos of the interior, wanting to plan around the implements and fixtures, to give everything a cohesive look.

You and Minghao do this for hours walking around the city to look for inspiration along the way, taking in all the sights you didn’t have the chance to take in before. The city was filled with inspiration, ideas flowed out the both of you like a river, and it was so easy to find passion for this project. With a giant canvas and free reign to paint whatever, you and Minghao felt like kids at a candy store.

But suddenly, the sky started to grumble, clouds darkening in a tell-tale way. You hadn’t anticipated the rain, so you both scramble to find shelter as the rain starts to pour. Taking shelter under the awning of an abandoned shop, you both watch as the rain pools and puddles around you. You turn to Minghao, he was a little damp but relatively dry, water dripping from his hair, soaking into his clothes. His mouth was slightly parted from panting, the unexpected run knocked the wind out of both of you.

At that moment, Minghao looked delectable.

“Hao?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He only smiles at your question, leaning down to softly press his lips to yours. He had an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him, pressing his body to yours. You can feel the warmth of his skin radiating under his clothes, warming you up from the chill of the rain.

You felt a little light-headed, not just from the lack of air, but because you didn’t expect a random blurt of your desire would lead to Minghao kissing you breathlessly. Not that you’re complaining, not at all, in fact, this made you want him more, softly moaning against his lips before pulling away, remembering that you’re in public.

“Oh, wow, um.” You start, heads still spinning from the dizzying kiss Minghao had pulled you into.

He just laughed his signature laugh, joy coursing through his veins. How could he not be happy? An amazing opportunity to advance his career, getting to spend the day in the city with someone he cares deeply for, and getting to kiss her in the rain? Oh, he’s weak in the knees.

This day was perfect, you were perfect. Minghao couldn’t ask for anything more.

You and Minghao started the mural for the cathedral, buzzing with excitement for your first big project, as well as your budding romantic relationship with him. The two of you work on opposite ends of the mural, working to meet each other halfway, and taking the time to get the details down before moving on to the next section.

In a way, this was reminiscent of how you and Minghao are taking the steps to make this relationship work. Though unlikely that you’d meet like this, you still did, and you’d like to believe it was fate. Both of you agreed not to put a label on it just yet, just enjoying each other's company, and exploring the possibilities of this new romance.

You sneak glances at him every so often, his face scrunched in concentration, focusing on perfecting the sections of the mural he assigned himself to. And sometimes, when he looks back at you, his face instantly relaxes and glows. You love how expressive his face is, almost as if you could tell what he was thinking about at any point. It comforts you how open he is, knowing that he looks at you with genuine affection and adoration. It's fun, it's freeing to feel this way about someone who feels just as strongly.

The two of you worked on the mural until lunch when the two of you decided to take a short break, “Maybe I’ll take this opportunity to take you out on a proper date.” He said cheekily, offering his arm for you to hold.

“Oh, that’d be great. We keep passing by this one restaurant that I’ve been dying to try.” It was an open-concept place, clean and modern but it didn't give off “steak dinner” vibes, it just seemed like a nice sit-down place to have lunch or brunch, if you’re of the local housewife type.

Asking the waitress at the front for a table for two, the two of you were promptly seated at a table facing the street, offering the both of you the menu. Apparently, the menu changes seasonally, this time they offered a variety of vegan dishes, which intrigued you. You never realized vegetables could be cooked in so many different ways.

Your food was served, and the conversation between you and Minghao flowed like free orange juice refills. You both enjoy your lunch, more than you usually do, you don’t know if the food was actually good, or if the company just made it better, but either way, you don’t think you could enjoy a meal without Minghao anymore.

He’s just so charming, kind, and funny. So, so funny. The tables around you started to look at you two funny for all the giggles coming from your table specifically. The restaurant being open-air doesn’t even help to dampen the sounds of your joy, even the hustle and bustle of the street fade to the background with him. It’s just you, and Minghao, and the delicious veggies the two of you decided to have for lunch.

Lunch was over before you realized it. Minghao flags down the waitress, asking for the bill and paying for it himself, much to your protests. Yet, those fall on deaf ears as he winks at you. Offering his arm for you to take again before walking back to the cathedral to continue working on your mural.

The two of you continue to act like love-struck fools, much to the church staff’s chagrin, but it's not like either of you cared, you enjoy his company, and you, his. You haven’t brought up the kiss from before, but you wanted to, mainly to ask him for another one.

Minghao really wasn’t the type for much skinship, but it’s not as if he’s opposed to it. If you asked, he’d comply. He’s willing to do many things for you, or with you. Minghao thinks it’s too early to call it love, definitely, but it’s really really close to it.

He adores you to no end, no words could describe how much you became an important part of his life in just a few short months. And getting to work with you on this? He almost couldn’t believe it.

Growing up, he always thought love like this only happened in movies or books. But he’s living it right now. He’s living in Europe, doing what he loves the most, and finding an unexpected light in his life. Maybe life does have things worth worrying about.

Still, ever present in Minghao’s thoughts, is the sinking feeling of anxiety. It’s ugly, rearing its head whenever it can. The last time he felt this strongly about something, it nearly broke him. Minghap always felt too hard, nothing is ever ‘just’ happy or ‘just’ sad for him. His loyalty and devotion is both a blessing and a curse.

And yet, he still believes in love.

He’s a hopeless romantic, even if it’s scary, even if it’ll hurt, he still holds onto hope that he could get away with it. Making a religion of your lips, worshiping the false god that is your adoration for each other.

It’s ironic to think like that in the middle of a cathedral he thinks, yet, he’s not guilty, not after what the church has done to him, to his once level-headed father.

It was another day of working on the mural, this time, you and Minghao worked until the late hours of the night, until all the church staff bid both of you goodnight, leaving you two to work in the dim light of the chandelier.

“Hey, have I ever told you that this is the first time I went inside a church since I was seventeen?” Minghao started, concentrating on his section of the mural, painting the rosy cheeks of a cherub.

“Huh? No, you haven’t. Why did you stop going to church? If you don’t mind me asking.” You said, a little startled from being broken out of your concentration.

“It’s simple really, my values didn’t align with the church anymore. And, I may have been in love with a man at the time.” He joked, chuckling at the end of his sentence as if he was reminiscing about something humorous.

You nod, “You know, I haven’t been in a church for about as long.” you say, setting your brush down to continue speaking, taking a short break to avoid cramping your hand. “I didn’t like how I was basically brainwashed all my life to devote my time and soul to the church, I didn’t feel a connection to religion anymore, not after what my group told me after what that priest did to me.”

Minghao’s expression softened, shoulders dropping with his grip on the brush relaxing. “That’s terrible, I’m sorry that happened to you.” He said, also resting his brush. He walked towards you, offering a hand to help you get off the floor. You take his hand, muttering thanks, and you follow him to the back of the church, in the pews nearest to the altar.

“You know, sometimes I feel as if some unknown force led us to meet each other.” Minghao started, “Think about it, how is it that we’re the only two people in the mentorship program, and how have we managed to fit together so perfectly? I think,” Minghao pauses to lick his lips, “if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have felt this way about them.”

“I know that confession was a little misplaced, especially after what you just told me. But I just wanted to give you context for my offer,” He said, taking your hand, the warmth of his palm radiating to yours, warming it up, “I want to give your power back to you, I like you a lot, too much really. Ever since that first day, you made me breakfast. And I’d do anything to take that pain away from you.”

“Minghao…” You said, “I like you a lot too. I’m flattered by your confession, and so moved by your offer. But I can’t seem to figure out what your offer is supposed to mean.”

“You were attacked at a church, violently, as if your body wasn’t yours for a time. I want to override those memories with ours, make it your choice. To have an outlet for your anger.”

You openly gape at him, not believing his offer. He wanted to…?

“Minghao, I want you.”

It felt cathartic to say that, especially in a place you’d never think to say that. It was satisfying as if a weight had been lifted from you, the burden of memory weighing on your chest being removed, like the first time you could breathe freely again.

Mingahao gently cups your cheek, stroking the flushed skin with the pad of his thumb, slowly turning your head to face him, his lips hovering over yours, “I want you too.” He said before locking lips with you.

Your hands immediately find their place at the back of his neck, fingers threading to the soft ends of his hair, pressing him closer to you, the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes. Your skin felt hot, like desire was just boiling under your skin, blooming on the surface as a flush of red. Minghao crowds you, kissing you with want, with need. He kissed you, letting his hands do what his lips wanted to, his faith turning into despair. The tragedy of not having a taste of your skin yet, swirls in his gut, manifesting in desperation. He kissed you with urgency, as if this was the only chance to have you like this, his greed taking over his thoughts as it filled his mind with images of you in the most depraved positions, your usually clean image tainted with evidence of his lust.

After all, Minghao is just a man, a man who now finds religion in your lips.

He reluctantly parts from you, surprising you with his strength but lifting you suddenly, walking the short way to the altar. His plans dawn on you as soon as you feel the cool marble under you, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you lock your lips with his again, moaning pathetically and the feeling of his palms snaking their way under your shirt, squeezing and kneading the flesh, taking handfuls of it as he needed it.

He parts from your lips with a whine, panting for air like just running a marathon. He only parts from you for a second, only for his mouth to connect with your jaw, placing open-mouthed kisses on it. Goosebumps litter your skin, his simple touch leaves you shivering in a way you didn’t think was possible. Your legs part and Minghao takes his place between them, now sucking and biting marks into your skin, maroon blooms all over your collarbones, as you pull him impossibly close, bodies flush together perfectly as if it was always meant to be.

You paw at his jacket, wanting to feel him without the barriers of fabric between the two of you. He frantically shrugged his jacket off, and pulled his shirt over his head without being prompted, using his weight to press you down into the marble altar. Takes his time to unbutton your shirt, kissing the skin with every button he undoes.

Warmth ripples under your skin like drops hitting the surface of a still body, each kiss sending a spark of heat directly to your core. Simple, but powerful. The way Minghao delicately worships your skin made a sense of serenity wash over you like a wave, crashing over your restless state.

Minghao rises to meet your lips, again, swallowing the sound of your moans, nipping at your lips. His hard cock presses into your core through his pants, layers of fabric between the places where you needed each other the most. Desperation turns into slight relief from the pressure of your bodies pressing together.

He takes his time to strip you of your effects, taking time to peel it off of you with care. This is the first time he's seen you in such a compromising position, yet you don't feel pressured or nervous at all. The way he looks at you, it's as if you hung the stars in the sky one by one, just for you to take them in your eyes, a galaxy of secrets waiting to be uncovered; and you're willing to let him explore.

Minghao falls to his knees, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs. He presses kisses on your kneecap, slowly inching his way to your core, lips brushing against your skin, making you shiver. You watch as his head of hair reaches the apex of your thighs, placing a kiss on your pelvis, right above where you need him.

He looks up at you briefly, eyes locking with yours as if asking for permission to just dive right in. You nod, giving him the silent permission to do so. He smiles, his eyes fluttering shut as his mouth connects with your core, lips wrapping around your throbbing clit.

Your back arches from the marble, hands frantically searching for his head, threading your fingers through his hair to get a grip on anything. The way the wet muscle that was his tongue guided the swirl of hot desire in your stomach made you dizzy, his eyes shut tightly, and small whimpers left his lips, making you feel the vibrations.

He ate you like a starved man, “Oh, fuck, please-! Keep going!” The frantic pace of his mouth and tongue got more desperate with your praise, your encouragement made him press his face closer to your core, his jose bumping your clit, making him breathe in deep, taking in your scent.

His eyes flutter open at the smell, eyes rolling to the back of his head, and a pathetic, high-pitched whine leaves his lips. His tongue pressed against the spongey spot in your walls, immediately this sends a shiver down your spine, your moans turning into desperate whines, grinding on his mouth.

And Minghao just stops to take it, exaggerating his moans to help you over the edge.

A knot starts to form in your core, only a mixture of pleas of his name leaves your lips as you topple over the edge, reaching your high. Your orgasm was blinding, a hot, white pleasure ripped through you, your body shaking from the impact of such a powerful climax.

Minghao groans as he savors the flavor of your release, drinking it like a sacred Ambrosia. He delicately licks at your folds, careful not to bump into your sensitive clit.

After being satisfied with cleaning you up, Minghao starts to unbuckle his belt, his pants hanging low on his hips. He finally takes his cock out of his boxer briefs, the tip is red and bulbous, angry and leaking. His mouth parts with a moan, licking his plump lips, finally getting the friction he so desperately wanted.

He gets on top of you, his warmth radiating off of him in waves. He brings a hand up to brush your hair away from your face, soaking up every detail, committing the look in your eyes to memory. He looks at you with adoration, eyes clouded with lust yet still shines with the respect he has for you as a person.

In his eyes you were perfect, especially with that fucked-out look on your face, panting and shaking under him.

He kisses you again, this time with less desperation. You could taste yourself on his lips, highlighting your desire for more. He finally guides his cock to your entrance, the tip of it bumping into your clit, a gasp falling from your lips.

You look up at Minghao, a halo of many colors forming around his head, the cross-shaped stained glass behind him glowing brightly in the full moonlight. If it wasn't for the depraved things he's done to you, you'd think that he looked angelic.

Finally, he slowly pushed his cock into you, a shaky breath leaving his lips, taking every ounce of self-control to not start frantically thrusting into you, letting you take the time to adjust to his size. Minghao was bigger than you thought he'd be, the sheer size of his cock stretching you deliciously.

He pressed your foreheads together, your breathing synchronized. You open your hand on his chest, pressing your palm over his heart, you can feel the steady beating of it, and you can feel him breathe with you. The silence only amplified the feeling of being connected, a kind of vulnerability that you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

You savor his warmth, his closeness to you, before asking him to move. He nods wordlessly, not trusting his voice at the moment. He was buried to the hilt, but he slowly started to pull back until only his head stayed inside you, only to push back in, a wet, lewd squelch of your juices mixing with his echo and rung in your ears.

He started to pick up his pace, intertwining your hands together to gain leverage. “Fuck, you feel so good babe, so warm. So perfect for me.” He said lowly, mind emptying all thoughts except for the feeling of you around him. He can't get enough of you, your image infecting his mind, making a home in every crevice.

Both of you were very vocal about how good it felt, pleasure rising to a pressure that made both of you light-headed, your grip on his hand tightening with every pointed thrust to the spot where you needed him the most.

His lips meet your neck again, more maroon marks blooming over your skin, marking you with evidence of him. He separated from the skin with a wet pop, his nose brushing against your cheek, his hair tickling the skin, “Please, I need you to cum around my cock. Don't make me beg for it, please, oh- please-” he whimpered in your ear, breathless from the force he was using.

He turns to kiss you again, both of you swallowing each other's whines and moans as your desperation grows stronger.

Soon, the coil in your stomach starts to tighten again, you can't hear much over the ringing in your ears, but you do hear the wet slapping of skin together, and the ragged breathing coming from the man above you. You barely registered your own orgasm, you felt like you weren't in your body, like your soul was floating in the space where you felt neither pain nor pleasure.

Tears ran down your face, your body shaking like a leaf. Minghao watched as your juices squirted out of you, coating his cock and legs with your release. This violently sends him into his own orgasm, barely catching himself with the altar as the force of it knocks the wind out of him, his knees shaking, barely able to hold his weight up.

He almost collapsed into you with how much his body couldn't handle the sensations, his hips never ceasing even with both of your oversensitivity.

He finally stops, both of you winded from the intensity of your sex. He kisses you with finality that night, right at the altar with the light of the cross over you.

It's been months since you and Minghao started the mural, and also started hooking up. The first time you slept with him was certainly not the last. You were sure you desecrated every inch of this sacred space, as well as every corner of your shared apartment.

But, all good things come to an end.

Today was the day you finally added the finishing touches to the mural, marking the end of your program, and the end of your time in Amsterdam.

Your mentor was pleased with how it turned out, he was proud of how far the both of you have gotten in your skills. And decided to throw a party in his studio to celebrate the completion of your final project.

You and Minghao skirt around the idea of what will happen next after the program ends, enjoying the company of your mentor and the few friends you've made in Amsterdam.

It was after the party that things finally started to feel grim, each item you packed into your suitcase felt like heavy weights or a nail in the coffin of your relationship with Minghao.

You couldn't fathom going back to reality, back to your lonely apartment without the anticipation of waking up and making breakfast for him.

You realized too late that you loved him.

“What happens to us now?” His question surprised you, you didn't think he was thinking about this as hard as you were.

“Well, we go back to where we came from. Go on with our lives, I guess.” You reply, too cowardly to admit what you truly felt, as it'll only hurt more.

“That's it?” He asked incredulously, “You don't want to even try to make this work?” His tone wasn't one of anger or disappointment, Minghao had always been an expressive person, but this was something worse. Hurt.

“Minghao I-” You start, but he cuts you off,

“Well, you know what? Okay. It's okay- just… if there's ever a next time. Meet me in Amsterdam. Please, at least, try for me?”

You nod, your breathing becoming shaky as tears begin to well in your eyes. You hug him tightly, almost as if it'll be the last time you ever see him.

But no, there will be a next time. No matter how long it'll take.

You let the tears fall when the plane finally took off.

It's been several years since your time in Amsterdam, your experience there marked you in more ways than one.

Your art career found success after the mural you worked on with him received critical acclaim. Opening galleries and exhibits all around the world, people enjoy the art you made greatly.

You find yourself in the place where it all started, Amsterdam.

“So, there really is a next time, huh?” You said, your voice was calmer than you expected it to be, especially with being overcome with such intense emotions.

Minghao smiles at you, wordlessly coming in to hug you.

“I'm not letting you go, not this time.”

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arijackz · 23 days ago

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✰ Astro Observations ✰

★ Cancer Mercuries have the potential to become really good teachers. Cancer exalts Jupiter, which is the karaka of teachers, gurus, and is the graha that grants inner fulfillment through the acquirement of knowledge and worldly experience for the sake of one's conscious ascension. Moon and Jupiter share a resonance with themes of connectedness.

The moon is all about receptivity and accepting the influence of another; allowing an external force to touch and shift the gooiest corners of your internal world, thus creating an eternal bond and impression of that force within your psyche.

Jupiter, the traditional ruler of Sag and Pisces, is all about worldly intelligence and human awareness that only foreign exposure and dharmic alignment can achieve. Sag is the archetype of the traveler/ philosopher/ religious leader whose higher thinking allows their perspective to go beyond the immediate boundaries that limit the unity of the human experience such as race, cultural differences, economic disparities, etc.

Pisces exalts Venus, which is the graha of relationships and bridging people together for a cause. There is no force that unites people greater than death (Pisces). Pisces blurs the line between "self" and "non self", returning all the energy trapped inside material matter back to its original, whole source (The Big Bang/ God/ Whatever you want to call it).

Both Sag (Mula) and Pisces (Purva- Uttara Bhadrapada) want to remove any illusion or falsehood that prevents the soul from uniting with its true dharmic & moksha destiny.

All illusions start in the mind (the moon) and these natives (Jupiterians & Lunarians) are gifted with ease in garnering deep understandings of complex, nuanced topics (typically concerning the human psyche) and are able simplify their mechanics.

☆ The 3rd House is an underrated sexy house.

1) It's apart of the Kama trine houses (3rd, 7th, 11th) and is intrinsically connected to one's desires, the pursuit of gratification, and social appeal.

2) Governs the hands and arms, which allows sensory interaction and curiousness, thus creating attraction.

3) The 2nd house is how your voice sounds but the 3rd is what you're saying and how you're verbally influencing others. Unlike a water house, the 3rd is less concerned with the emotional weight behind building connections and focuses on the light, playful aspect of communication－flirtation. Thus creating a buzzing mental simulation, which births attraction and seduction.

4) Being the 8th house from the 8th house, this reaffirms (to me, at least) that the spark of one's raw energy and hunger for the fruit of their desires, translating to their libido and sexual tastes, can be shown in the third house.

Leo 3rd House: Your prowess is in how effortlessly you can charm the nuke codes out of the president.

Scorpio 3rd House: You vocal essence is liquid sex and attraction (Libra 2nd house), but the impact of your words are... sticky, they grasp and cling to an audience and embed their way permanently into their psyche.

★ Ardra Placements, ruled by the deity Rudra (Shiva's pre-mediative archetype) is known as the howler and is symbolized by a tear drop. This translates to an innate ability to alchemize one's pain and trauma into song as a means to lighten their emotional load.

Think of it like this: Ever since you popped out the womb, you've cried to 1) Notify the world that you are in need of something 2) To release excess stress hormones like prolactin, adrenocorticotropic hormone, and Leu-enkephalin into a perfectly shaped teardrop, and BOOM! You feel better!

The power of Ardra natives are rooted in how they shift their pain into something that can be heard (the howling) and alchemized into something that heals (the teardrop).

Ardra natives in Hollywood are BELOVED for their lyricism. Rahu gives them a communicative genius and an unorthodox approach to music, they tend to be pioneers or the faces of their field.

⇢ Taylor Swift - Ardra 🌙 ⇢ Lana Del Rey - Ardra ☀️

⇢ Ariana Grande - Ardra ☀️ ⇢ Kurt Cobain- Ardra 🌙

⇢ Lauryn Hill - Ardra ☀️ ⇢ Janis Joplin - Ardra 🌙

⇢ Vince Staples - Ardra ☀️ ⇢ Solange Knowles - Ardra ☀️

(Honorary Mention) Jennette McCurdy - Ardra ☀️

I CAN'T PROVE IT... but i'd bet money kendrick has an ardra placement (that asc lookin' reeaaallll iffy)

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hellinistical · 2 months ago

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fem! reader x rafayel. royal! au. sea horror! au. heavy angst. minor and major character death. slow burn. romance. fluff. explicit smut. trauma. religious themes. gore; hinted torture, cannibalism, decapitation, self-cannibalism. violence. wc: 6000

masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next

an: sorry, I know it's been a bit over a month and some- school got in the way, but here it is! please enjoy. the story is finally getting to a rolling point, which I'm so excited for. I really hope you enjoy it! as usual, this ain't prof read. I would re-do the formatting like promessa, but its too late for that so my sincerest apologies that it's not as pretty as that work, we just gotta keep the ball rolling.

VII: POOR MAN'S CLAY

“Gods, this place is rank,” You muttered as you stepped out of the carriage with the rest of the girls, stretching your limbs. It was the second rest stop that the guards had permitted, and some were getting latrines ready in the bushels a little bit ahead.

You raised your arms, rolling them and your shoulders, the tension only melting away a little before you cracked your back, followed by your knuckles.

Harlow watched, unimpressed. “You’ll get arthritis if you pop your bones all the time, ya know. Happened to my gran’pa.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wives tale. My mama and gran told me that all the time too- its just air bubbles. It fixes itself in like 20 minutes.”

“You sure ‘bout that? And in any case, why’re you craken’ your joints so bad? You’re only 20 and some years.”

“Because, dear baker, I’ve been in that gods-for-saken carriage for over a day, and being pushed against the window isn’t fun when you have that Lindsey girl fuckin’ whinin’ all the time. First it was her getting scared and having the outburst. Then it was her nose itching. Then its : ‘I’m hungry!’- do you know she gets double what everyone else gets- not that any of it is any good, but still-?”

Harlow snorted, shaking her head as she tore a piece of dried fruit from her rations and popped it into her mouth. “Y’know, for someone who’s usually got that sharp tongue of yours pointed at the big dogs, you sure love to pick at the little ones too.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “She ain't little, she’s a damn nuisance.” You mimicked Lindsey’s high-pitched voice, “‘Ohhh, I think the carriage is leaning too much to the left!’ Ohh, I think I saw something outside!’ Like girl, shut up. We’re all suffering.”

Harlow snickered, nudging you with her elbow. “Don’t be mean. Maybe she’s just nervous.”

“We’re all nervous,” you grumbled, kicking at the dirt. “Some of us just aren’t making it everybody else’s problem.”

The other girls had already started spreading out, some heading toward the makeshift latrines, others stretching stiff limbs. The air smelled of damp earth and unwashed bodies, the scent of travel clinging to their clothes.

“Bet you ten coppers she starts crying before we leave,” Harlow mused, her fuchsia eyes glinting with amusement.

“Not taking that bet,” You replied dryly. “It’s free money.”

Right on cue, a soft sniffle cut through the air. You and Harlow turned their heads slightly, just in time to see Lindsey rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm, her lower lip trembling.

Harlow slowly turned her head, her lips pressing together as she fought the urge to laugh. “Gods, that was fast.”

You, on the other hand, groaned under your breath. “Oh, for the love of—” you exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I told you. Free money.”

Lindsey stood near the carriage, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes welling up with unshed tears. “It’s just… it’s so dirty here,” she whined, her voice trembling. “And I—I think I stepped in something!”

One of the other girls, Mira, sighed as she walked past, muttering, “Lindsey, just wipe it off and sit down.”

Lindsey sniffled again, dabbing at her eyes. “You don’t understand! My feet hurt, my dress smells awful, and I’m hungry.”

Harlow held up her dried fruit. “Want some?”

Lindsey looked at it like it was a piece of rotting fish and shook her head. “That’s disgusting.”

Harlow shrugged and popped another piece in her mouth. “Suit yourself.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I swear, if I have to hear her complain one more time, I’m throwing myself into the next river we pass.”

Lindsey let out a small, hiccuped whimper, and one of the other girls—Tessa, maybe?—patted her back, murmuring something soothing.

“Mm. Bold choice,” Harlow mused. “D’you even know how to swim?”

You shoot her a flat look.

Harlow grinned. “Right. You’d just sink like a rock.”

“Yes, well, fuck you.”

“It’s just so scary,” Lindsey sniffled. “We don’t even know where we are—what if we never make it back?”

Lindsey flinched at the sharp command, her sniffles turning into quiet sobs. You rolled your eyes and turned away before she lost whatever little patience she had left.

You groaned, muttering under her breath, “That’s the point, you stupid baboon,”

Harlow elbowed her sharply. “Oi. Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” You muttered, leaning in. “If I wasn’t, I’d tell her to quit acting like a kicked puppy and shut up.”

Before Harlow could scold her again, one of the guards barked, “Five minutes! Finish up and back in the carriage!”

The siren hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

She was tired. She was sore. And gods above, she did not have time for Lindsey’s dramatics.

***

For thirty minutes, it had remained in the same exact position, curled in the damp, rotting cell with its back against the wood. Its gills fluttered with each slow breath, but otherwise, it was unnervingly still.

Its eyes, though—those eerie, slitted pupils, now dilated wide—never left them.

The flickering lantern light cast shifting shadows across its scaled skin, making it look even more unnatural. The water clinging to its body had long since begun to dry, leaving behind a thin sheen of salt that cracked along its arms and torso. Its tail, partially curled around itself, twitched once, the torn fin barely moving.

A single drop of inky blood slipped from the wound and stained the wooden floor beneath it.

The ship creaked, the ocean rocking it ever so slightly, but the siren remained as rigid as stone. Watching. Waiting.

Marlon shifted uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as he sat on an overturned crate, fingers drumming against his knee. Ryder stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze flicking from the siren to the floor and back again.

Neither of them spoke at first. The air between them was thick, tense.

Then Marlon exhaled sharply through his nose, barely more than a scoff, but it cut through the silence like a knife.

Marlon was already reaching for his knife. The steel gleamed under the dim lantern light as he stood, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a task no different than gutting a fish.

Ryder tensed. "Marlon, no."

But Marlon ignored him, stepping closer to the bars. His grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles going white. "Thing's already torn to hell. Ain't gonna be swimming right even if it did get loose," he muttered. "Might as well—"

A shift.

The siren's head tilted, its pupils dilating more as it stared at Marlon. Its claws twitched, curling against the damp wood beneath it.

Ryder stepped forward, lowering his voice. "I said no."

Marlon scoffed, barely sparing him a glance. "What, you feelin' bad for it?"

"I'm feeling bad for you if you go through with this."

Another shift—this time, more deliberate, like it was trying to move but just couldn’t.

The siren’s tail twitched again, the torn fin dragging against the floor with an almost imperceptible sound. The fingers that had been lax against the bend of its tail slowly uncurled, pressing into the wood.

Still, it did not blink. Did not speak. Was it in shock or something?

Marlon shook his head, muttering under his breath. He had been working through the irritation of the past few hours in silence, but now it was spilling over. He eyed the siren again, still unmoving, its eyes locked onto him with a cold, unnerving gaze. His grip on the knife tightened, and he stepped even closer to the bars.

The muttering continued between the men around him, voices low but carrying.

“The captain’s fuckin’ stupid is what he is, bringing this stupid gaudy ship here just for a fish man.” Marlon’s words were blunt, coated in frustration. He didn’t care if the others overheard.

“You sure it’s a man?” Ryder’s voice held an amused edge. “It’s flat chested, but too pretty.”

Marlon scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Nothin’ pretty about that.”

The siren shifted slightly, its claws scraping against the floor, but still, its eyes never wavered from Marlon.

One of the other men, leaning on the railing, grinned. “Maybe it’s a she. See any holes?”

“You’re disgusting,” Marlon snapped, his patience running out faster than he would’ve liked.

The man faltered for a second, before giving a half-hearted chuckle. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”

The man merely chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just a man.”

“Don’t you got a wife ‘n’ kids?” Marlon shot back, his tone cutting through the air with a bitterness that wasn’t there a moment ago.

The conversation came to a sharp halt when a rattle echoed from above, followed by the sound of the cellar door creaking open. All eyes turned toward the entrance as the fry cook appeared, his footsteps heavy as he came down to gather the necessary supplies.

The tension in the room immediately shifted as the cook looked between the men and the still-immobile siren. Marlon quickly turned his gaze back to the creature, trying to mask the discomfort that had crept into his expression. He wasn’t about to continue his argument with the man in front of the cook.

"Got everything you need?" Ryder asked, his tone a little more even now that the interruption had broken the tension. The fry cook just grunted in response, too preoccupied with gathering what he came for to acknowledge the awkward silence hanging in the air.

The fry cook grumbled as he adjusted the heavy sacks of supplies, looking over his shoulder at the men. His eyes flicked to the siren in the corner, still trapped and unmoving. "I did, yes. Did ol' cap'n say none about the fish or we just keepin' it? Can't be wastin' no ice or salt, lads. Ya hear?"

Marlon shot a quick glance at Ryder, his brow furrowing in irritation. "He ain't said much 'bout what we do with it yet. Thinks it's some sorta prize. Don’t know how much use we can get outta it though," he muttered, his eyes narrowing on the siren.

The fry cook shrugged, hoisting a bag of dried herbs onto his shoulder. "Well, can’t keep it here much longer. Smells like somethin’s rottin’, and we ain't got room for that nonsense." His gaze lingered a little too long on the siren, who had not moved a muscle. "Though, if it’s alive… could make somethin’ of it. If the cap’n's serious, we could keep it in one of the lower holds. Make sure it's got enough air. Doubt it’ll last long, but we can try."

Ryder's eyes flicked over to the siren, his thoughts conflicted. "Let's just leave it for the captain to deal with," he said curtly, before turning away.

The fry cook huffed as he adjusted the sack, grumbling under his breath. "Oomph! Old twins upstairs sayin' we're going to Anbusas. I reckon it's to collect some pretty things—leftovers from what them fancy pants don’t want from the collection."

He paused for a moment, his eyes distant as he thought of his daughter. "My own daughter got collected—bless her, a noble married her which is all good. But that year, they had a public send-off where they dumped them girls into the sea, may Shuveyr bless them."

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with a mix of resignation and something deeper—perhaps sorrow, or perhaps a sense of duty, one that tied the whole situation together. Marlon and Ryder exchanged a look, the gravity of the fry cook's words not lost on them.

"Yeah," Ryder muttered, his voice quieter, "Cap'n’s probably got his eyes on some of 'em, thinkin’ they're worth something more than just a pretty face. Or he’s lookin’ to trade 'em off for a decent sum." He glanced back at the siren, its eyes still fixed and unmoving. "Not much different from what we’re doin’ here, is it?"

Marlon frowned, crossing his arms. "Ain't much, but we ain't gettin' dumped in the sea or sold off, either. Don't forget that."

The fry cook gave a short laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Ain't nothin' ever quite that simple, is it? Still, least she’s got a chance now. Some of those girls... they ain't so lucky."

There was a pause, the weight of the conversation settling in as the sound of the ship creaking and the smell of saltwater filled the air.

Ryder clapped his hands together with a smirk, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Well, Mardy, thank you for that. Just what we needed—more depressing stories." He chuckled, though it was strained, and shot a quick glance at Marlon, who only grunted in response.

Marlon gave him a side-eye, clearly not in the mood for jokes. "Yeah, well, if you want a happy story, you’re lookin’ in the wrong place." He adjusted his stance, eyes still flicking back to the siren.

The fry cook gave a wry smile, shaking his head as he headed toward the supplies. "Ain't no one ever said this life was gonna be a fairytale, son." He snorted, grabbing a sack of potatoes, the humor lost in the grime of the ship's air. "You want your 'happy stories,' go ask a bard."

As the fry cook disappeared back into the upper deck, the conversation drifted into silence again. The creaking of the ship, the hiss of the waves against the hull, and the occasional muttered exchange between the men were the only sounds.

***

"Captain, my captain-"

"Luke, enough."

"Yes, boss."

"YES."

Kieran snorted before looking through the window. "Shore's not but an hour off at this point-"

Luke put his hand on the table, "Ooh! Can we stop by that bakery by-" "The one with the tahini and date bars?" Kieran raised a brow.

The captain didn’t even look up from the parchment he was scribbling notes on. “We’re not here for your sweet tooth, Luke.”

“But boss,” Luke protested, dragging out the last word with a dramatic sigh, “you don’t know what you’re missing. They sprinkle salt on top—like ocean tears but tasty.”

Kieran snorted again. “What does that even mean?”

Luke shrugged with exaggerated flair, pulling a flask from his belt and leaning casually against the table. “Means life’s hard and tahini bars make it better.”

The captain finally looked up, his expression flat. “You can get your sugar rush after we offload the cargo.”

Luke frowned. “Cargo. Not even calling it a creature now, huh?”

Kieran gave him a look, warning. But the captain didn’t rise to the bait.

“We reach Anbusas,” the captain said calmly, folding the parchment. “We deliver what we’ve got. And then you can eat every sweet in that bakery, Luke. I don’t care. Until then, you stay focused.”

Luke gave a lazy salute. “Aye aye, boss. But if they’re outta bars when we get there, I will cry.”

“Then cry into the sea,” the captain muttered, standing. “She’s always listening.”

Luke threw his hands up like he was personally offended. “Look, I’m not a chef, Kieran! I just eat the damn things!”

Kieran paused. “Wait- ain’t tahini just sesame paste? How the heck is that sweet?”

Kieran leaned back in his chair, one brow raised. “You’re telling me sesame paste and… syrup make dessert?”

“Yes!” Luke insisted, gesturing wildly. “And it’s divine! You ever had something bitter and sweet at the same time? It’s like—like—”

“Like your personality,” the captain cut in dryly, brushing past them.

Kieran burst out laughing. Luke pointed an accusing finger at the captain’s back. “Rude! And yet! I’ll still bring you a bar. Out of pure kindness.”

The captain didn’t look back. “Bring me silence instead.”

Luke grinned. “Not likely, boss.”

A knock at the door sounded.

“Captain?” It sounded muffled from the other side of the door.

The captain didn’t answer right away, his eyes lingering on the charts spread across the desk in front of him. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the parchment before he finally spoke.

“Enter.”

The door creaked open, the hinges groaning slightly. A young crewman stepped in, soaked to the knees, boots tracking in damp sand and bits of seaweed.

“Sorry to bother, sir. It’s the creature. The—uh, the siren,” he clarified, shifting his weight nervously. “It’s awake. Still hasn’t moved much. But it’s... staring.”

Luke and Kieran both went still.

“Still?” the captain asked without looking up.

The boy nodded quickly. “Y-Yes sir. It hasn’t blinked, barely breathed far as I can tell. Ryder says it’s unnatural. Marlon wants to cut the fin off.”

“Of course he does,” Luke muttered.

Kieran rubbed his chin. “Is it aggressive?”

“No sir,” the crewman said. “Not yet anyway.”

The captain’s gaze finally lifted. “Then let it watch.”

There was a long pause before he added, quieter, “We’ll see what it does when we reach Anbusas.”

"But Captain Sylus-"

The captain’s gaze went cold on the man.

"Erm- apologies. Captain...we also have concerns for the hull from earlier- what with the man fish below ‘n all."

Captain Sylus didn’t blink. His gaze, sharp and ice-blue, pinned the crewman where he stood.

“The hull is fine.”

“But, sir—”

“I said,” Sylus repeated, standing just enough for his coat to shift, the leather creaking faintly, “—the hull is fine.”

The tension in the room thickened. Kieran leaned back in his chair, exhaling slow through his nose. Luke suddenly found the seam of the table very interesting, tapping it once with his nail.

The crewman swallowed hard. “Aye, sir. Just… thought you’d want to know. It’s holding up, but we heard groans from the boards. We’ll double-check the reinforcement lines, just in case.”

Sylus finally nodded. “Do that. Quietly.”

The crewman didn’t need to be told twice. He gave a quick nod and stepped out, closing the door with more care than he’d shown opening it.

There was a beat of silence before Luke let out a breath. “Y’know, I think Marlon’s rubbing off on the rest of the crew. Everyone’s twitchy as hell.”

Kieran smirked. “Maybe they’re right to be. That thing’s no fish. It watched me like it knew I had secrets.”

Sylus didn’t say a word. Luke shrugged.

“I think we’re given’ it too much credit, anyways. We don’t know much about ‘em, too.”

The cobbled streets were lined with bright fabrics and trinkets, merchants yelling over each other to sell dates, sweetbreads, dried fish, and baubles carved from bone. Incense wafted through the air in trails of orange and gold, curling into the sky like prayer. A woman chased her child through the market.

***

New Anbusas was busy. Preparations for the spring festival were well under way.

“Come back here, Fariin!” the mother called, dodging a fruit stand as her daughter giggled, weaving through legs and baskets. The little girl had a smear of honey on her cheek and a flower crown slipping down her head.

Drummers beat out rhythms by the fountain square, and dancers were already beginning to warm up, practicing with long, colorful silks.

"A pleasant day, is it not? Soon the carriages will come and we'll all just have a blast, Father dearest." A young man spoke. The priest beside him stood stiffly.

The priest’s jaw ticked, his gaze fixed ahead as they walked through the bustling square. “Do not mock the rituals, Cassian. It is a sacred time.”

Cassian grinned, his dark hair tied back in a velvet ribbon, his tunic far too fine for the dusty streets of the market. “Sacred? Oh, no, Father—silly. There’s a difference. I’ve simply never seen divinity in tinsel and teenage girls being carted off like prizes.”

A vendor handed him a sweet without charge. He winked at her in return, popping it into his mouth. “Mm. Cinnamon this time.”

Father Edrian’s mouth remained a tight line. “Show some reverence. The spring rite binds our people, honors Shuveyr, and maintains peace with the collectors.”

Cassian chewed lazily. “Peace, sure. Nothing says tranquility like silk-wrapped offerings and half of them never returning. Truly, the gods must weep with joy.”

The priest stopped abruptly, hand tightening on his staff. “Enough. Your tongue grows more reckless with every year.”

Cassian merely laughed, raising his arms as if to embrace the chaos of the festival. “Well, better a reckless tongue than a silent one, Father.”

Up ahead, there was a rumble and tumble. the gatekeepers started to move. "The carriages are coming- OPEN THE GATES!"

The cry rang out over the crowd like a rooster who’d had one too many cups of coffee.

Vendors scrambled—not in fear, but in a frenzy to make last-minute sales. One woman tried to tie her chicken to a cart while yelling at her son to stop trying to trade their goat for a candied apple. A man dressed in full priestly garb dropped his holy book as he struggled to finish his meat pie before the procession passed.

Cassian grinned, leaning lazily on a lamp post. “Ah, nothing like a bit of pomp and circumstance to ruin a perfectly good market day.”

Father Edrian, standing stiff as ever beside him, pursed his lips. “Show some decorum, Cassian.”

“I would, Father,” he said, plucking a fig from a passing cart, “but decorum doesn’t pair well with this heat. Or with figs.”

The iron gates creaked open—far more dramatically than necessary—and the first carriage rolled in like a noble debutante at a dance no one wanted to attend. The wheels clacked over the cobblestones, velvet curtains fluttering like shy little gossipers.

Cassian squinted. “Think any of 'em are cute this year?”

Father Edrian sighed. “You are incorrigible.”

“I'm observant. You just lack imagination.”

A child darted forward, waving a little flag stitched with clumsy gold thread. Behind him, a donkey tried to eat a guard’s boot.

Cassian watched it all with a smirk. “Spring festival’s off to a fine start.”

Per usual, the carriages’ windows were shuttered, thick curtains drawn tight as if secrecy were more sacred than the girls inside. Not that the townsfolk could see who was in them—but they could most certainly hear them.

“Well, maybe if you closed your mouth, there’d be room for fresh air.”

A sharp whine rang out, high and nasal:

“I told you I can’t sit next to her, she smells like goat cheese! And—I said my elbow is in a horrible place—who designed this hell cart?!”

“If you don’t shut it, Lindsey, I swear I will braid your hair into the seat cushion.”

Cassian blinked. “Did she say goat cheese?”

Father Edrian muttered, “By the gods, they’ve sent us the finest the provinces have to offer.”

Another voice chimed in, dry as stale bread. “If she complains one more time, I’m going to climb out the window and walk to the palace myself.”

A loud thump followed, and the muffled sound of someone being dramatically elbowed.

“You’re the reason rats abandoned the lower level!”

From inside another carriage came another loud thud, followed by:

“WHO THREW A SHOE—”

The guard on the side banged the door, exasperated and dead-eyed.

“Enough in there!” he barked, though it came out more like a plea than a command.

“Oi! Enough already!” he barked, voice hoarse from an hour straight of listening to aristocratic screaming matches. “By Shuveyr’s salt-stained sandals, can you not argue for five flaming minutes?”

There was a brief pause inside.

A chorus of groans followed from the other girls.

Then, as if summoned by divine irony, came Lindsey’s shrill voice:

“She started it!”

“Lindsey, I swear, I will eat your hair in your sleep.”

“Use your inside voice—inside your own mind, preferably.”

“Is this what nobility looks like now? Gods help the monarchy.”

The guard just sighed and leaned his forehead against the carriage wall. “I fought in a war,” he whispered to himself. “A war.”

Father Edrian didn’t reply. He just started praying quietly.

In the market square, the townspeople leaned in closer, trying to catch the drama like it was a stage play. One vendor took bets on which girl would cry first. The baker’s apprentice held up a meat pie like it was a spyglass, narrating loudly to a group of children.

The procession continued to roll in, but subtlety was out the window. The girls were loud, their insults creative, and the whole thing felt less like a royal selection and more like a traveling circus—one with very opinionated clowns.

The rest of the carriages were far quieter as they trailed behind, moving in a polite little line toward the looming silhouette of the castle. A few guards rode alongside, some half-asleep in their saddles, others quietly placing bets on which girl would cry first once the selection started.

One guard near the back tilted his head, listening. “Huh. Can still hear the banshee wailing from the front one.”

“Five silver says it’s the h/c,” another muttered.

“Nah, my coin’s on the one with the braids. She’s been eyein’ the emergency latch since sunrise.”

“Gods help the nobility,” the first guard murmured, straightening his posture as the castle gates creaked open to greet them.

From somewhere up the line, a shrill voice pierced the air again.

“I just think it’s unfair that I didn’t get to bring my own pillow!”

The guards collectively winced.

“Oh, it’s the blonde one,” one groaned.

“Lindsey,” another muttered with deep, ancestral exhaustion. “Every godsdamned hour on the hour.”

“She’s got lungs, I’ll give her that,” said a third, tugging his horse’s reins with a sigh. “Think she’s cried about everything except the weather.”

“Well don’t jinx it,” the first one added. “If it rains, she’ll probably claim it’s a personal attack.”

As the procession passed under the castle gates, a few guards exchanged grim nods—soldiers not of war, but of patience.

The sound of blaring horns echoed from beyond the gates, a deafening blast that made the ground beneath them tremble. The guards straightened, exchanging looks of weariness as the signal rang through the air. The procession was far from over.

“Here we go,” one muttered, rolling his eyes.

“It’s like a never-ending parade, isn’t it?” another added, kicking the dust beneath his boots.

More carriages, draped in the same somber cloth, approached from the distance. The sound of the horses' hooves grew louder, like a relentless march of inevitability. In the distance, shadows of more figures began to take shape, their figures hidden but their arrival undeniable.

Lindsey, oblivious to the surrounding tension, continued to complain within her carriage.

The wheels clattered noisily over the cobblestone streets, jostling the carriages as they rumbled through New Anbusas. Shopkeepers paused in their haggling, bakers leaned out of their stalls, and children stood on tiptoe to get a better look—though they couldn’t see much past the darkened windows and thick velvet curtains.

Still, the city buzzed with its usual chaotic charm. A florist narrowly avoided being run over as she dashed across the road with an armful of daffodils. Someone’s hat flew off in the breeze stirred up by the passing line. A goat bleated indignantly from its perch on the steps of a tailor’s shop as the hooves and wheels clattered past.

Inside the lead carriage, Lindsey shrieked as the wheels bounced particularly hard over a crooked stone.

“My SPINE—”

“Oh my gods, Lindsey, shut up,” groaned someone inside with her.

“Can we just gag her?” came another voice, met with a chorus of muffled agreement and a loud thud as someone clearly didn’t “accidentally” bump her with their elbow.

The procession rolled on, weaving through the winding streets with practiced purpose, drawing closer to the looming castle ahead—its white stones glowing gold in the afternoon sun, the banners of the Spring Festival snapping smartly in the wind.

At the crest of the towering mountain, carved into the very bones of the stone itself, stood the Castle of New Anbusas—a feat of such terrifying grandeur it seemed conjured by gods with no regard for mortal scale.

***

The base of the castle grew directly from the mountainside, its colossal foundation melding seamlessly with jagged obsidian rock, as if the mountain had been coaxed into surrendering its shape. Pale stone ramparts jutted out like the ribs of a leviathan, with gothic spires spiraling so high they pierced the clouds, each tip capped with dark, iron-wrought finials shaped like thorns, wings, and other unsettling shapes that gave the castle a crown of iron.

Dozens of stained glass windows lined the fortress walls, long and narrow like unblinking eyes. They reached from floor to ceiling in the high halls behind them, each depicting mythic and unsettling scenes rendered in jewel-toned glass: the drowning of kings, the anointing of chosen daughters, beasts made of stars and sorrow. The central panels, however, were reserved for one figure alone—Creceter, The Brother, the patron god of the land. His face was always veiled in shadowed glass, but his outstretched hands held the sun in one palm, and a broken crown in the other. In every depiction, his back was to the sea, and a chain made of gold and bone wrapped about his neck like a leash—his eyes, always turned skyward, as though he too were awaiting judgment.

As sunlight struck those windows, they cast a kaleidoscope of blood-reds, deep purples, and eldritch blues across the castle's stone floors and the mountain’s face, like light filtered through a divine wound. Some said if you stood too long in that colored light, you'd hear whispering in a language no man had ever spoken.

Balconies—dozens of them—jutted like cliffside outcroppings, their balustrades slim and lace-like in their intricacy, yet sharp-edged, as though no one was meant to rest there long. The gatehouse itself was a monstrous archway adorned with snarling gargoyles and winged harpies sculpted so realistically they might fly at any moment. Chains as thick as a man’s torso were looped along the drawbridge’s supports, which extended out over a sharp, spiraling path carved into the mountainside—like a serpent’s coil—leading from the city far below. The bridge spanned a gorge so deep its bottom could not be seen, only the low moaning of wind and water echoing up from its depths.

The walls were impossibly high—more fortress than palace—and covered in creeping black ivy that pulsed faintly in the breeze, as if alive. Massive crimson banners hung between the towers, each embroidered with the seal of Anbusas in golden thread: a six-eyed sun wrapped in thorned vines, its rays like daggers piercing through the void. Below it, the script read:

“He watches. He binds. He gives.”

And above it all, at the highest point of the castle, was the central tower—so tall it disappeared into the mist, like a watchful needle in the sky. Its bells, rarely rung, were said to be heard for miles, and were reserved only for birth, death, or war.

It was a place of power, beauty, and menace. A cathedral of authority. A palace forged not just to rule—but to remind all who looked upon it that the rulers of New Anbusas did not ask for reverence.

They demanded it.

"May the Heavens smile upon us forever more."

The words floated on the breeze like perfume—light, fragrant, and deceptively harmless.

A hand, pale and long-fingered, adorned in rings so heavy they clicked softly together with each movement, came to rest upon the balcony rail. Gold, obsidian, sapphire, and a strange smoky quartz twisted into serpentine bands and sunburst emblems clung to the fingers like tamed beasts. The skin was smooth, perfumed, and unblemished—save for a faint crescent-shaped scar near the thumb, old and nearly faded.

A happy tune, faint but precise, whistled through soft lips. It twirled through the high mountain air, cutting against the sound of distant bells and the muffled horns down in the city. The figure leaned forward just slightly, taking in the sight of the carriages making their slow, bouncing climb up the stone path below, flanked by guards and trailed by dust.

The city lay sprawled like a garden of marble and grit—festive banners hanging from windows, and ribbons tied to posts whipping in the wind.

Far below, people looked like ants in celebration.

And yet… from this high, no celebration truly reached the mountaintop.

The whistling stopped.

The hand flexed, a ring with Creceter’s mark glinting ominously in the sun.

“…All things climb,” the figure murmured to no one in particular, “but not all are meant to reach the top.”

And behind the speaker, the door to the inner chambers creaked open.

The figure didn’t turn around. Their gaze remained fixed on the winding trail that led through the city and up toward the castle. The carriages were inching ever closer now. From this height, the muffled sounds of wheels over cobblestone, horses snorting, and horns echoing through the hills became a distant harmony beneath the wind.

Behind them, the doorway stood open—shadow pooling on the white marble floor.

"You sent the pirates, I see," Disappointment.

Finally, the figure on the balcony tilted their head, lips curling into a serene smile. Still, they didn’t turn.

"I didn’t send anyone," they replied smoothly. "I merely suggested that a net be cast where the water runs deep. If something gets caught… well, that’s just fortune’s hand at work, wouldn’t you say?"

Soft, padded steps crossed the threshold—too silent for any land-bound creature. A scent of brine and bitter kelp followed.

"You baited it," the new presence said. "And now it bleeds on your ship."

"You say that as though it were a complaint."

"It is. We do not take kindly to betrayal." There was a pause, as though the speaker were tasting the very air. "Especially not from dry-skinned ones who twist prayers to Creceter for their own politics."

The ringed hand waved lazily. "Politics built this castle, my dear... and Creceter knows full well what price we’ve paid to keep this realm from falling to rot. Besides," the figure finally turned, revealing a smile both dazzling and cruel, "you wanted chaos. You wanted fear. And what better way to stir both than to parade a siren through the streets of Anbusas- of course, I kid.”

The two stood close—too close.

The woman’s eyes narrowed, their breath cool and sharp, like mist curling over a frozen shore. “I don’t recall giving you permission to gamble with my kin.”

“And yet,” the ringed figure replied, voice like warm wine, “you came when you heard the bells. Didn’t even wait for the second toll.” A smile ghosted across their lips, half teasing, half taunting.

The woman being tilted their head, as though in thought. “I came to ensure you hadn’t drowned yourself in ambition. Again.”

“Oh, darling,” the other purred, drawing out the word like silk across skin, “I would never drown. I float.”

“You sink,” the woman said simply, stepping past them to lean on the same balustrade, their skin glistening with faint moisture, “but you’re too vain to notice when you’re already under.”

A dry chuckle escaped the ringed figure’s throat. “Still poetic. Even after all this time.”

They watched the final carriage wind its way through the city below, drawn to the castle like a bead of mercury to magnetite.

The sea-born didn’t look at them, but their voice lowered. “You promised no more hunts.”

“And you promised no more songs.” That wiped the smirk off their face for a moment. “Yet here we are, both of us liars wearing old promises like perfume.”

A long pause stretched between them, heavy and familiar. Like a silence they’d sat in a thousand times before, on cliffs or balconies or beds.

Then, softly—“Do you miss it?” the woman asked. “The water?”

“No,” the other lied.

“Do you?”

“…Sometimes.” A pause.

“When it’s quiet.”

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actuallybean · 22 days ago

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Holy Virgin* | Part Four

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage Part Five Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The next morning, the air in the bunker felt strange.

Not heavy. Not light.

Just… wrong. Like the silence after a scream, or the stillness after a dream you’re not sure was yours.

You woke up in Sam’s arms, your cheek against his bare chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your skin. But it didn’t comfort you. It didn’t ground you. It just was. Just another sound, another sensation in a world that felt two degrees off-center.

You didn’t stay there long.

You slipped out from under the blankets without a word, barely a rustle, your body moving like it wasn’t quite yours. The floor was cold under your feet. You didn’t notice. You pulled one of Sam’s flannels from the chair in the corner, threw it over your thin sleep shirt, and padded barefoot into the hall.

You didn’t turn on any lights. You didn’t need to.

The path to the kitchen was muscle memory by now.

The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the bunker as you moved through the motions. Pan. Heat. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Coffee. Your hands worked like machines, cracking shells and flipping slices, pouring water, pressing buttons. You weren’t really thinking. Not about what you were making. Not about where you were. Not even about the hands that trembled when they reached for the salt.

You just needed something to do.

Twenty minutes later, you heard the slow shuffle of footsteps behind you—soft, hesitant.

Sam.

He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, hair sticking up in every direction. His eyes were puffy from sleep and grief, the kind of weariness that no shower or coffee could fix. He didn’t speak. Just watched you move with a kind of quiet reverence, like you were a creature in the wild he didn’t want to scare off.

Dean followed soon after. His arrival was less subtle—a groan, a jaw pop, a muttered curse as he shuffled straight to the coffee pot.

“God’s chosen or not,” he grunted, “if you didn’t make this strong, we’re gonna have a problem.”

You smiled at that.

Sort of.

The muscles of your face moved like they were supposed to—but the warmth didn’t follow. It was an echo of a smile, a faint impression of who you used to be. Dean caught it. Sam, too. You saw it in the way their expressions didn’t quite relax.

You slid the plates in front of them. Sat down last.

Dean clapped his hands together like you were all just regular people having a regular breakfast.

“Well,” he said, grinning crookedly, “now that we’ve all had our little religious trauma meltdown, who’s ready to ruin God’s plan?”

Sam huffed a soft, weary laugh. “Dean…”

“No, I’m serious,” Dean said, already halfway through his toast. “There’s gotta be a loophole. There’s always a loophole. Some old text, some divine technicality. Maybe even an angelic vasectomy. Hell, I’ll perform it myself. Gimme a bottle of tequila and a rusty spoon.”

That actually made you laugh.

Out loud. Just once. But it was real.

Dean looked pleased with himself for a moment.

But then… he noticed.

You didn’t bow your head.

You didn’t close your eyes.

You didn’t pray.

You just picked up your fork and started eating. No pause. No whispered thank you. No lingering touch to the silver cross at your throat.

Because it wasn’t there.

You had taken it off the night before.

Sam’s fork hovered above his plate for a second too long before he followed suit. Dean’s smile dimmed, the joke slipping out of his face like air from a balloon. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you.

Not with judgment.

With mourning.

Something had shifted. Subtle. Irreversible.

The silence that followed was full of it. The loss. The unspoken grief of watching something sacred break.

✦

The next few days passed in a strange kind of limbo.

There were no hunts. No phone calls. No cases. Just long hours stretched between half-eaten meals and the low rumble of research being done in the war room. Dean threw himself into books like they might burn if he looked away. Every hour, he came back with something new—scrolls, PDFs, old contacts on speakerphone, even weird chants in dead languages.

Sam tried to keep the peace. Touched base. Asked if you wanted to walk. If you wanted to watch a movie. If you wanted anything. His voice was soft, patient, endlessly kind.

But you didn’t want anything.

You floated through the bunker like a ghost. You spoke when spoken to. You ate when food was placed in front of you. You curled into Sam’s chest at night because it was the only place your body remembered how to rest.

But your eyes never fully closed.

You stopped praying completely. The rosary stayed in your drawer. Your Bible gathered dust on your nightstand. One morning, Sam found you sitting on the floor, just staring at it. Knees pulled to your chest. Eyes wide. Distant.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, kneeling beside you.

You blinked slowly. Then looked away.

“Nothing,” you said. “It’s just a book.”

That hurt him more than anything else you’d said.

Dean tried harder, after that. More jokes. More theories. He even suggested faking your death, or disguising you as a nun, or hiding you in a demon-warded panic room for the next nine months with a steady supply of Oreos.

But the laughter didn’t stick anymore.

He stopped trying the morning you didn’t even flinch when he dropped a book.

✦

That night, the air changed again.

You were in the hallway when it happened—standing outside your room, trying to remember why you’d walked there at all—when the lights flickered once, then twice.

And Castiel appeared.

No warning.

Just a sudden presence, like pressure in your lungs.

You didn’t react. You didn’t jump. You didn’t even look surprised.

Dean, on the other hand, was ready in an instant.

“Oh, good,” he barked from the war room. “Heaven’s back. You here to actually explain anything this time, or just make my sister cry again?”

Castiel didn’t move. His trench coat was damp at the hem. His eyes, unusually soft.

“I came to see her,” he said.

Sam appeared beside you before you even processed the words, stepping between you and Cas like he wasn’t an angel but an oncoming storm.

“She’s still dealing with what you dumped on her,” Sam said, voice sharp. Protective.

“I know,” Cas said. “That’s why I’m here.”

You looked up at him slowly.

And something inside you cracked.

It started small—a tightness in your throat, a burn behind your eyes. You stepped forward, just one pace, arms at your sides, fists clenched.

“You knew,” you said. “You knew what this would do to me.”

Castiel held your gaze. “Yes.”

“And you let them say it anyway.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

The tears rose so fast you didn’t feel them start. They just were, hot and sudden and violent.

“I loved Him,” you sobbed. “I prayed. Every day. Even when everything was falling apart. Even when demons were tearing us to pieces. I still believed. And now I feel like He just… looked at me and said this is all you’re good for.”

Your knees gave out.

Sam caught you before you hit the ground, but your body folded like paper in his arms.

“I’m not a person to Him,” you choked. “I’m just a function. A role. A womb.”

“You’re not,” Sam whispered, holding you close.

Dean had gone silent. Too angry to speak. His fists clenched at his sides, eyes burning into Cas like bullets.

“Faith isn’t a deal,” Castiel said softly. “It’s not about fairness. Or comfort.”

“I didn’t want comfort!” you screamed. “I just wanted to matter! As me! Not as some damn prophecy!”

The sound that tore from your throat then was raw and animal. Not a cry. Not a word. Just a sound that came from the deepest part of you—the part that had been cracked open and carved out.

Sam held you tighter. You buried your face in his shirt and shook with it—sobs, screams, broken prayers in a language you hadn’t spoken in years.

And Castiel watched.

Quiet.

Unmoving.

Wings flickering faintly in the dim light, his expression carved from sorrow.

He didn’t say anything more.

Because what could he say?

The war had already started.

Not between Heaven and Earth.

But inside you.

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nicodisigma · 10 months ago

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since im bored in hospital bed and also im an adult with free will here are my solangelo headcanons that are living in my mind 24/7 and are canon to me:

Will is a very stable vocalist, talented with high notes especially. But a bit lacks music creativity, which is why he was never serious about music career.

He likes doing Linkin Park covers with Austin who is more of a producer + Mike Shinoda here, while Will covers Chester Bennington.

I believe that at some point small baby Will went viral with Country Girl cover (wasn’t hard to accomplish, his mom is famous after all).

Will is into cunty k-pop mainly 2nd and 3rd gen ggs, and likes shinee.

Nico simps for Taemin on Twitter.

Twitter and Pinterest are the only social media Nico knows how to use in 100%.

Every time microwave or toaster do bip bip Nico has a small heart attack.

Sometimes even shouts “Mamamia” out loud.

And orders Will to turn it off.

Chiron, Mr D and cabin 7 are totally okay with Will sleeping in cabin 13 almost everyday, or with Nico sleeping in cabin 7. Mostly because Nico has healthier sleeping schedule when he’s looked after.

Both of them enjoy Maneskin but are also bitter about lack of italian songs in recent years.

Will is often being teasingly asked by other campers if he had already done his duolingo today. Italian duolingo obviously.

Nico bears very unhealthy amount of religious trauma, because of growing up in catholic country in 1920/30s.

Solangelo both join New Rome University at some point, Will is studying medicine and eventually wants to become trauma surgeon. Nico probably chooses some interdisciplinary major connected with latin, history, philosophy and literature.

They share very cool apartment there (their friends are jealous). They also have a black cat which cocoa puffs eventually formed into.

Nico kinda read all Dante Alighieri’s works for fun (in original). And has big classics collection.

Nico is a very fast runner and awesome fighter in evening and at night, since he’s doing small shadow jumps that are so small that no one is really able to spot them. And he doesn’t controll them.

It was hard for Nico to believe that Will really finds him attractive. He gave up with this “he’s faking” allegations, only when he realized Will used(?) to have a celebrity crush on Avril Lavinge, Andy Black and generally tons of emo edgy people and characters.

That’s not everything for sure 🤙🏻

#nico di angelo #solangelo #pjo #will solace

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starshinesluvr · 8 months ago

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:¨ ·.· ¨:⠀ `· . ୨୧ various edward nashton hcs & thoughts !!

contains: a mention or two about his killings in the movie, religious trauma, & drug usage. word count: 1.4k

writers note: hi friends! guhfhkj i am being brave and posting some writing on main.... ( ;´ - `;) here are a few headcanons and general thoughts that've been Marinating in my mind for a while. i felt like this was getting quite long, so maybe i'll have another post with some more soon.. because i have many thoughts..enjoooy! ^_^

♡ obviously he is obsessive. and loves repetitive actions and routines. his main special interest would be the renewal fund and the wayne family. (obviously) he has a big sense of moral justice. ⋆⭒ one of his main repetitive actions would be counting. he does this a lot with his fingers, the books on his shelf, or even the letters on a neon sign outside. just quickly under his breath. ⋆⭒ he also would sway. he usually does this in his apartment, when hes scrolling nigma or something. it really calms him. i think he would be too self-conscious to do it in public though. the King of masking. but occasionally he cant help himself when he's really focused at a café or something.

♡ but some of his other interests include: retro games, ancient civilizations, and general puzzle games. and god this man is a consistent minesweeper frequenter. heavy on frequent. loves 2048, sudoku, does the daily crossword on newspapers.

♡ half of the apps on his phone has to be games. 'games on his phone?' yes.

♡ i think he also has a undying love for pokemon. unsure what his favorite type would be, i think he would cycle through different types every single time the interest pops back up in his head again.

♡ AND GUYS GENUINELY HERE ME OUT. i think he helped code the club penguin rewritten website . im So. so serious on this one.

♡ OH OH. OHHH!! one of his longest lasting special interests? languages. how this starts? i imagine young edward back at the orphanage, already finished reading every single book he could find... every single english book, that is. maybe he'd sneak into the library. he's sure those books have riddles that can only be solved if you understand its language first. ⋆⭒ he finds interest in the progression of languages especially. how they change over time, and the origin of words and their sounds. ⋆⭒ though i don't think he would be a polyglot. but he'd know a lot of random words here and there, and some slang words no one would expect him to know from many languages!

♡ but a language he especially would like is ASL. he'd have a heightened interest of any form of communication that doesn't involve words. like, the font wingdings y'know? any kind of 'code.' ⋆⭒ he'd especially love learning ASL on his own during his younger years, since he struggled with speaking more often back then. he doesn't talk to anyone much now a days anyways, unless its small talk. (okk i see you selective mutism representation! >_< )

♡ he is sadistic. not a headcanon, just fact. this can be seen in his killings in the movie. though he primarily killed to give a point to the city of gotham, and to become a symbol much bigger than himself, he never gives these people quick and simple deaths. he enjoys these killings. cutting off the mayor’s thumb while he was still alive, sticking rat poison in officer savage, and sticking his head in a rat cage, waiting for them to eat him alive shown for everyone to watch. these were thought out, and he enjoyed watching. he enjoyed putting on a show, and their deaths were his entertainment.

♡ though outside of being the riddler, edward has a lot of self hatred. this fronts as anger, standoffish and anti-social behaviors. he doesn't mean to be mean, its just deep rooted. a combined hatred of everyone who'd hurt him prior.

♡ even though he hates himself, he also thinks of himself as better than anyone else. he feels as if he is worthy, and he has the intellect to show it. he consistently searches for small, daily positions that keep him in power.

♡ has a love/hate relationship with his own intellect. he wishes he wasn't cursed with his knowledge, sometimes he just wishes he could be blind and stupid to the darkness of the city. but he prides himself in being smart, especially in being good with numbers. its something he knows he can actually do correctly. he loves the certainty of numbers, how they never change or lie.

♡ i think would mostly hate how smart he was when he was younger. he hated how it distanced himself from genuinely everyone, and at one point he wasn't sure if he just enjoyed being reclusive or if he simply just got used to it. ⋆⭒ he would hate how the other kids or his classmates would only talk to him when they needed answers for their work and how they would expect him to know everything. (he sadly did.)

♡ he loves consistency. but hates complacency. he knows things can change, things could be better. but he finds comfort in his routines, even if it makes his world grey.

♡ due to religion being constantly drilled into his brain throughout his childhood, he experiences severe trauma. when he does something that is not pleasing to the beliefs he was taught, he self deprecates. lots of talking down on himself. he still can remember a few memory verses and prayers, and sometimes obsessively recites them to himself. ⋆⭒ he knows some of his fears are honestly a little irrational, that maybe one day he'll just be struck down. he's trying not to let them take over his logic, but he struggles. he is constantly upset that he still has these childhood fears that bind him.

♡ speaking of his time during the orphanage: his dirty unkempt upbringing and the long lasting effects of it could be seen in his living space. the chaotic and 'dirty' environment is almost comforting to him. sticky notes with ramblings of riddles and math problems. besides, his brain works too fast to care where things were placed in his home.

♡ despite his messy apartment, he hates feeling dirty. this is also thanks to the orphanage. he’s well kempt. everything is messy, not dirty. the orphanage was sadly, both. he looks like a sopping wet rat, it doesn't mean he smells like one though.

♡ he also has a fear of smelling bad, despite knowing he thoroughly washes. ⋆⭒ i think he would smell like soap or just his laundry detergent. he wants to try different scents, he kind of likes the idea of having a 'signature scent,' but honestly some smells give him a headache if they're too concentrated. and he can't have that while doing his everyday activities. ⋆⭒ its the kind of scent where you can only really smell it on the person when you hug them, y'know? which is kind of fine to him, he'd rather smell like nothing than something bad.

♡ he absolutely despises drops. any kind of heavy drug really he stays away from. he knows just how easily it can unravel a person, after constantly watching kids as young as 12 years old become addicted to it. his intellect would go to waste if he ever decided to start using.

♡ BUT! definitely smokes weed, or just in general he smokes. he probably tried it for the first time in his early twenties, hated it and dropped it. but he CANNOT continue handling his anxieties raw. so he picks it up again in his thirties. only occasionally... kind of.

♡ he loves LOVES animals. i like to think he had a little hyperfixation on animals and the general care for them when he was younger, so despite never having a pet, he could definitely at least recommend what to feed your average household pet.

♡ not only that, but he finds interest their internal structures, and the similarities to the human body. (i honestly don't know where these hcs came from, but bare with me here.) ⋆⭒ he loves dogs, but he's found himself liking cats a bit more recently. especially strays, he finds their resilience to continue living despite their circumstances to be admirable. ⋆⭒ he'd love to adopt. but he can hardly keep track of his own health, not to mention the state of his apartment. and don't even get him started on the extra expenses. ⋆⭒ though, i think he'd be pretty scared of interacting with any stray, maybe just animals in general he'd be pretty hesitant of being around. he doesn't like the uncertainty. and hates remembering his bad experiences with animals when he was younger. ⋆⭒ i think he'd bring himself to a cat café for one of his birthdays after weighing the pros and cons, after a day that was especially rough on him or something. he usually doesn't care for the date, but he honestly just likes using it as an excuse to go out somewhere whenever he feels like it. (he probably cried either from the animals' cuteness or the fact that he was there alone, maybe a bit of both. poor employees probably didn't know what to do.) ⋆⭒ i also think it would be funny if he was allergic, but obsessed. constantly sneezing but he can't help but want to cuddle up with them. but he doesn't have to be.

#riddler #the riddler #paul dano #riddler 2022 #dano!riddler #dano riddler #edward nashton #danonation #the batman #batman 2022 #headcanons #riddler headcanons #edward nashton headcanons

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romana-after-dark · 5 months ago

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Our Gentle Sins: Part 13

Thank you so so so much to @plasticbabies for making this beautiful header!!!! we finally have a good one!

Dark!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Series Masterlist : Main Masterlist : Logan Masterlist

Spotify Playlist

Follow @romana-updates and click follow, join my tumblr community or ask to join the tag list to keep up!

Buy Me A Coffee : Kofi : Go Fund Me

Chapter summary: Past. Dolly is a part of a family. Present. Seeing Stevie

Warnings: This fic features non con, pregnancy, and themes of religious trauma. I will not be saying everything that happens to warm you, by clicking read more you are prepared for extremely dark themes and that you at 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

a/n: PAST is a short chapter. the floor of the next few chapters is.... bad?? so im trying to chop it all up the way its best but its so hard trying ot match themes up with the before and after ;-; so im sorry. I feel like this chapter was boring.

Before

You tried, he really fucking tried to go back to normal after that, but ever since kissing you, feeling you body… things became more charged than normal.

You sat closer to him now, his body warm and inviting and buzzing with energy with everyone piling into the media room to watch a movie. Earlier today, Remy came into your room while you taught, trying to rally everyone together for a movie night.

You hear the door creek and glance over, smiling when you see Remy’s black and red eyes popping through the cracked door. Waving him in, you continue with the lesson. At 6’1 but not built too wide, Remy would not be out of place in your height school class seats…

Unfortunately, he was sitting in on your small elementary class.

Most mutations manifest with puberty, but some, especially second generation mutants, have the x gene activated much earlier. Your class was small, small enough you usually had to figure out how to teach content at 3 different grades at the same time… You couldn’t have a whole class just for the one 1st grader. When Remy came in, you were getting ready to read a book. You explained that each of the grades would have an assignment based off the book, and what each grade should be thinking about during the book, but to try and concentrate on the story first and foremost.

“I’ll be doing a think-aloud, so I will be modeling to you how readers think through books as we go.” You don’t have any degree, but you've been doing research on how to be an effective teacher.

Remy listened intently, looking like he’s about to REALLY enjoy the story, but you have some mercy. His legs look like they are losing circulation.

“Okay friends, how about we read the book on the carpet.” The kids erupted into cheers. “IF we can show Mr. LeBeau out best quiet feed and listening ears, okay?”

It was not very quiet, but they didn’t run.

“Mr. Lobo!” Said Micheal, not watching where he was going. “Are you and Miss Palmer in wuv?”

Remy bursts out in laughter, while your face burns red, quickly apologizing to Remy and trying to quell the kids.

“No!” Another kid, Katy, piped up. “She loves Mr. Howlett!”

Remy was no help, your handful of students arguing that you were in love with “Mr. LeBeau”, “Mr. Howlett”, “Mr. Summers” and even one kid asked about “Miss Grey”, which felt like the start of a very convoluted love… square?

“1, 2, 3, eyes on me!”

The children chimed back. “1, 2, eyes on you.”

“Okayyyy” You cleared your throat. “You guys don’t need to worry about who loves who. Me and Mr. LeBeau are just friends, and he is going to model good listening for me.”

30 minutes later, Remy did not model good listening, but he did at least help the younger kids with their assignment, so there was that.

“You’re a pain, you know that?” You tidy up before heading to the high school English room. This room was used for most subjects so the elementary school so most of your kids just stayed in the room coloring or reading or talking.

“A pain in your ass?” He whispered, and you gasped in response, smacking him with crumple cardboard paper.

“Hey! I whispered!” But he stopped swearing. “I wanna have a movie night with all of us, are you in?”

As much fun as it sounded, big groups of friends still made you nervous. Remy was friends with everyone, and although no one had treated you badly, there were people you knew still thought you were weird. They weren’t wrong. Moreso, it was hard with a large group of people who all were friends together. Then there was you. Last week's dance was enough for a little while. “Whose all coming?”

“Well, Logan of course, but I think he’s assuming you’ll be there.” He answered, and smirked at your little smile. “Kurt and Ororo said yes, Hank said maybe, you know how he gets caught up in his work, and I’m gonna invite Scott and Jean after you tell me yes because you love me so much????”

Your head sank a little at that. You liked Scott a lot, and Jean was always kind to you. You had no reason to dislike them…

“I don’t… I don’t think I can make it. Papers to grade and all that…”

Remy’s face crumbled. “Why? What? Too many people? I’ll uninvite everyone!! I’ll grade all the papers! Pistache, you’re the one I actually want there!”

You don’t know what to do with that. You knew Remy loved you, and that he was your good friend, but you weren’t used to someone choosing you first.

“It’s just… Well, don’t uninvite people, that’s crazy.”

“But I want you to come! What is it?”

He was too loud, some of the kids were trying to eavesdrop (nosy little things. You loved ‘em.) so you pull him off to the side, talking quieter.

“It’s just… Scott…”

Remy frowned at that, a little concern on his face. “What, has he given you problems? I thought he’d be understanding, knowing he knows what you-” But then he stops himself.

You almost missed it. Pinching your brows, you shake your head, “N-no, Remy, he’s fine- he- it’s Logan and Scott, Remy, come on. The fight?”

He relaxed. “Oh. Well, aren’t they over it?”

Over it? You don’t think they’d ever be over it. There was never friendship, never something to rebuild, only jealousy, anger, and a little bit of attempted murder.

You sigh, pinching your brow. “Remy. Logan tried to kill him. Scott keeps accusing him of abusing me. Logan slept with his wife. Scott accused him of m-o-l-e-s-t-i-n-g Rogue”

“Wait, what?”

“I can’t expect them to get along. And if Jean’s in the mix I- Remy, why would you want to invite all three of them?? Are you trying to start another fight?” The tone was harsher than you wanted it to be, but you’d had an intense week, and he gave you a piece of information you weren’t sure what to do with.

Your friend in front of you completely deflated, his normally happy face falling and his red eyes looking down. “Yeah, you’re right… I didn't think it through…”

You instantly felt bad. How could you be so mean to Remy? Sweet, sweet Remy? Remy who’d been there for you though it all. “I know. You’re friends with everyone, so you want everyone to be friends. I get it. I’m sorry.”

Remy gives you a small smile, seemingly recovered. “It’s alright, Pistache. What if I just don’t tell Scott and Jean? Or we could just watch something together? I uh… I heard from Rogue today. Got a letter and it… wasn’t very long, is all. Bit worried she’s forgotten about me in her grand adventures.” He gives a little laugh, but it’s nervous.

You consider the people coming, and decide it’s a small enough group. And Logan will be there, so you won’t be alone.

“Yeah, the movie sounds fun. Thanks for inviting me, Remy.”

You leaned against Logan, snuggled up to him comfortably as everyone found their spots. Kurt poofs in front of the large TV, see’s you in Logan’s arms, and his yellow eyes light up. “YAYYYYYY! Darauf habe ich gewartet!!” He teleports to you and Logan, squeezing both your cheek, poofing onto Logans shoulders to hug his whole head, then to behind the couch where he gave you a hug that clearly respected your personal space stuff.

“What are you on about, elf?” Logan pretends to be grumpy, but other than Wade, Kurt is his best friend.

He’s standing in front of you two again, grinning wildly and you can see his sharp teeth. “You two!” He gestures. “I’ve been knowing something is going on between you! Liebe, nein? I’m so happy it had finale happened!”

Morph threw a popcorn kernel at him. “Nothings happened yet. They are in denial.”

“We’re not in denial!” Logan barks, but he’s blushing. “We’re just…” he looks at you. “Taking it slow…”

“Oh.” Kurt’s shoulders drop. “Then… wat eez all dis?” He gestures to Logan’s arm around your shoulder.

You giggle. “Well, like he said, we’re not in denial.”

Kurt observes you for a second. “Mph. Well, dis eez… embarrassing for me, ja?”

You were about to protest when when Remy throw a pillow at him, yelling something about sitting down and shutting up. Kurt BAMF’d away, and reappeared on the armrest next to Logan.

“Dis guy.” Kurt gestures to Remy, whispering a little too loud. “Get’s broken up with vone time and he’s a mess.” He shimmers down between the arm rest and Logan, forcing the wide older man to scoot himself and you over, muttering, ‘well excuse me, I guess.’. Kurt settles into his spot opposite you, next to Logan. “Meanvile, I get broken up with, MANY TIMES! Including by him, and wat do I get!”

“We weren’t dating!”

“But you like to say I love you during sex, no? Oh, Kurt! Mo linm twa!” he mimicked, but the humor was in his voice, as it was in Remy’s as he retorts.

“At least I don’t pray the Hail Mary after sex!”

“At least I know the Hail Mary”

“I’m Cajun, do you really think I don’t know basic catholicism?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I just have catholic guilt about.”

“You could use a little guilt, mein freund.”

“I’ll leave that to Scott.”

Hank slaps the armrest of his seat. “If we’re not actually going to watch a movie-”

Remy and Kurt laugh, and Remy starts the movie.

As you watched, you couldn’t help think about how good life had gotten. A peaceful, easy feeling comes over you as you listen to Kurt and Remy whisper to each other the whole time, Logan telling them to ‘shut the hell up or I will stab you.’ Morph loudly booing the cheesy sex scene, and Hank letting all of us know what is impossibly and unrealistic in the movie. Things were good.

There was, however, a gnawing piece of your mind… it reminded you what Remy said. Scott knows. Scott knows what you’ve been through… or what you’ve done, you didn’t let Remy finish.

You’d figured Charles had told Scott at least a baseline of what you’d experienced. Scott was his man on the ground, the one who had these day to day interactions with you, the staff, the teens. It made sense, and you didn’t expect the top teacher and school leadership (and basically the HR department) to NOT know one of his staff was severely traumatized.

You’d JUST told Logan what you’d done. You’d told Remy last month. You just wanted them and Mr. Xavier to know… had he gone and told Scott you were a killer? Did people other than Scott know?

After

Jean was all ready at the table when Logan brought you in, gently laying you down on the bed for Jean to examine.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning as she looked at your slightly bloodied face. The cabinet hit your forehead and nose.

Logan began to answer. “She hit her face on-”

“I was asking Miss Palmer.”

Scowling, Logan shut his mouth. “I… I slipped on water cleaning up from the party. My face hit the cabinet.”

“Did you fall?”

“No, I caught myself. Or- I think Logan caught me? It’s kinda hard to remember.” It was fuzzy, honestly. You’d thought he hit you, the ghost of the slap still stinging your cheeks… but that was probably something else.

“Yeah, I caught you.” He strokes your cheek, soothing the leftover pain there.

Jean does her work, informing you that you were mildly concussed.

“You’ll need to rest. No work for a few days minimum.” She raises an eyebrow at you. “No repeats of when you got sick and refused to tell anyone until you passed out. You’re going to take off the rest of this week.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she points a finger with a slight smile. She’s tired, but her bedside manner is compassionate. “No. We can shuffle a few things around. Wade can take over a few simple classes while he’s here and move those teachers to your kids, and Hank can easily slide back into teaching English. Well, maybe high school and middle. I can handle the littles.”

She turned to Logan.

“Logan, I don’t think we can get you off that long, but we’ll get you off a few classes so you can look after her. I’m sure Wade will be happy to teach gym, and Professor can take on history. Next week is finals anyway, so I know you guys have a lot of study periods planned.” She touches your shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

You nod, but there’s a more pressing issue. “And Stevie?”

Jean smiles. “He’s doing fine. Don’t take aspirin as it could cause bleeding but tylenol is okay for your head pain. Stay hydrated, nothing caffeinated.” She types everything up for you, then prints it out. “Here’s a care plan, but know I’m right here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Jean.”

Logan gave a nod. “Yeah, thank you. I know you were in bed.”

She closed up her laptop. “Not a problem. Now, I know you’re seeing a regular doctor, and that’s okay… but I thought… if you’d like, I could share what I saw when I checked on Stevie.

You blink. “You mean… like an ultrasound?”

“Kind of, but much more clear. It’ll be almost like you’re there with hi-”

“Yes!” You’re so excited you almost forget any fear or pain.

Logan nods his head, eyes wide, and takes Logan’s hand before laying her other one on your stomach again. Suddenly, her mind’s eye was your own, and you could see him. You little baby asleep in your stomach, and it was like he was in a pool of water; not quite totally clear, but not blurry either. It was incredible.

You begin to cry.

“Go get your girl to bed, Logan.”

Logan laid you down on to bed after having you drink a bunch of water. “Wake me up when you need to pee, okay?”

You don’t look at him. “Okay.”

There is a short pause. “Hey.” Logan cups your face, bringing it to you. “It was an accident, okay? Just an accident.”

And all you can do is give him a smile, because you don’t know what option you have. “I know. I’m kinda tired, Lo. Can we talk in the morning?”

He gave a sad smile back. “Yeah dollface, we’ll talk in the morning. You’ll see. It’s all be better in the morning. I’m gonna step out for a sec, but I promise I’ll be here if you need me, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Goodnight, baby doll.” He kisses your tummy. “Goodnight, Stevie.”

Logan’s head was reeling. How did that happen? What the hell even happened? He hurt you, he hurt you, his pregnant fiance, his sweet, loving girl, carrying his child. What if something had happened to Stevie? Jean said he was fine…. But what the fuck did she know? Nothing! That bitch and her smug attitude. Stupid fucking cunt. She was probably just lying, trying to sabotage him. Not wanting to have his baby wasn’t enough. She can’t let him be happy. She won’t let anyone else have his baby. She’s just as bad as Scott, stupid mother fucking pansy ass shithead. Couldn’t fuck his wife right then got mad she needed someone else to satisfy her. Must’ve learned how to take it up the ass like he’s always dreamed and won her back, now he can’t let him be happy.

They are out to get him.

Logan needed to clear his head. He needed to let it out.

He needed insight from someone who, while being God perfect idiot, had a strangely good sense of the world. Sure, he didn’t understand what the fuck the mouth was talking about half the time, but Wade understood the world in a way Logan couldn��t.

When Wade answered his door, he was in a hello kitty t-shirt. That was it.

Logan only paused a moment before saying. “Meet me in the west lounge in 5?”

“Hell yay!” Wade sleepily cheered. “I’m on my way!” He began stepping forward, but Logan stuck a hand out to shove him back, He glanced down to his dick, then back up. “Pants on, Wade.”

An hour later, Logan had spilled it all. The slap, the… sex he might have been a little forceful on, how Stevie’s conception was from that… half drunk, he let it all out.

And for once, the merc with the mouth only had 4 things to say.

“Jesus fucking christ, Logan.”

Okay, next chapter we see logan baring it all and i think??? I think we see what triggered logan into the assult

ugh its soooo hard to plan i keep changing the outline so much. This series has given me the most problems out of every series ive written! and ive written many ;-;

Anyway guys im talking to a guy and he knows x men stuff and is chronically online like me and i realllllly like him we met on hinge bc he made a Jim Croce reference which if you know me you know i looooove old music!!! heres too hoping!

I sent him my x men restaurant au bc he's familiar with fanfiction! he really enjoyed it :))) Im taking requests for the restaurant au drabbles!

I also started a romcom/omegaverse/enemies to lovers Logan x reader! Im leaning into the goofy and silly bc too much dark i think isnt good. dark fics help me work through things but too much is.... too much. Im not in a great place mentally rn so i dont wanna linger you know?

I also want to just highlight my go fund me bc im once again struggling greatly to pay for school and im just... so close .;-;

@multiversed-daydreamer @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @del-ightfulling @miraclesabound @hindi-si-ikay @samsamsantos @madamerubrum @shybluebirdninja a @hornystan @rogueinmymind @accountforreading123 @yawnetu @princessanglophile @and-claudia a @new-genesis100 @teaganthemorningstar @oldloganslittleslut @zaggprincess2 @bugsinmyeyez @groundclueless @cosmolight @nonamevenus

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sceletaflores · 4 months ago

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Okay I gotta know what sitting at the left hand of god is about because that name EATS

oh em gee hi abby love seeing you here 🤭

this is the title of my van helsing fic that i started november of last year...don't ask. the name is a twist on the saying 'sitting at the right hand of God' but i just switched to left! i really don't know why i switched it to the left, it just felt right.

this fic is centered around van helsing and witch!reader! it's technically an established relationship but there is a first meeting flashback scene. it has lots of religious imagery and symbolism because it makes sense but also because my religious trauma kinda popped off without my permission...whoops.

i actually have a sneak peek for this one! since it's been sitting in my drafts for months...but let's just ignore that.

𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐆𝐨𝐝…

the last place you'd expected a man like gabriel van helsing to be is the bed of a witch...

Van Helsing didn’t utter a single word as he met the eyes of each person in the crowd, his gaze heavy with an aura of dominance that swirled through the chilled air. It was enough to make a few of them falter, the torches in their hands trembling as the confidence drained from their faces. Then, his voice cut through the silence, low and steady, yet dripping with power. “I know what darkness looks like,” he said, his tone echoing like a distant thunder. “And it isn’t this woman. But if you insist on seeing evil tonight…” He let the threat linger, a shadowed promise that sent chills down even the bravest spines. “So be it.” With that, he raised the crossbow he wielded like a second arm, not a trace of hesitancy in him as he fired a bolt into the dark night sky. A clear warning. Screams rang out from men and women alike, many dropping their torches and bolting for the trees. The priest lingered, a lone figure gripping his torch, trembling in the presence of Van Helsing’s unyielding gaze. “Go,” he commanded, his voice cold and merciless. “And pray for forgiveness that God may save your soul.” With a final shuddering breath, the priest dropped the torch, the flame extinguished upon hitting the damp ground. The darkness surged around, swallowing the last glimmers of the wrathful fire. As the last echo of fleeing footsteps faded into the dense forest, silence settled over the clearing like a veil. You dared to lift your gaze, finding Van Helsing’s eyes on you—intense, steady, and softened. With a graceful sweep, he moved towards you, breaking the fragile bonds of their hate like mere strands of silk. "You are safe now," he said, extending a hand toward you. His touch felt like a warm embrace, a promise that the shadows would never claim you again. You gazed up at him wondrously, wide eyes shining with awe. “Are you not to slay all monsters before you?” A fool’s question, one that should have cost you your life. Your frantic eyes searched his face, but you found no heavy look of wrath clouding his features, no disgust in the brilliant green of his eyes. His gloved hand, warm and strong, rose to your face, thumb brushing against a small cut decorating your cheek. “You’re no monster.” His voice was low, rich like dark velvet. He tilted his head slightly, regarding you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. It was only then that you finally understood. Gabriel Van Helsing was no mere tale, nor a legend stretched by eager mouths. He is of flesh and blood, a man carrying a tempest of conviction that no cleric's sermon could ever conjure. A man burdened by both faith and sin alike, someone who walks the line between salvation and damnation with every step. He was beautiful.

kisses!

#this has been rotting #for SO long #but i do love it #after re-reading what i have lol #story of my fucking life tbh #gabriel van helsing x reader #gabriel van hesling x you #van helsing x reader #van helsing x you #van helsing x yn #van hesling #gabriel van helsing #hugh jackman x reader

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revehae · 10 months ago

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two days ago, this blog turned two years old. well, that’s if you ignore the fact that i accidentally deleted my blogs this january. in spite of that, so many of you are still here with me and have been supportive even when i was quite literally losing my marbles. you guys have been patient through my periods of inactivity and reread my fics with the same amount of appreciation for them as you had the first read - if not more. and for that, i say thank you.

but i’m also saying goodbye.

just kidding! i was being serious for too long and so i felt the need to potentially strike some fear into someone’s heart for fun. anywho, no, i’m not actually leaving. not yet, anyway. there is so much more i want to do with this blog and so many ideas i want to share that will most likely carry on to the following year. so yeah, you guys are still stuck with me.

am i taking the two-year anniversary of a mostly k-pop tumblr blog teeming with dark, degenerate fantasies that ought to get me stoned by stubby, hairy ogres way too seriously? perhaps. but i’ll never forget what this blog means to me. i’m in a place now where my trauma is no longer something i feel suffocated by or bound to, but when i created this blog, i admit that there were still large parts of me that felt like i was “broken.” this was only possible because i found safe places where i could acknowledge it without fear of being judged, blamed, or attacked.

i realize not everyone has those places. one of the greatest delights i have is being able to own a blog where people with similar experiences as me are able to confront their pain in a way that makes them feel safe, comfortable, and most importantly, in control.

i went through periods of time where i wouldn’t even leave my room because i was so terrified of being subjected to the same nightmare again. i couldn’t go out in public, because when i did, i was constantly worried that someone was out to give me. this affected my relationships with my friends, family, myself, sex, the world - everything. it is a hell i wouldn’t even wish on Trumpington McDonaldton. or would i? just kidding. not really, considering his track record. but, back to the point, i know what it’s like to live in the dark. i know how unfair it is that someone can swoop in, ruin your life, and never, ever face consequences. meanwhile, you are staring at the consequences of what someone else did every single day. i know what it’s like to blame yourself. i know what it’s like to wish that things were different.

but i also know that as unfair as it is, as painful as it is, and as hard as it may be to accept, no one is going to single-handedly fix you. you have to be your own healer. you have to put the work in to build yourself back up and bounce back stronger than ever. i know firsthand how intimidating that can be, however, in my experience, the first step was not hiding from what i’d gone through. in a way that i originally never thought would be possible, writing and reading noncon fics was one of the most helpful ways of doing that. everything about this blog has been extremely cathartic for me. and the best part about it is that many of you have told me it’s cathartic for you as well, which fills me with a glee words cannot describe.

now, of course, my blog is not limited to Traumatized Individuals who had their brains rewired in the worst way possible via some negative experience - although i doubt you’re not still somehow traumatized if you religiously read my content. if you aren’t a victim of SA, you aren’t going to be crucified for reading noncon. it’s okay. don’t worry. but still, i will always support and stand up for those that are, even if they don’t cope in the same way as me. because not reading is also okay. there are so many different ways to cope with SA; i’m just happy to provide one of them to those that seek it out.

again, thank you all! thank you to those that have been here since the beginning. thank you to those that followed me this week. thank you to those who leave nice messages in my inbox, and reblog, and leave comments. thank you to my dearest sweet mutuals. thank you to those who followed me here from lisired and didn’t unfollow me when you realized i’m a little bit insane. thank you to those that read my fics over and over and never get bored! let’s heal together everyone. but let’s also be depraved and Scare The Hoes. and if you read all of this, i love you and i hope you get everything you ever wanted in life.

- with all of the love in the world, revehae!

#read this to the end - or don’t. i’m not your daddy. if you have one

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acaaai-t · 6 months ago

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vacant house [oneshot]

[fem! reader x modern au! yelan]

cw: angst, hurt/no comfort, forbidden love, slight religious trauma i think, homophobia, wlw, NOT proofread

The church was easily the biggest building in town, being able to accommodate well over 200 people at once. And despite growing up in a small community, there was still a large number of residents who could easily fill every space available. Though on most days, half the seats would be empty.

Weddings are, if not, the biggest event that the church could host. You’ve been to a fair share of weddings growing up. Every time it was the same process. The bride would walk down the aisle with their father and the groom would be by the altar, usually crying. Then the priest would bind the couples together and recite a prayer. Afterwards, the newly-wedded would kiss and the crowd would start clapping and tears would be shed.

“Someday that’ll be you,” Mom said.

It was subtly hinted at, that same-sex marriage wasn’t allowed. When you became of age, your parents sat you down and told you straight-up, dating—or worse, marrying, the same gender as you was a sin. Something that God couldn’t forgive. They stressed that it would bring shame to not only the family’s name, but to them as well. You’d listen and nod, soaking in your parent’s words.

And for years on, you followed their beliefs. You fell in love with a blond hair boy, and dated for a while before breaking up with him. He was the only boy you’ve ever dated. “He just wasn’t the right one,” Dad reassured you.

It wasn’t until one Sunday afternoon, during mass, that you caught sight of a newcomer. Having new residents move in wasn’t at all uncommon, but something about her immediately piqued your interest.

Her blue hair was cut short at an angle, just barely below her chin. Her eyes were the prettiest shade of blue, glittering impishly. When she smiled, you noticed, her canine teeths would just peek out ever so slightly. She was gorgeous. The prettiest girl you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Hey.”

She’s suddenly in front of you—shit, were you staring too hard? You opened your mouth to speak, but your parents got to it before you could. “You must be the neighbor’s daughter!” your mom exclaimed.

The blue hair girl smiled and nodded. “Yes, that’s me. Call me Yelan,” she said.

Yelan. You have never heard of this name before. It’s cute.

Your Mom’s smiled grew bigger. She grabbed Yelan’s hand and introduced everyone before popping the question. “Please ask your parents if you guys would like to join us for dinner tonight. It’d be lovely to meet our new neighbors.”

For a moment Yelan looked uncomfortable with the sudden physical touch, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she nodded. “I will, thank you for the invitation, Miss. It is a pleasure to meet you all.” She winked at you.

She winked at you? Were you seeing things? You blinked and she was gone, already settling back in her seats, next to her parents.

When it was all over, your parents rushed home and began preparations to welcome the new guests. Mom had told you to stay in your room and clean it up, which you didn’t really get the point of since 1) it was clean, and 2) who’s coming into your room? Hours passed by with the occasion clatters of pots and pans downstairs, and you laid in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

By the time you counted to 32,348, the familiar voices of your neighbors came within earshot. They’re here. She’s here.

You had just gotten up from the comforts of your bed to change into a more appropriate wear when you heard your mother calling out for you. Frantically brushing through the tangled mess of your hair, you shouted back that you’ll be down in one moment.

By the time you ran down the stairs to group up, everyone had already taken a seat. Your mother quickly ushered you over, and you took a seat across from Yelan. She flashed you a small smile, and you smiled back, heart racing. Was it from seeing her, or was it because you were running down the stairs? It could be a little bit of both.

“Now that we’re all here…” your father began.

You weren’t listening to whatever your father was saying, instead keeping your gaze on her. Yelan was absolutely breathtaking. Prettier than everything else you’ve ever came across in all the years of your life. Her sparkling eyes shone with confidence and pride, the colors within mimicking the shimmers of the great sea. Your father tapped his spoon against the side of his wine glass and cleared his throat, signaling to everyone that everyone can begin dining.

“Amen,” he said.

As you ate, you couldn’t help but wonder if what you were thinking was appropriate. It was all pure admiration for someone, you reasoned. After all, you’ve never met anyone remotely similar to Yelan. You took a sip of water to wash down everything. Her eyes met yours when you look over to steal another glance, and you nearly choke on the water.

Your mother gave you a look of concern. “Are you okay honey?”

“Yeah,” you managed out. “I’m finished with dinner.”

You grabbed your cleared out dishes and hurried to the kitchen, trying to get out as fast as you can. Unbeknownst to you, Yelan was right behind you. So it was quite the surprise—and scare—when you turned around and nearly bumped into her.

“Yelan!” you gasped. “Goodness, you scared me.”

She grinned. “Sorry about that.”

Your breath hitched, and you hastily looked away. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine.

…

Nothing was fine.

Girls cannot like girls. It was going against God’s wishes if you even thought about such temptation.

But you really like Yelan. You like her far more than just a friend.

You can’t. It’s wrong, wrong—wrong. What would your mother think? How would your father react? They’ll shun you. Everybody. They’ll label you as nothing but an outcast who went against God’s wishes.

Yelan was wonderful. It was for the first time in your life that you felt such strong attraction to someone. You love her for all the right reasons, but for all the wrong reasons, you cannot. You mustn’t.

Your parents have taken so much from you—it can’t hurt to be selfish for once. Right?

The world was cruel.

Yet it felt like paradise when she leaned in slowly, so slowly you’d think time stopped just for this moment, and pressed her lips to yours. It was gentle. Yelan was always gentle with you.

It was wrong. You shouldn’t be kissing a girl. But it felt right, it felt so right—so good.

And when she broke away, you grabbed the collar of her shirt and pulled her back. You wanted more. It was a selfish act, but she didn’t seem to mind. You could feel her smile into the kiss.

It burned. You could feel your blood on fire, heart scorched and sinned. It all felt painfully wonderful. Doubt, hatred, anger—seared through your mind. The horrible feeling of wrong pushed down on your chest. It was heavy.

Bliss and ignorance dare cross paths. Yelan pressed a firm hand on your shoulder. And you let yourself slip away.

This is your moment. You must live it.

…

“They know.”

The two words that made you stiffen up. You felt your heart jump. “What?”

Yelan couldn’t look at you. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Our parents,” she whispered, choking on her words. “They know.”

Oh.

Oh no.

They’re going to be mad. Really mad. You didn’t want to go home. You knew what awaited you behind the closed doors. You were scared. They’ve caught you doing the very thing they’ve warned you against for your entire life. Yelan squeezed your hand. She could feel your anxiousness.

Even though she tried to hide it, you could tell that she was scared too. What if this was the end?

Yelan pulled you in and kissed the top of your head.

The night was cold, colder now that the winds have begun to pick up. Strands of your hair slipped loose and danced with the breeze. You sucked in a deep breath. They can’t take this from you.

They can’t.

“Yelan,” you whispered, so quietly the wind could’ve swooped in and whisk your voice away.

“Yes?”

“What’s going to happen to us?”

Silence hung in the air. Tight, sickening, crushing silence. You felt sick.

“…I don’t know.”

You chewed at your bottom lip. Anxiety clouded your mind, and all you could think was the consequences that followed. You’ve been waiting for someone like Yelan for your entire life, and to have everything taken away in such a short moment… you’d rather die.

Three months. That can’t be the amount of time the two of you have spent together. It can’t be the last time. You were going to walk down the aisle and meet her by the altar. You were supposed to have your hands bounded to one another while reciting your vows.

Why can’t they understand? Mom and Dad always wanted to make sure you were happy, no matter what. So why is everyone suddenly so against it when you’ve found the very thing you’ve been craving for for so long?

Was it because you were born a girl?

You closed your eyes, and the background noise faded into nothing but a ringing sound resonating in your ears. When you reopened them, all you could see was the sight of Yelan yelling at her parents. The world was ringing.

There was something gripping to your arm. The touch felt somehow both familiar and distant. You tear your eyes away from Yelan and turn to face your Father. There was an intense look in his eyes. A sickening fury flickered within, a fire so fierce that you felt your breath drop.

Where is Yelan?

You looked back at Yelan, but she wasn’t there. Nobody was there. The house where Yelan used to reside in was now vacant. It looked like it’d been vacant for a while now. That wasn’t right.

Father dragged you into the house and pushed you onto the couch. Words came spilling from his mouth, but you heard nothing. Not a single word.

The world kept ringing.

Mother sat next to Father. She was crying, ugly tears streaming down her face.

You’ve lost her.

The ringing stopped.

“It’s over,” Father said.

“May God lead you down the right path.”

✩ ·┆ masterlist

notes—

sorry this isn’t as sad as it was suppose to be, im just incredibly stressed about college decisions atm 😕

#[💫] acaaai-t #astronetwrk #genshin #genshin angst #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin yelan #yelan genshin impact #yelan x reader #genshin x you #fem reader #yelan #hurt/no comfort

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nocturnesmoon · 1 year ago

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Chapter 3: Ghosts Of The Past

(Series Masterlist: Divine Violence) (Read on Ao3) (Inspired Playlist)

Series:The Divine Violence - Chapter 3: Ghosts Of The Past

Wordcount: 5.5K

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x Gn!Reader

TW: (View masterlist for series tw and tags) - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Religious Trauma, PTSD, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Anxiety, Paranoia, Disturbing themes, Implied eating disorders, Jealousy, Past abuse, Underage drinking, vomiting

Description: Soap approaches you to eat lunch with him, you begrudgingly accept.

A/N: Wooo another chapter done! Finally getting into some of the angsty bits that's gonna be a gateway to things we're going to expand upon later in the story. Everybody stay hydrated and I hope you enjoy it!

[Prev chapter / Next Chapter]

The night is young and beautiful. Stars would cover the sky above you if it wasn't from the pollution of the city lights. You can still count a few, one, two, three, even four. They're bright here, one even seems to be blinking at you before you realize it's a plane.

It feels almost too ceremonial with the full moon in the sky, and Simon standing by the little makeshift fire in the pile of trash. It reminds you a little of your confirmation, years past by now. Though the church was a lot cleaner, the people like minded. Clothing of white making you shine in the sun, your proud mother with her uptight smile, and your father who had never before seemed proud of anything you did, now smiled warm toned at you.

You can still remember each word the priest spoke to you. Etched so deep in your brain it might as well have been carved into the back of your palm.

Thinking back to it, you realize it's different to this, so much different. The grittiness has a charm to it, but the real reason your nerves have skyrocketed is because of him. You take a step closer to the fire, watch him pop open the bottle of vodka. The one he had stolen from his father’s cabinet. Easier now that he wasn't home as much.

"Nervous?"

He grins at you, grabbing your fidgeting hand in his own. "We can still leave it be?" he offers kindly, but you quickly shake your head no. You had asked for this, you wanted to try it, because you knew the closest way you'd ever come to alcohol otherwise was the wine (Which wasn't even wine, it was grape juice) at the communion in church.

Simon had so graciously offered when you mentioned your want in passing. The curious nature in your soul wanting to try it at least once, even if you turned out to dislike it. You squeeze his hand, as if to jitter out your nerves. Being this far from home never felt good to you, a festering anxiety in your mind that your parents would find out and punish you.

There was a lot of things Simon could help you with, even take the fall for you should the situation call for it, but not this. No, this would be on you, and it would not feel good.

The fire crackles in front of you, something sharp snaps and brings your focus away from the bottle. You had no clue what was burning in there, but it provided a warm place for you to be so you didn't have much to complain about.

"Whenever you're ready Little Spider," he teases and brings the bottle to your hand.

You scoff and roll your eyes. "Does it really burn that bad?" you take the bottle with a small grimace. Your eyes nervously flicking from the liquid to him and back again.

"You seem very determined that this is what you want to do, so why don't you take a sip and find out?"

Another moments hesitance, and you bring the bottle to your lips. In the first second it doesn't burn, just so that the little thought of relief can enter your brain, before being squashed by the lit fire in your throat.

He quickly grabs the bottle away from you, when you start coughing and spurting. The sounds of your distress drowned out by his roaring laughter. His hand comes to pat you on the back, his eyes almost filled with tears from his laughter.

"Oh my oh my oh my, why why why did I do this."

"Oh c'mon, it wasn't that bad, was it?" he looks down at the bottle experimentally. Acting as if he hadn't tasted it countless times before. He brings it to his lips when your outburst calms down, taking a sip seamlessly, taking the burn proud and easy.

"How in the world," you sound astonished by his display. He tries to keep a straight face, but fails very quickly when he sees how you look at him like he's crazy. "Hey don't laugh!" you swat his arm, but soon fall into the laughter along with him.

The fire illuminates his face, casting shadows of you both behind on the wall. The soft orange glow makes some of his features stand out more than normal. His little scars close to his mouth that's normally almost invisible, now almost makes him look scary if it wasn't for how his face was lit up with joy.

"Oh wow," you grab the bottle back to read the inscription as if that would give you more clarity. "I don't understand how people drink stuff like this daily...I mean it's not that good."

His smile falls a little, his breathing catching up from the fit of laughter. "Well, drink enough of it and you'll start to feel funny," he explains simply instead of doing in-depth.

"Huh..." you look at the little alcohol percentage on the bottle, "have you been drunk before?"

He doesn't respond immediately, almost as if he seems ashamed of it. "A few times," he admits and trails closer to the wall, "with a few other guys from school." He leans on it, crossing his arms over his chest. It makes him look edgy, his dark attire and the illumination of a dumpster fire. He looks older than he is like that.

You come closer, tilting your head to the side slightly. He looks at you tentatively, taking in all that is you, the way you look, the way you move, the way you position yourself in front of him, so very close.

"What else have you done?" you ask in a knowing tone that didn't know much at all, "that you haven't had the heart to tell me about yet?" His eyes widen slightly panicked for a moment. You already know how he's compiling an excuse in his brain, or some way to explain himself away from anger, but you aren't angry.

"I just didn't think it was your thing...didn't want to bother you with it...make you feel like you had to," he explains quickly. You shake your head, making sure to give him a small smile as reassurance. His shoulders sag more.

"It wasn't..." you tell him, “But now I’m curious."

"Are you now?" his voice turns back to teasing. How you'd love to smear that smug smile off him, one way or another.

You bring the bottle to your lips, drinking way more than you probably should.

"Yeah, so let's find out."

Your throat burns whenever you throw up. It's become a much more frequent occurrence. The stress of your problems taking wear on your mind. You're no more surprised to find a singular grey hair protrude from your scalp, than you are from the blood mixed with bile in the sink.

That had been your breakfast most likely. The only meal you had found yourself able to sneak away to eat in peace of your assigned room. It left your stomach empty again, the pained hollow feeling you despised despite how much of your life was spent in it.

You'd take anything over this. Oh, how you wished you could be like anyone else, the majority of the reasons to throw up being a hangover, or being sick. Though alcohol hasn't touched your lips in years.

The fluorescent lights blink above you, the little buzzing drowned out by your heavy breathing. The space is better than what you've had the past while, but you did miss the privacy of the motel. People had a tendency to stare here.

You turn on the water, guiding it along with your hands to wash away the bile. Blood trickles down from your knuckles, the split ends of flesh flaking off the bone. You can see the white underneath. The sound of the door opening brings your attention away from it. You avoid the mirror despite its desperate pleas.

No what you can't just leave me here! Please you can't be serious! You're just going to let him keep me in here?! Please just look at me, don't go.

You look towards the mohawk showing itself first.

When you first met Soap, you had been taken aback. He had a very intense personality, a fire within that outshined in his actions. You have yet to determine your own disposition on him. He's friendly enough towards you, all things considered.

"Ah there ye are." He's been standing outside that door for who knows how long. He likely heard the wretched sound as your stomach gave in on itself. Why he chose now to step in, eludes you.

You clear your throat, the hunch in your back stretching out after you turn off the running water. Your fingers run over your knuckles; the wounds gone. "Do you need something?" keeping your voice steady and polite proves a more difficult task than you'd like it to.

"Have ye had lunch yet...?" he's being careful with you. It's a revelation you didn't expect to have for him, did he figure something out he shouldn't have? Does he know?

"Ah was gonna invite ye to join us this mornin' for breakfast, but ah couldn't find ye." Good that had been the intention. A part of you did recognize you couldn't hole yourself away forever though. You were already the odd one out in the group of four.

"Oh.."

Your voice is too weak

The mirror echoes.

"Right...I..."

You clear your throat again, it feels too constricted, the air in here is not enough for you.

You catch yourself in his vibrant blue eyes. You could see an ocean in them, the beautiful waves at sea, the smell of salt in the air. You can feel the surgent winds ghosting over your skin, the sting and burn as water enters your lungs, a warm hand on the back of your neck holding you down. A faraway chanting of prayer echoes muffled in your ears.

"No...I haven't" you try to muster a smile.

"Good," he says pleased "ye're with me then."

The sea is faraway.

The mess hall is the exact kind of hell you expected it to be. Loud, obnoxious, filled with potential social threats and unnecessary questions on the verge from the man sitting in front of you. The only bit of luck you seem to have kept, shows itself in the lack of soldiers here at all. Most of them had likely already eaten.

The meal Infront of you looked anything but appetizing. Yet Soap seemed all the more happy to devour it with no complaints. He's been talking your head off ever since you sat down, clueing you in on things at base. Most of it is useful information you manage to retain, but after awhile your ears goes deaf despite how much you want to listen.

Though you have to admit that it sounds like they're a tight knit group. The 141 formed quite awhile ago, managing to take out several high-level threats. It made sense to put them up against the divine principle, but you couldn't help the doubt in your mind that anything would come of it. Even if you managed to take the group down once more, they would just resurface years later until you took out the root of the problem.

You had failed to do it once.

"...are ye listening?"

Your eyes flicker up from your murky food, locking eyes with Soap. What the hell kind of name was that anyway. Was he good at cleaning dishes? A lot of code names tend to be teasing or insults, so maybe he got teased for it?

"Yeah," you reassure him by briefly giving him your undivided attention. You'd quickly trail out again.

"Ye can tell me to shut up, ah know ah talk a lot" he doesn't sound ashamed of it, but you can hear the hint of self deprecation. Someone's definitely shamed him in the past. You had no intention to do so, you quite preferred people who talk a lot. They talk fast, easy, and typically give way more information than they should which paints you a better picture. A bonus point that it fills out the silence you bring.

"No... it’s nice," you mutter and pick up your fork. You might as well try to fight some of it down, you hadn't even touched any of it yet, and Soap was practically done even with his rambling.

You didn't know whether the lack of people in a typically populated space made you more or less anxious.

"So, ye used to hunt these people a few years ago?"

You meet his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. You're not sure what you were supposed to find in them, but definitely not the curiosity that shines. This entire taskforce is playing with a hellfire they do not understand. It's practically impossible to take it down, even from within, lord knows you've tried.

"Yeah."

You could bite your lip bloody trying to think of ways to continue the conversation from here. He goes wildly quiet for you. Is he expecting for you to elaborate? What does he even want you to say? What were you allowed to say? What did they know? How much information is appropriate over a lunch in a very public area?

You were starting to regret your decision of agreeing to all of this. You hadn't even started and the stress was pulling you down under.

"They're hard to find, even with a full team" he shakes his head amused, "ah can't even imagine what it must've been like hunting them practically all alone."

"I wasn't alone."

He seems surprised. Good.

Kate hadn't told them every detail.

"They were tenacious then; I don't doubt the group wont behave much different this time around. They always end up with the same values, the same goal." You ramble on, catching yourself by biting your tongue.

"What's the goal?" he asks.

"Doomsday preppers in a nutshell, just add a slimy layer of misguided religion on top of it." You finally take a big bite of your food. It slides down your throat slowly, the dryness, or size catching you off-guard.

Soap slides your glass closer to you. "Not new, but also not every day ye see it to this large of an extent."

"It's been organized for years now, they're not likely to stop from a threat from the authorities. Only way is to take out the roots." You mumble on after getting your throat cleared. There were quite a few ways to go about doing that, all of them left an acidic taste in your mouth.

You could see the way he wanted to ask more. He should refrain, wait for it all to be revealed in proper time instead of probing you for information in an informal interrogation. A quite nice one at that.

You had yet to decide on how close you wanted to get to him.

John MacTavish, Soap.

He was a sergeant, chatty nature, one for jokes, witty, smart. A person worthy to note, despite rebellious appearances.

The captain had yet to earn your respect, and likewise yours his. He was impressive on all accounts. He would also be the first person to throw you off this mission at a sign of weakness. Valuable in its own right.

Kyle was indifferent towards you, a bit cold perhaps, though he seemed a gentleman when it came down to it.

Ghost was......Simon.

You didn't know what you expected when you met Simon again. He's a lot more different than you thought he would be. Taking on the persona of Ghost, you suppose you can't blame him for needing an escape, but the motif still stirs something awful in your chest. Neither of you really got over it.

Maybe you'd have preferred it if he wasn't so aloof with you, a bit more direct in your long-awaited reunion. Perhaps it would have been better if it had mimicked TV, the rain and yelling and screaming in a scenic location to make it more meaningful to you. Unfortunately, reality tends to be far more boring.

"So did he always wear that mask?"

"Ghost? Aye, as long as I've known the bastard," he chuckles "can ask Price about before that, he's known 'im the longest."

There's a pang in your heart, something that feels an awful lot like a drop jealousy, but you can't allow that. It wouldn't be one bit fair. If you were the one to walk away from him then, were you really allowed to feel anything at all for him? Certainly not jealousy over the new relationships he'd build. You should be happy, you really should.

But how dare he abandon you so fast.

You shake your head free of the feeling. Wrongful, wishful, thinking wouldn't change the truth nor the fact he was supposedly better off here.

"Known him long?"

"Ever since we got assigned on this taskforce, give or take a few years now. And Ye?"

"Old acquaintances."

There's another sting in your heart that burns something fierce. All the nights you had spent wishing you were still in contact with him coming back to you. Times when it felt like a single word from him would make life worth living again. A single glance from him could make it worth anything.

You tried to ignore that bit.

But the mask had a symbolism you didn't like any better. You'd only be arrogant to think or claim that you still knew him and his thoughts, but it was still distasteful. Had he forgotten? You had both ran from it, difference was he now wore it on his face and you watched it creep in the shadows.

You had always hated the cold streaks in first signs of winter. When the temperature went freezing, the trees losing their colour, the sun hiding more often now behind threatening clouds. However still no snow. All the unfortunate parts with none of the benefits.

And standing on Simon's freezing front porch didn't help. He was taking too long. It had been half a minute since you rung the doorbell. Where the hell was he? His parents were supposed to be out, and despite his little brother still being home, the two of you would take any opportunity you could take.

You wrap your jacket closer around you. The biting frost nipping at your cheeks and nose. For a moment you debate whether you should ring the bell again, but you remember his words clear, he had told you to just go in, even if it felt wrong to do that without a formal invitation straight from the door.

You hadn't been here too many times. Some part of yourself too scared that the smell of smoke would sting your clothes, and that your parents would know exactly where you had been. You needed to be careful, one wrong decision and they'd forbid you from seeing him again.

You aren't sure if you could handle that.

The door creeks when you open it, too loud for your taste. It makes you grimace. You try calling out for him, to no response. There's a smell of freshly baked bread, likely at the hands of his mum.

A smile tugs on your lips, your stomach twisting hungrily in your body. Hurriedly you kick off your shoes, and hang up your jacket, emerging in the home's living room. For a moment you wonder if anyone is even home, it feels cold from the lack of interaction.

"Simon?" it's not like him to leave you alone like that. Was he even home?

You tiptoe towards the hallway peeking down the dark way. When you stare too long, the shadows move occasionally, takes shape like moving smoke. Another time you softly call his name, slowly coming up to Simon's and his brother’s bedroom.

It's cracked open very slightly, the shine of light coming from the slit. It illuminates the dying flowers placed neatly on a bookshelf. You move to open the door, but before you can get there, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise, the subtle warm breath from someone else hitting your skin. It felt wrong, and in the back of your mind you knew who it was, what he was doing. You whipped around, the fear having already seeped into your eyes. You were ready to shield yourself, stare into the tall figure that looked like the personification of death.

The scream that erupted from your lungs, weren't only of fear but also from genuine shock. The figure wasn't tall like you had expected, instead you had to glance downwards to meet the eyes behind a white skull mask. You stumble backwards, crashing your body against the door and falling all the way down to the floor.

The boy stands above you, a fit of psychotic little giggles come from him which make your stomach churn with disgust. He holds a butterknife in his hand. It's the only reason you haven't gotten up yet as you stare at his display, trying to mimic his father.

"Tommy what are you doing!" you shout out offended. You hope it covers the tinge of fear you carry. In no universe should Simon's little brother look like this, in no world should he be able to scare you this badly.

The antsy sensation isn't just from the initial surprise, it swirls in your blood at the sight of a raised knife. It doesn't matter that it isn't sharp, it doesn't even matter that it's not directly pointed at you.

It makes you remember. The late nights, the early mornings, the fights that took place within your own home. The list of threats you'd heard, you could recite them as clear as your favourite quote from your favourite book.

"Tommy...put down the knife." You don't hear the tremble in your voice but he does. He tilts his head; a line of light falls over the skull mask. His eyes are illuminated beneath it, they carry nothing but distaste for you.

He's never liked you. You were fine with that, but this is just too far. Where was Simon anyway!? If Tommy was home then he should be as well, maybe even his mother if anything at all.

Like a saving grace, an angel sent from the heavens, you hear his uncertain voice call out shakily.

"Tommy what are you doing, give that to me."

Simon pulls you even closer to his form, your legs shift from how you're sitting halfway into his lap. He had practically forced you this close when you started to complain about the cold. Not that you minded the proximity itself.

"Are you sure we can't just lock a room, so he won't disturb us?" You nuzzle closer into his side. A big breath exits your lungs, it rises upwards like a little cloud. His arm pulls your jacket closer around, his hand settling on your waist to give you a little squeeze.

"We're fine here," he mumbles into your hair "got you all to myself."

"I know," you say exasperated "it's just why would he do that...it's not...its..."

You don't know how to formulate your words right. It's hard to explain exactly what you saw from your perspective on the floor. A terrifying display you never want to see on Tommy's innocent face again. That look was reserved for his father, not that you were any happier seeing it on him either.

"He's been acting up...mood swings and all that" Simon sighs and shakes his head. "He's done it to me too a few times when mom and dad are fighting...I... don’t understand it. Even when dad brought that snake in, he was all giddy...I don't think he really understands," Simon confesses.

"Wait, what snake?!" you manage to pull yourself away from his arms. You stay close in his hold to keep sharing body heat, but you raise yourself on your knees so you're looking down at his face. "Your dad brought a snake into your home, to you, and he just laughed?" you sounded pissed off, and rightfully so you were. He'd never told you this before now.

"Yeah, were years ago now but..." he raises a hand, his thumb brushing over to dull marks above his lips "it bit me."

Your eyebrows furrow and you have to hold yourself back from not yelling out in frustration. You bite down on your own lip hard, and reach a hand up to gently run your fingers over the two scars in the form of dots. He closes his eyes as he feels your skin on his, let's out a shuddering breath. He always gets like this now at your touch, he always seems so affected, always positively.

In the beginning you thought it was just hormones, puberty for him now that you're both well into your teenage years. A round of "Boys will be boys," as your mother would keep saying whenever you told her how you saw the boys at school pick on the girls in the most horrendous ways.

Simon's a boy but you've never seen him be that cruel. And then you started to think it might just be you he's like this with, that to anyone else, any other girl or boy that gets close never gets to see him have this kind of reaction.

He opens his eyes and your breath catches in your throat with an ugly little sound. It makes you snort, giggling into your hand as you listen to his rumble of a chuckle. His arms snake around your waist, bring you in closer, pressing your bodies up against each other as much as can be.

He looks up at you like you're the only person in the world.

Like you're everything to him, as if you were to go his world would collapse around him. And you know it's true because you feel the same way. If he were to ever leave, you wouldn't know how to function, you wouldn't have an escape from the abuse, a person to keep you afloat when you're drowning.

You lean down a little to place a soft peck just above his lips, on the dotted scars.

You're not sure what true love is, but if you'll ever have a chance at it, it has to be this. There can be no other explanation for that glint in his eye reserved only for you.

He looks at you with pure love.

Soap looks at you expectantly. The dull sounds of the mess hall fill your ears again, you didn't even realize you zoned out. You only pray it wasn't for an unusually long time.

"We knew each other way back, before he joined the military I think." You try your best to play it off as not a big deal. As if you hadn't been in deep with him once upon an easier time. You doubted Simon would want to bring more attention to it than necessary when it came to his teammates.

"Before? Woah, can finally say ah know someone who knew the legendary ghost before he became ghost." He sounds pleased with himself. You don't understand the difference.

Like speaking of the devil himself, the tall dark figure with a mask you wanted to rip off him, emerged into the hall. It didn't turn many heads, but the way you whipped your head dramatically brought Soap's attention to him as well.

"Well...speak of the devil..." he mumbled. You could hear the smile on his lips without looking.

It's a bit late to come in for lunch, but when you think about it you didn't see him go eat with the others, while you were actively avoiding them. He would always retreat into his own room or office, like you would do.

Both you and Soap watches as he goes up to select what his lunch will be. Occasionally you glance towards Soap, observing his interest in Simon, you try to gouge at their relationship. They'd likely be good friends, having a soldier camaraderie for years now. It made you wonder if Soap would now qualify as one to know more about the boy you used to be so close with, than you do yourself.

You look back to Simon, trying to get a proper glimpse of his mask again. You have to bite back an annoyed groan when they flood your vision again.

The shadows encompass his mask all around. They block out the once dirty white with a coal black. It moves around like a mass, obscuring his face, his head taking on spiky ends, then blocky, then smooth. It makes him look like the creatures in the mirrors, the only thing left being the uncanny clear view of his eyes.

They're so visible to you that they freak you out more than the moving shadows, looking straight out of an uncomfortable picture you'd find on the internet. When he finally picks up his food and turns to your direction, your breath catches in your throat with an ugly little sound.

Soap looks at you concerned, but you wave him off quickly taking a big gulp of your water.

You look back to see exactly what you thought it was. You'd recognize that look on him anywhere from just his eyes. People say eyes are the windows to someone's soul, you don't know if you believe it for everyone else or even yourself, your eyes look so dull in the mirror, but for Simon it's the truest statement you've heard.

Despite the time apart, that look is burned into your retinas. It's been an image you clung to over the years, you last remnant of him, something to remind you of what you once had.

And he's looking towards you, like he used to do.

He's looking towards you with an expression you haven't seen in person in years.

He's looking towards you with a look of love you'd never think you'd see on his face again.

He's looking towards you with such devotion that someone like you doesn't deserve from someone like him.

You realize it too late. You glance away from Simon and look to the man sitting in front of you

He looks at you with pure love.

He's not looking at you.

Are you seriously jealous over a man you haven't seen in years?

You know it's pathetic. You know it's nonsensical. You know you shouldn't.

Yet you pace back and forth in your room, the shadows louder than they've ever been in months. They corner you in on every side, lunge out at you when you get too close to the walls. Their thousand little voices overlap in a chorus of insults.

Vile, pathetic, weak, useless, killer.

Your hands raise up to cover your ears but it does nothing to dampen the intensity. Your clothes feel too tight on your body, the air too humid, a certain place in the room burning hot with agony and shame. The little space under your bed. The bag with the letters that once brought you comfort.

They burn hot even from a distance. A rush of hot and cold going through your bloodstream. Ice beneath your skin one moment and boiling blood the next.

Did he ever even look at you like that? Wasn't it different back then? He had the dumb puppy love for you none of that was real.

"Shut up," your voices breaks in your throat and comes out a meek whisper.

Just take a look at those pathetic letters.

"No..."

Each one of them so much later than the next. Spaced out perfectly to leave you in the dark, first a week then two then a month then two months then...

"Shut it!" you shout out with the animalistic ferocity you've been taught. The shadows retract slightly, giving you more room to breathe. Normally you try to ignore the voices that go through your head, you've found answering them only encourage their absurd bait. They could taunt you all they wanted. Voices instilled by vile men in your life, repeated over and over and over and over and over.

Until they manifested themselves within your skull and refused to leave.

In a way you know the things you are seeing aren't real, but it feels so solid. All of it just your fragmented mind trying to make sense of what you were forced to see. None of it could be real.

Sometimes you think that you could actually reach out and touch them, but anytime you've tried they just retract further away from you. You've always hated how it swims in your vision, distracts you from what's actually important.

You look towards the bed, under it, the bag, the letters that almost flood out of it from where you've thrown it. They call to you, scream at you so silently. Your legs are sluggish like walking through water as they carry you there. Your fingers touching what feels like knives as you pull out the nearest letter.

The little piece of paper he left on your bed before he left for the military.

To my love, my dear little spider

You read quietly, the whisper barely even audible on your lips.

I'm sorry that I have to go. Don't fall apart without me, okay?

See you soon, your Simon

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