#women of dying light 2

[deadfileinthecabinet]

A little late but Happy Women’s History Month to all of the Wives, Mothers, Grandmothers and Daughters. For the Love and care (and scolding) they have provided us.

Here are some awesome women from Dying Light 2:

[lemongogo]

AYLIN AND ISOBEL?

[dissectress]

nah bc why aren’t there half naked hot bimbos walking around carnage hall serving drinks. come on we need a little eye candy for the fighters. sigh, if techland won’t provide then i will

[deadletterpoets]

I haven't played it yet, but Dead Island 2 is better than Dying Light 2 already purely cause I'm able to play as a female character (multiple women actually, but I'll most likely choose Amy for my first playthrough)

[reasoningdaily]

My former U.S. Track and Field teammate Tori Bowie, who was found dead in her home in Florida on May 2, of complications related to childbirth at 8 months pregnant, was a beautiful runner. She was effortless. At the Rio Olympics, I ran the second leg of the 4 x 100 relay. Tori was the anchor. When she got the baton, I remember thinking, “it’s over.” She just accelerated. When she crossed the finish line, I couldn’t wait to run over to her to celebrate. It was her first, and only, Olympic gold medal.

She also picked up a silver (in the 100-m) and bronze (200-m) in Brazil. The next year, at the 2017 World Championships in London, Tori won the 100-m title, earning the title of “world’s fastest woman.” Tori started out as a long jumper. So seeing her thrive as a sprinter was a huge deal. She was just such a bright light, and people were getting to see that.

Tori grew up in Mississippi and had this huge Southern accent. She didn’t take herself too seriously. You felt this sense of ease when you were around her. I last saw her in early 2021, in San Diego, where she was training. She gave me the biggest hug; something about her spirit was just very, very sweet. I felt her sweetness come over me that day.

Tori was 32 when she died. According to the autopsy, possible complications contributing to Bowie’s death included respiratory distress and eclampsia—seizures brought on by preeclampsia, a high blood pressure disorder that can occur during pregnancy. I developed preeclampsia during my pregnancy with my daughter Camryn, who was born in November 2018. The doctors sent me to the hospital, where I would deliver Camryn during an emergency C-section, at 32 weeks. I was unsure if I was going to make it. If I was ever going to hold my precious daughter.

Like so many Black women, I was unaware of the risks I faced while pregnant. According to the CDC, in 2021 the maternal mortality rate for Black women was 2.6 times the rate for white women. About five days before I gave birth to Camryn, I was having Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I mentioned that my feet were swollen. As we went around the table, the women shared their experiences during pregnancy. My cousin said she also had swollen feet. My mom didn’t. Not once did someone say, ‘oh, well, that’s one of the indicators of preeclampsia.’ None of us knew. When I became pregnant, my doctor didn’t sit me down and tell me, ‘these are things that you should look for in your pregnancy, because you are at a greater risk to experience these complications.’

That needs to change, now, especially in light of Tori’s tragic passing. Awareness is huge. Serena Williams had near-death complications during her pregnancy. Beyoncé developed preeclampsia. I hate that it takes Tori’s situation to put this back on the map and to get people to pay attention to it. But oftentimes, we need that wake-up call.

The medical community must do its part. There are so many stories of women dying who haven’t been heard. Doctors really need to hear the pain of Black women.

Luckily, there’s hope on several fronts. Congress has introduced the Momnibus Act, a package of 13 bills crafted to eliminate racial disparities in maternal health and improve outcomes across the board. California passed Momnibus legislation back in 2021. These laws make critical investments in areas like housing, nutrition, and transportation for underserved communities. Further, several pharmaceutical companies are making advances on early detection and treatment of preeclampsia.

Three gold medalists from that 4 x 100 relay team in Rio set out to become mothers. All three of us—all Black women—had serious complications. Tianna Madison has shared that she went into labor at 26 weeks and entered the hospital “with my medical advance directive AND my will.” Tori passed away. We’re dealing with a Black Maternal Health crisis. Here you have three Olympic champions, and we’re still at risk.

I would love to have another child. That’s something that I know for sure. But will I be here to raise that child? That’s a very real concern. And that’s a terrifying thing. This is America, in 2023, and Black women are dying while giving birth. It’s absurd.

I’m hopeful that things can get better. I’m hopeful that Tori, who stood on the podium at Rio, gold around her neck and sweetness in her soul, won’t die in vain.

—as told to Sean Gregory

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

EDIT: PART 2 HERE

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place. 

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay. 

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle... 

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages. 

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue. 

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox. 

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots. 

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom. 

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger. 

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”  

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious. 

Why would you say that? 

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion. 

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass. 

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you. 

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile. 

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur? 

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you. 

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts. 

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly. 

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you. 

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.” 

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears? 

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat. 

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to… 

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels. 

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats. 

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use. 

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want. 

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man. 

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone. 

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out. 

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand. 

He wants you to guide him to his father. 

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years. 

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens. 

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you. 

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is. 

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh. 

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out. 

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely. 

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory. 

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand. 

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission. 

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm. 

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be. 

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.” 

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick. 

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.” 

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

[et6rnalsun]

ᡣ𐭩 chris sturn x fem! reader

warnings: nothing !!

summary: judging met gala’s outfits with your bf while being sick

you were always excited for the met gala. curious to see the outfits and be able to judge them — especially those that completely missed the point.

but what excited you the least, in that moment, was the fact that you were sick. luck wasn't much on your side, and the annoying burning in your throat and runny nose made the experience fucking torture.

your boyfriend, on the other hand, was never really interested that much. he simply scrolled through Instagram posts to see the various celebrities, without going further.

and instead, there he was, taking care of a sick and almost delirious you while forced to watch the met gala.

you two were lying on your bed, the only lights on were those of your led’s, set to blue, and the one emanating from the screen of your laptop placed on both your legs. your head rested between the crook of his neck and his chest, with your hair falling completely over him as he ran his fingers through it in a soothing way.

"i'm here to see women, anyway. all men are always so boring" you muttered, rolling your eyes after seeing the simplicity of chris hemsworth's outfit. chris chuckled, shaking his head at your bad judgment. "you're judging them all" he raised an eyebrow. "and you do it while you're in your fucking pajamas, baby"

you made a sound of mock offense, lifting your head to look at him. "well, my pajamas have more sense than some of these outfits" you shrugged, chuckling.

“trust me, i can agree” he nodded, bringing his hand down to your ass which he then squeezed between his fingers with a force that made you huff in amusement. “they make your ass absolutely perf-” you silenced him with a simple look, his hands raised in a innocent gesture.

in fact, only women were receiving your total love. the one you favored the most was tyla, for whom you had to sit on the bed while slapping your hand against your mouth for the shock — and with chris having to force you to lie down and pull the covers over you again.

"i think you can express your love even while lying down too" chris sighed amusedly, placing a hand on your forehead gently to see if your temperature was still high.

you let out a grunt, snuggling into him again as you closed your eyes briefly at the contact of his hand. “no i can't, baby” you complained, shaking your head.

soon after, you weren't even paying attention to the laptop anymore. your fever had most likely risen again, and your eyes were fighting the urge to close and sleep. chris's warm embrace didn't help at all, your senses seemed expanded as his chest felt like a big cloud more comfortable than ever.

“oh my god” after a while, you were fully awake again, and the words came out of your mouth almost like a scream. this worried chris, who sat up slightly on the bed as he looked down at you. "what? are you okay?"

"no!" you huffed, pointing to the laptop. THE mike faist had appeared on the screen, and your brain had screwed up the 'all men are boring at the met gala' mentality "i should be there with him, but instead i'm here in bed dying"

chris blinked. 1 time. 2 times. "i'll be here watching you die then, doing nothing" probably didn’t appreciate your comment at all.

likes & reblogs are highly appreciated

[nackrosor]

~Warm, Soft and Alive~

Captain John Price x sergeant fem!reader

8,5 k. - Your captain comes knocking at your door in the middle of the night after the umpteenth nightmare of you dying in his arms jolts him awake.

warnings: porn with plot & feelings, light angst, emotional hurt/comfort, soft dom, light power dynamics, praise kink, sleepy sex, multiple orgasms, mildly dubcon (just because you're very eepy), dry humping (except it's very wet), first time together, underlying romantic fluff, I'm not sure if this can be counted as somno but just in case I'm mentioning it.

John has seen many people die. He has witnessed a great deal of bloodshed, both among enemy's and friendly' line. He had his own soldiers fall on missions, fine men and women giving their own lives in order to save others. Some even took their last breaths in his arms. He remembers each one of them.

Everything was heightened during the early years. Every death devastated him, causing him nightmares and awful flashbacks... But as the years went by, his skin thickened and his mind grew used to the atrocities. Nothing could get through to him anymore.

Or so he thought.

He can't seem to shake off the image of you bloody and unconscious, laying in his arms as he puts pressure on the gnashing wound on your side, trying to reduce the blood loss. He can't forget the anguish he felt while looking at you in such a miserable state. How on edge he was on the frantic ride back to camp, with you falling in and back from consciousness the whole time. Those weak groans and cries of pain that left your lips still echo in his ears. He can't forget how lost he felt as the medics took your limp body from his arms and rushed to the operating room to get you under the knife. To save your life. You had lost so much blood on the way... There was a high possibility that you wouldn't... That you... He wouldn't have been able to forgive himself if you did. Thankfully, you’ve always been so strong. One of his best soldiers. You perdured. You lived. You healed. Still, he can't forget a second of it all. The sight of your limp battered body sagged against him haunts his dreams to this day. Months after the event. No matter how many times he sees you strolling about the HQ, chatting with your mates, smiling and nodding at him as you pass by. Every night he has the same nightmare of you dying in his arms, and his mind is pestered by fear and doubts. What if he truly lost you? What if you didn’t make it?

Another nightmare has woken him tonight, robbing him of sleep. And at this point, he knows there will be no peace for him until he sees you breathing and standing on your feet with his own two eyes. He can't wait for the morning, for you to wake up. He needs to see you right now, lest he loses his mind entirely. 

That's why he's marching to your quarters through the dark hallways of the HQ. Pace hurried, heart aching in his chest, head still whirling from the dreadful images of your life slipping away from those pretty eyes of yours. He can't take it one second longer. His fist hits the metal surface of your door a bit harder than he intended to, but he needs you to hear him and come open the door as quickly as possible. 

You jolt awake at the sudden knock on your door. Your heavy eyes flicker to the alarm clock on the nightstand, a groan leaving your lips upon noticing the green light signaling 2:40 am.

With much effort, you turn on the lamp then drag your feet off the bed and towards the entrance, groggily swaying the door open.

"Who the fuck-" You're ready to protest and tell off whoever dares to interrupt your sleep, but the words die on your tongue when your half-closed eyes land on your captain.

One glance at your half-asleep, messy look and all the tension washes off of his body like soothing water. 

“Can I come in?” John’s voice sounds shaky, the relief of seeing you battling with the effects of the nightmare still lingering in his mind.

"Uhhh-" you look up at him, momentarily taken aback by his request, your mind still clouded by sleep. Why is your captain at your door, at such a late hour, asking to come inside your room? Perhaps you're still lost in your dreamworld. 

With a sluggish shrug, you eventually move aside and let him step inside. 

John shuts the door behind him, quietly. It is darker inside your room than out, but he can make you out in the darkness thanks to the faint yellow light coming from the abajour on your nightstand. 

His eyes trail down your body, checking you over as discreetly as possible for any signs of injury; a habit he’s taken on since that day. There’s an urge to grab your arms and hold you still so he can run his hands over you, check that you’re real and solid in front of him.

You don't notice his scrutinizing gaze as you rub your hands over your face, trying to wipe the sleepiness out of your features.

"Hm, cap?" you call out for him, your voice raspy and drowsy. One of your hands lazily tug at your thin top, adjusting the straps on your shoulders. "What happened?"

The way you pull at your clothes has John quickly sweep his gaze over the exposed skin. He’s seen you in a similar attire countless times before, but for some reason tonight this sight of you has his stomach flipping.

“Nothin’ happened. I just-“ he breaks off. John can’t admit that he’s here because he woke up from yet another nightmare of you bloody and broken, dying in his arms.

“I needed to see you.”

The words take a moment to register in your hazy mind, and when they do, you blink at him in confusion.

"Hm. Me... ? Why?" you ask him hesitantly, a slight frown taking form on your face. You shift awkwardly on your feet, your head tilting to the side as you look up at him with your doe eyes. Your fingers scratch mindlessly at an old scar on your bicep.

His eyes flicker to your arm. The sigh has his heart twisting in his chest. He knows all of your scars, old and new. And he remembers that one clearly, even more than the others. Perhaps because he wasn’t the one to patch you up that time.

John takes a step forward, closing the space between you two. It’s suddenly stifling in your room, and he’s hyper aware of how thin your top is and how much he wants to touch you. 

Your head cranes upward as he steps closer, your eyes unwavering from his face.

"...Cap?" you whisper softly, your frown deepening at his silence. You hold onto your arm with undisguised unease, warming up your bare skin with your palm.

John reaches to brush some of your messy hair away from your face. Your skin is warm beneath his palm, soothing the coldness in his chest. All those moments of seeing your lifeless body flicker in and out of his mind, and here you are. Warm and soft and very much alive.

He can’t stop himself. John brings his other hand up to lightly touch your shoulder, his fingers tracing the slope of your bare collarbone.

Your flinch of surprise to his touch is delayed, your tired eyes widening imperceptibly as they dart to his hand on your collarbone before moving back to his face.

You're not sure what's happening. Sleep still lingers in your mind, muffling your thoughts, slowing your instincts.

"John...?"

The way you say his name, all soft and quiet and surprised, has his heart giving a thump against his chest. John is aware he’s being too forward. He’s your Captain, he shouldn’t be here, this close to you. Touching your bare skin, in your room. It’s not right, it’s not proper. But after waking from those nightmares for the umpteenth time, all he wants to do is touch you. Reassure himself that you’re safe, that you’re real and here standing in front of him.

John can’t look away. In the low light of your room, your eyes still manage to stand out, full of life even when clouded by fatigue. His fingers trail from your collarbone to your jaw, the rough pad of his thumb brushing along the underside of your chin. The contact has you shivering and your eyelids fluttering. You lean into his touch on instinct, heart stuttering in your chest.

He’s suddenly reminded of many a night spent together on a cold ground, of times when you’d curl up beside him and he wrapped his arm around you and kept you warm and safe and alive. He doesn't know if you remember, if you've ever noticed, but he does remember. He craves that feeling again. 

John lets his touch wander down the side of your neck, feeling the quick beat of your pulse. Alive. Alive. Alive.

"What's the matter…?" you whisper drowsily, heavy eyes locking onto his again, your hand reaching up to wrap around his wrist.

He can see the tiredness in your eyes, hear it in the groggy whisper of your words. You don’t seem to register what’s going on, not like he does. The way your hand gently wraps around his wrist causes his heart to miss a beat, a pang of possessive need filling his chest.

“Just-“ he swallows roughly, trying to control the sudden urge to push you down on the bed and cover your body with his own. “Need to make sure you’re okay.”

Your brows furrow at his words, head tilting again in confusion, your doe eyes staring deeply into his.

"Why wouldn't I be?" 

That adorable pout you make when you're confused? He finds it adorable. And you’re pouting now, staring up at him through heavy eyes, not a clue in the world about the memories or the nightmares that have been tormenting him.

John’s fingers grip your chin, holding your face steady so he can look at you. To really look at you. Your soft face, your slightly chapped lips, the dopey eyes that don’t seem to understand.

“I need to make sure,” he repeats. His voice gravelly and deep, rough in a way that even surprises himself.

You blink slowly, sluggishly, keeping your eyes on him despite the urge to close them.

"Cap, I'm all in one piece." you say softly, a hint of protest in your voice. Lazily raising your arms as if to point out that you are in fact all intact, you add, "see?"

The innocent gesture has his stomach twisting. Your top rides up, baring more skin, a slice of your stomach exposed in the dark. When you drop your arms again, the movement causes the fabric to ride up even more, the top shifting along your shoulder and causing the strap to dip down, just enough to show the upper edge of your breast.

John’s eyes fix on the sight, on that sliver of smooth, naked skin. The need to run his hands all over you, feel everything and confirm you’re here, is so strong that he releases your chin and grabs at your forearms instead, fingers curling around your soft flesh.

He pulls you a little closer, until he can look down at you easier. A rough sigh leaves his lips as he gives you a slow glance over. One hand pulls your top back into place. His fingers linger on your bare skin, brushing along the strap.

"I can see that.” 

Your stomach flips at the way he grabs onto your forearms, at the way he stares down at you with such intensity. You still can't wrap your head around what's happening; it all feels like a dream, both so vivid and dazed.

With your arms restrained by his grasp, you bend your head to one side and rub the corner of your eye with your shoulder, causing the strap to drop again. This time, he does not slide it back on. 

"Then... Can I go back to sleep?" you ask him softly, quietly, a hint of plea in your voice. A yawn escapes you right after.

John’s grip on your flesh tightens at the sight of your yawn, but it’s the sound of your slight plea in your quiet voice that makes his stomach do a flip.

“Not yet,” he mutters, not sure if he’s doing it to make himself feel better or because he’s enjoying the rush of power it gives him, holding you. “Gotta ask you somethin’ first.”

A breathy groan leaves your lips at his words. Your eyes, heavy and droopy, blink lazily at him.

"What... is... it?"

John’s fingers wander down, tracing along your collarbone again and lingering at your pulse point. You’re so tired and half out of it, that you don’t even seem to realize what he’s doing. He’s having a hard time controlling the urge to pull you against him, wrap himself around you and let the feeling of you pressed against him ease the flashbacks in his mind. You’re so soft and warm beneath his hand. The fact that he’s touching you like this, that he’s touching your bare skin and you’re letting him, is making him feel drunk on power.

“Do somethin’ f’me?”

You simply nod, slowly and mindlessly, bleary eyes drooping and resting for just a moment before you return your gaze to him.

"Whatever you need, sir..." you murmur under your breath, your words garbled from weariness.

Sir.

He nearly winces at the sound of his title coming out of your sleepy mouth. It does something to him, hearing you call him that when you’re like this. Soft and malleable and so compliant in your groggy state.

John is a strong man, but that? That makes him weak. So weak that he almost pulls you flush against him right there and then, to just hold you and feel you, really feel you. His mind immediately conjures up the many things he needs from you, some of which have nothing to do with his nightmares. You’re barely even fully aware of what you’re agreeing to, how vulnerable you are right now... But he takes a deep breath in, keeping his thoughts under control, focusing on the matter at hand.

“Need you to not be so reckless in the future.”

The words are gruff, but there’s an underlying hint of worry in them. He hates how much the sight of you lying limp and wounded in his arms messed with him, screwed with his mind. So much so that he hasn't been able to get some shuteye in months. 

"Reckless?" you parrot, looking lost. Your face lazily scrunches up in a puzzled frown, your eyes dropping to slits. Your mind is too muddled to connect the dots, to realize what he's referring to. The incident that almost took your life is so far off in your thoughts, so far off in time too, that you barely remember it happening at all. The only poignant memory you're left of the event is the large but healed scar on your side.

"Reckless." John repeats, his fingers leaving your collarbone to trace along that one little faint scar on your bicep, his mind instantly reeling with images of that nasty gash on your side he tried so desperately to clog with his hands. “You could have died.”

The rough tone of his voice seems to lift some of the fog from your mind, the words 'you could have died' resonating within you. Your hand twitches, yearning to move to your face and rub your eyes again, but his hold keeps your arms still.

"But I didn't." you whisper, your voice raspy. "And it's been months since."

John's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around your arms. It's been months since it happened, and he still gets nightmares about cradling your bleeding body in his arms. Even months later, the sight of you being so close to death causes him to jolt awake with his heart hammering in his ribcage. Yes, it has been months, but for him, it happens again and again every fucking night. That moment is ever present in his mind.

“And I don’t want a repeat of it.” He says darkly. John glances down at you again, trying not to get caught up in the sight of you. “I don’t want that to ever happen again.”

You blink at him, his voice making your stomach churn. When he adopts that imposing tone of his, all you can do is nod and whisper, "Yes, sir."

John lets out a low huff out of his nose at the immediate obedience. That sense of power he’d felt earlier spikes, burning hot in his chest. 

He should back away. Let you go back to bed and get some sleep. You’re tired, you’re vulnerable and sleepy… and wearing that goddamn skimpy excuse for a top.

But instead, he hears himself saying: "Lie down... and let me see the wound." 

His order has your fuzzy mind spin. Your tired eyes widen in disbelief and confusion, seemingly regaining some focus.

"T-The scar's perfectly healed, cap. Why would you need to-"

The words stumble from your lips, groggy and tired, as you try to make sense of his demand. He can see the surprise flash in your weary eyes at his request, can feel the way you go to protest against his order. John’s grip on your upper arms tightens, his fingers pressing down into your soft flesh, shutting you up before you can finish your sentence.

“I'm not asking.” he says gruffly, his voice that low, authoritative tone that you’d usually instantly comply with. He moves even closer, making you have to crane your neck to keep looking at him.

“Lie down and show it to me.”

Your breath hitches at the way his grip tightens on your arms, at the way his voice drops gravely as he reaffirms his command.

You only stall for a moment, gulping, doe eyes boring into his, before you gently pull back from his hold and pad to the bed, tiredly easing yourself down onto the mattress. Your fingers roll up the hem of your top to the underside of your breasts, exposing your left side to him.

You’re disoriented and confused, mind fuzzy from sleep, but you still listen to him. You listen to his order. John’s mind is reeling as he takes in the sight of you lying on the bed. You’re obeying him so easily. So readily. And goddamnit, it’s making him feel insane. You’re following his every word like a good little soldier…

John lets his eyes rake down your form on the bed. You look so vulnerable, so soft and tired. It sparks a possessive urge in his chest. His eyes track the way your messy hair splays out on the pillow and the way your top slides up as you bare your skin to him. He follows you to the edge of the bed. His eyes keep flickering down to your stomach, to the bare skin that looks so very soft and warm and inviting.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits down beside you with one knee settled on the bed and the other leg hanging from the edge.

He knows he’s being pushy, taking advantage of you like this, he knows it. You’re half out of it and clearly confused and he’s using it to his advantage. But the nightmares are too fresh on his mind, still replaying in flashes, and you looking so damn vulnerable and soft beneath him right now has all his instincts on edge.

John's eyes hungrily devour the sight of your exposed side, his eyes falling on the soft curves and the pale, fading scar; the wound reduced to a light puckered line, but nonetheless a stark reminder of how close you came to dying. How close he came to losing you.

You lie there, silently, heavy-lidded eyes gazing up at him. Your breathing is slightly altered just like the pace of your heart. Even through the drowsiness, you seem to realize how odd the situation is... The effects John's presence in your room, on your bed, so close to you, have on your tired body are evident. What you can't seem to pick up on is that strange flicker passing across his gaze as he examines your scar.

You keep silent though, simply staring up at him and keeping the fabric of your top rolled up, slightly pulling up your braless breasts with your hand as well, to push them out of the way.

John's eyes follow the way your chest slightly rises and falls with your breath. He notices the way it seems to stutter as his eyes drift over you. He doesn't know what to focus on. Your messy hair sprawled over the pillow, the soft curve of your breasts just barely exposed as you lift up the fabric of your top, your bare stomach and the faded scar. His eyes keep flickering from one part of you to the other, his mind going haywire at the sight of you, vulnerable and lying in front of him like this.

His mind begins to fill up with all kinds of thoughts. Thoughts of taking your top off entirely. Seeing all of you bared to him. Feeling your soft skin against his and running his hands all over you. Feeling your warm body under his own.

No matter how much he tries to resist, he can't refrain from reaching out with his hand and let his calloused fingers graze the bare skin of your scar.

The jolt of your body and the sound of you drawing in a sharp breath has his instincts flare in warning. But you don't recoil, you just look at him with wide, hazy eyes. Your body so close and warm and tense beneath his hand. So responsive to the touch, reacting without you even meaning to.

John's hand continues to graze over the skin of your scar, his thumb rubbing over the skin slowly, gently, feeling the way your stomach flexes beneath his touch. His eyes flicker up from the pale scar to look at your face.

"Does it still hurt?”

"It-" you try to answer, but your voice comes out raspy. That forces you to take a moment to clear your throat and wet your dry lips before trying again. "It itches or tingles from time to time... but it's nothing, really." you admit in a whisper, voice still raw as if reluctant to come out. Your fingers tighten a little on the fabric of the top, keeping it still on your chest.

"I see."

John's fingers keep moving over the scar tissue. Feeling the bumps and ridges of the skin, his eyes fixated on your stomach, on how you respond to his touch. Every breath and twitch and soft gasp makes his entire body flare up. It's a struggle to keep his mind somewhat coherent.

His eyes slowly move to your hands balled into the fabric of the top, the way you're holding on just a little bit tighter. He can tell that you're conscious of the fact that you're not fully clothed and that you're feeling vulnerable. Yet, he can't keep his hand away.

"Does it hurt now?" He reiterates. His hands continue to glide across the scar, fingers slowly tracing along the soft curve of your stomach.

You meekly shake your head in response. Your neck cocked slightly to the side, allowing your gaze to drift to his hand and watch as his fingers travel over your skin, so carefully, tenderly, yet... possessive.

"It... tingles a little." you whisper, muscles flexing again under his touch.

He's intoxicated by the sight of you underneath him, and you're responding so sweetly to his touch. Vulnerable, exhausted, but oh, so soft, warm, and sensitive. It's making him lose his mind, seeing you like this. Feeling your heat against his fingers. Seeing you in that damn top barely cresting just under your breasts.

Without thinking, he shifts on the mattress, leaning down to press his lips on your scar.

You gasp sharply, body arching at the sudden contact. Your tired eyes widen and the fabric of your top falls from your hold as you plant your palms on either side of you on the mattress, slightly lifting your torso from the bed.

John is getting addicted to your noises. To the way you gasp and arch beneath his touch. It's like a sick taste of what it would be like to really have you like this. To have you writhing beneath him, moaning and gasping because of him.

His hand tightens on your stomach. He can feel the muscles flex beneath his touch, the way your body reacts on instinct to his lips on the scar. He doesn't think. He just acts. He kisses the scar again, feeling a sense of possession wash over him at the feeling of your soft skin against his lips.

You flinch again at each kiss, soft gasps falling from your lips as you stare down at him, confused, dazed...

"C-Cap...?" you hesitantly call for him, your voice barely audible, breathless. "W-what are you-"

"Shh."

His free hand comes up to rest on your side, fingers splaying across the skin and holding you in place. Holding you down. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He's losing control, feeling drunk just from having you below him, reacting to his touch. Letting him do all these things... letting him take all these liberties without even fighting back.

He shouldn't be doing this. Taking advantage of you like this. But your skin is just so soft, and you're so responsive to him, and he can't stop himself. This is his medicine. His medicine against the nightmares, against the horrible memories plaguing his mind. 

Soft gasp after gasp is falling from your lips, sweet in John's ears. The sound and the sight of your body arching below him, writhing at his every touch, is driving him insane. Your fingers digging into the sheets, your body trembling and shaking in his hold, the way your chest rises and falls with your labored breaths. It's all just so damn good. A stark contrast to the sight that wakes him up every damn night. He needs to see you like this. To have you arching and writhing and gasping under him. To see you alive.

He sucks a hot, slow kiss into the sensitive skin of your abdomen, tasting the salty sweat on your skin. His fingers dig into the flesh at your side, holding you down against the bed and keeping you completely in place. His other hand drifts up slowly, tracing over the soft curve of your ribs, his fingers brushing against the bottom curve of your breast, slipping under the top.

"Oh~!"

The unexpected sensation of his rough fingers touching the delicate flesh of your breast sends your fuzzy thoughts spinning. Is this really happening? You can't think straight. And you're convinced that even without the lethargy of weariness inhibiting your judgment, you wouldn't be able to think clearly. Not with your captain kissing your tummy, cradling your breasts, and keeping you pinned to the bed. Your handsome captain… whom you secretly adore...

Your mewling gasp makes a bolt of heat shoot up his spine and all the blood in his body head straight south. The noise that escapes from your lips has his hand reflexively closing over your breast, his fingers squeezing on the warm, supple flesh. A dark, possessive part of his mind revels in the noises you're making, in the way your body shivers at his touch. In having you pinned down with his hand and mouth on your skin. No fight back, no pushing him away, no words of complaint fall from your lips as he kisses and touches and holds you down with little effort. He would pull away from you if you asked him to, he believes that strongly. He would never hurt you, even with the promise of making you feel better. But you aren't pushing him away. You are not protesting. You're not showing him any signs of objections. And it isn't only because you are worn out. He can see it in your eyes and hear it in the way you respond to his touch. You like it, you enjoy his attention. And that's enough to spur him further.

His fingers delicately caress the smooth curve of your breast, feeling the pillowy and tender flesh just beneath his fingertips. He has lost all sense of control at this point. All sense of reason. All he can think about is how soft you are, how warm and malleable beneath him, how deeply he craves to touch more of you…

He lifts his hands, tugging at the fabric of your top, revealing your chest to his gaze. He can't resist a second longer, and he pounces on your breast, attaching his lips on your hard nipple. His eyes flicker up to your face, taking in your expression, your glazed eyes, the way your back arches up, and your lips part to let those delicious moans escape.

A shiver of pleasure strikes your tired form. One of your hands moves spontaneously to his head, fingers threading in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold him there, against your chest. That provokes a pleased hum to rumble in his throat. It only serves as confirmation that you’re not trying to stop him but rather holding him against you. Encouraging him, even. And he's more than inclined to indulge you.

He's lost every ounce of his restraint at this point. He can't recall why he came to your room in the first place. What was he seeking for? Just to look at you. Or perhaps he subconsciously hoped for more. Now... There is no going back from this. And all he knows is that he's going to make you feel good, make you feel alive and to engrave the sight of you, high on pleasure, into his tortured mind so that it may take the place of any other horrible memories he has of you.

"John..." you whine softly, breathlessly, your half-closed eyes peering down at him, watching as he cradles your breasts and sucks on your nipple, scratching and tickling your sensitive skin with his beard. Your entire body is ablaze, tightening from both fatigue and yearning.

Hearing the sweet quivering sound of your voice uttering his name in the quiet night has his heart thunder in his chest. He keeps his focus on your face, watching how the mist in your eyes seems to intensify. 

He pulls away from your tits with a wet sound just long enough to speak, his voice deep and rough. "Say my name again."

John's mind is slowly slipping into a haze of lust and possessiveness. He's never heard his name sound like that ever before. It's like a drug, something that hooks over his core and keeps him there, wanting to make you utter his name again and again in that pleading tone as if you were begging for more.

He can't take it any longer. Without any warning, he's pulling back from your chest and peeling his shirt off, discarding it as if it was scorching his skin. He doesn’t give you time to register one action, before he rushes onto another. Rough hands grabbing onto the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down in one firm and swift motion.

Your muffled mind struggles to keep up. Droopy, glazed eyes try to follow his movements, your hands idly resting on the mattress, your bare chest raising and falling heavily, mouth open and drawing each breath in quick, quivering gasps. Your newly exposed thighs press together out of instinct, attempting to give you relief from the ache in your core. You can feel the dampness of your panties as they brush against the inner flesh of your thighs. You can feel how aroused you are for him.

John's eyes immediately catch the subtle movement of your legs bending at the knee and rubbing together. And his hands don't take long to follow. He's now hunched over you, his large build dwarfing your smaller, supple body. His hand travels along the inner surface of your trembling thigh, gliding over the smooth skin till his fingers reach the edge of your underwear, then slide across the thin fabric. He can feel the heat and the wetness through the material and that’s enough to trigger a deep groan from the back of his throat, a sound that's somewhere between an exhale and a groan. 

This night has gone so far off course he doubts either of you will be able to look at each other the same way after this. But he doesn't care. All he cares about is being with you, and making you feel good. He's not thinking anymore. Thinking has fled his mind. 

He pushes your legs apart, letting his hands run up your thighs towards your center, feeling your muscles tense at his touch.

“Oh, my sweet girl…” he coos, gliding his palm over the expanse of your panties, making you whimper in response, trembling in delight at the contact and his words.

His voice is low, deep, and full of praise as he looks down at you, watching intently the way your body reacts to his touch.

“My pretty girl…”

He repeats the motion, this time with a little more pressure, rubbing the flat of his palm against your clothed heat, watching with a deep, possessive pride the way your thighs shiver and twitch at his touch. He can feel the dampness leaking through the fabric, the heat and the moisture soaking into his skin.

"My reckless, pretty, pretty girl…." he says, his tone firm and territorial, with a tinge of frustration edging it.

He sweeps his hand over the small patch of fabric that covers you, pressing the heel of his palm to your swelling bundle of nerves, drawing a tight circular pattern over it while relishing the way your thighs spasm and your eyelids flutter.

"Giving me such a fright…"

The firm, unyielding pressure of the palm against you sends waves and waves of ecstasy shooting straight to your core. You attempt to speak, to ask him what he means, but only whimpers leave your lips.

He drinks in the sight of you, flushed and breathless, thighs twitching and clenching, chest rising and falling with you heavy breaths, trying to speak but unable to form coherent words. You're so desperate for him, so responsive to his touch, it's making his head spin. He wants to see more of you, he needs it to forget the nightmares. He needs you. 

He moves closer, his hand still firmly rubbing against your heat, fingers curling on the drenched fabric, as he nuzzles your neck and presses scorching, wet kisses all over your skin. His mustaches and beard tease your skin, amplifying the tingling feeling that spreads throughout your body. 

His gaze burns into yours, holding you captive as he moves his palm over your heat in slow, languid circles, watching every expression and twitch of your face from up close, taking every noise that escapes your lips as a hint, making him adjust his touches until he gets the prettiest, loudest moan from you.

"Getting yourself hurt…"

He rubs his hand even more firmly, his palm moving faster and faster, applying more and more pressure on your sensitive nub, as if to emphasize every word he is saying, but it only causes you to lose more focus on his voice.

“Do you have any idea what it does to me… to see you in danger?” he whispers, his voice deep and rough. His free hand slides under your head, to hold onto the nape of your neck. “To see you in pain?”

If you were out of your mind before, you're being totally pushed out of your body now as he takes you closer and closer to the edge. You hear him, you understand what he is saying, but you are unable to form a single thought; you lack the energy to answer or apologize.

Your whole body is buzzing like a live wire, every nerve on fire, your mind blank with primal urges. 

He's watching your face, watching your eyelids flutter with each stroke of his hand, watching your lips part and your tongue slip to moisten them, watching you shiver and writhe under him, whimpering and desperate for release.

"You give me too many damn heart attacks, you know that? Keepin’ me up every night…"

“M’sorry-” you manage to cry out, gazing up at him but battling to keep your eyes open. Your hands find his tensed arm, and cling onto it for support as you feel the knot in your belly tightening, your body arching in anticipation.

Your apology is hardly coherent. He can hear the slur in your jumbled words, feel the tremors in your frame, see your eyes struggling to stay focused, your body arching and bucking and quivering under his touch, your fingers digging into his arm as if you're trying to hold on for dear life.

“I know, doll…” he croons, lips grazing the side of your jaw, close to your ear. You can feel his warm breath fanning your skin, rising goosebumps all over it.

“You’ll be the death of me… but you’re so damn beautiful-”

You look so helpless, so lovely like this. He just wants to give you what you want. His hand grinds against you, harder but steadier, increasing the pressure in a demanding and relentless motion. His eyes keen on watching the way you wriggle and arch, the way your eyes squeeze shut and your jaw falls slack as he ultimately pushes you over the edge.

"That's it, doll... that's it... come for me... my sweet girl…”

Your release is a sight to behold. Your body tenses like a bowstring before you climax, your moans and gasps turning into mewls of his name with the last shred of breath in your lungs, your eyes flying wide open and rolling back in your head, your nails sinking into his arm… then your entire body goes limp. Your legs tremble and spasm beneath him as he guides you through the aftershocks. John doesn't let up, doesn't stop moving his palm, prolonging your peak until you're left spent and boneless, breathing heavily. Only then does his hand slowly come to a halt, brushing one final time over your soaked panties as he lowers his forehead on yours. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, his gaze glued to your pretty face, his fingers leisurely rubbing the back of your head. When he moves slightly to pull back and take you in, he becomes acutely aware of the strain in his bulge, struggling against the confinement of his jeans. He quickly unzips them and lets his stiff length breathe, with him drawing in a shuddering breath as well.

He chances a look at your panties, the possessive pride in him flares up at the sight; the fabric is so drenched it’s become see-through. His fingers gently move over it, his eyes instantly flashing to your face as you protest weakly at the contact. You're still lost in the high, eyes closed, lips parted, and chest heaving heavily. He’s never seen anything more beautiful; the image is going to be forever burnt to the inside of his eyelids. Well, he hopes so. He’d gladly wake up every fucking night at the memory of this, instead.

John watches you for a moment, letting you regain your bearings. If he could, he would keep you in this state, breathless and blissed-out… but he needs more. He’s only had a taste and he’s already addicted.

“You with me, doll…?”

He murmurs the words against your lips, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth at the way you don’t even pretend to be coherent. You were barely conscious before, he doubts you’ll be able to keep your eyes open for the rest of the night… but he needs you to be present for what comes next.

He dips in and draws your nipple into his mouth, sucking on it before gently nipping it between his teeth, like he’s coaxing you back to consciousness.

You whine softly, eyes fluttering and slowly managing to open up. Your hand instinctively reaches out for his hair. 

Your fingers pull on his short strands just the way he likes it, making his eyes grow dark. And he can’t help but chuckle as he notices your half-lidded attempt at a smile, watching your tired self struggle to lift the corner of your mouth as if it took all your strength to do so.

He reaches down, fingers curling around your jaw and gently shaking it to make sure you focus on him. “There you are…” He coos, his voice deep and gravelly. “Did I wear you out already, sweetdoll?”

You groan, eyes dropping closed again and slowly opening up a few seconds later.

“Hmm… ‘was already worn out-” you slur, voice hoarse and quiet, almost as if it's coming from someplace distant. 

You’re barely lucid, half-conscious, and yet you’re still trying to sass him. That’s his girl.

He chuckles again, shaking his head as he leans in to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck. He’s smiling widely as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your skin, traveling up your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your cheek.

"I know, sweetheart. I know..." He murmurs the words against your temple, his fingers gently stroking the side of your face, caressing over your cheekbones, your eyelashes, your mouth.

"But you're about to sleep on me. Can't have that…"

He wraps his fingers around your jaw and gives it another gentle squeeze. “You’ll have to stay awake a little longer, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

He keeps his firm grip on your jaw, waiting patiently for your hazy eyes to focus back on him. The expression you wear, dazed and exhausted, is like something out of his most depraved, shameful dreams.

“I don’t know if I can, John…” 

His expression softens at the sound of your weak voice. He can’t deny that you look downright adorable right now, your eyes droopy and half closed, your jaw slack in his hand, every inch of you vulnerable and malleable in his grasp. 

He lets go of your jaw and gently runs a hand through your hair, smoothing the loose strands away from your face. “Try for me, doll. Can you at least try?”

Your head lolls tiredly against the pillow, following the movement of his hand, a quiet hum leaving your lips. "M'so tired..." Your slurred whisper is barely audible, your voice growing ever distant. Your eyes cross as your eyelids droop again. 

John sighs. He can see the exhaustion in your face, the way your eyes keep wanting to slip close against your will, how much you desperately want to give into the fatigue. You look like you’re about to pass out at any moment now.

His hand keeps on caressing your hair as he weighs his options in his mind, trying to figure out what he should do. He can’t deny that he wants to do so many things to you… One above all, peeling those ruined panties off your legs and burying his face in your wetness, devouring your cunt and every drop of your juices like a man starved and feeling your soft thighs twitch and tremble and clamp against his head. Then he would sink his cock inside your still fluttering walls and watch your spent body come alive again an again and again as he fucks you all night long.

His eyes drop to your thighs, his jaw clenching tight. He can feel his stomach twisting and his erection throb painfully in longing even only at the thought of doing all of that to you. But you’re too exhausted. Too out of it. He wants you to enjoy every second of what he plans to do to you, but in your state you wouldn’t be able to.

His eyes flicker to your face again and he leans in to gently kiss your lips. He feels you respond, even if meekly. He pulls back to look down at you again, your eyes reduced to slits but fixed on him. Your hand lazily reaches up to cradle his cheek. He smiles at the gesture, his heart fluttering in his chest.

Maybe he can do one last thing before you doze off to sleep. 

Carefully, he eases himself down next to you, lying on the mattress on his side and gently moving your body so he’s spooning you.

“Stay awake for me just a couple more moments, hm? Just a couple more, doll.” he croons in your ear as he wraps one strong arm around your middle and moves his other hand to his pants to hurriedly tug them further down, together with his boxers. 

You mumble sluggishly in response, but relax into his warmth, head lolling back, forehead brushing the rough skin of his cheek. He places a firm kiss on your temple while digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your belly and pulling your panties to the side with his other hand. He shifts, bringing his hips closer to yours and letting his hard length rub along the crevice of your ass.

“Mmh… John-?”

He squeezes you harder as he presses his cock against you, moving it up and down a few times before guiding it between your thighs and through your soaked folds. A low groan rumbles through his throat, blending with your weak whimper. His breath fans the side of your face as he gently pushes his groin into your ass, coating his length in your juices, his tip hitting the moist fabric of your panties, eliciting one more exhale from him. He pulls you flush against him until your body is molded into his. Only then does he begin to buck his hips back and forth, letting your drenched folds stroke his cock and your panties tease its head. He won't fuck you, not properly, not while you're not fully present, but he is going to steal one more orgasm from your exhausted body - and pleasure himself in the process - before allowing you to drift off completely.

“It’s alright, sweet girl… It's alright…”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, nuzzling your skin and planting lazy kisses all over it. John keeps his arm wrapped around your middle and his hand splayed over your soft stomach, holding you in place against his body as he moves leisurely against you. His pace is so slow and steady that it feels like it's lulling you to sleep. That's what he wishes to do; he wants to ease you back to sleep by numbing your nerves with pure bliss. He wants you to collapse with his cock grinding against your cunt, stimulating your swollen nub with each slow, deliberate push.

You’re boneless against him. Moaning ever softly, body too tired to wriggle but tensing up in ecstasy all over again. He can feel the flutter of your stomach under his palm, the quick steady puffs of air leaving your nostrils. John moves his free hand to your hip, letting it glide over your smooth skin until it closes around the underside of your thigh and gently lifts it and places it over his leg. Both of you moan at the new position which lets you both feel more of each other. 

He feels your hips shake and hears your shallow breaths getting louder. He knows you’re already close. That’s good. You’re still awake for it. That's all he wanted. The hand resting on your belly glides down your mound, slipping under the fabric of your panties and touching your heat. He groans at the contact. You’re so fucking wet and hot… The pads of his fingers find your clitoris and start to rub tight circles over it. His lips press into the side of your neck, feeling your pulse, while you squirm faintly at the added stimuli. You make such pretty sounds for him. Soft mewls and moans, whimpers and gasps. Even weak and tired as you are, your body’s still so reactive to him. 

“That’s it, doll… you’re such a good girl…” he praises in a breathless whisper upon your flushed skin. “Stay with me… just a bit longer…”

When his hot breath brushes against your neck, he can feel a shudder go down your spine. He can hear your breathing getting heavier, your body twitching and trembling against him, and the whole feel of you is driving him insane.

It just takes a few more thrusts of his hips and flicks of his fingers for you to come undone again, spasming weakly in his arms - arms that hold you snugly to soothe your tremors. You cum all over his length, letting out a feeble cry so deliciously filthy that it makes his hips stutter. He halts altogether before he can over stimulate you.

“There you go, my sweet girl… There you go…” he coos in your ear, lips brushing against your cheek, before he buries his nose in your hair and drinks in your scent. 

John squeezes you tightly in his embrace until your shakes and ragged breaths subside. He watches your eyelids flutter one more time before they drop and remain closed.

He feels your body sag against his, your muscles going entirely limp in his arms. He keeps you nestled into him, his hand resting on your stomach and softly kneading soothing circles over your scar, while your other leg lies boneless over his. He can hear your breathing even out, slowly falling deep and regular, the warm puffs of air hitting his arm with each exhale. For a few moments, he remains still, listening to the sound of your breathing, feeling the rise and fall of your chest… trying to figure out if you’re still conscious, but your soft even breaths confirm to him you’ve finally fallen asleep.

He glances down at your serene expression, eyes closed and lips parted. Even in the shadows, he can see the light drool trickling from the corner of your lips. You’re completely knocked out.

John takes a few deep shaky breaths, his fingers digging into your hip. He allows himself a few more thrusts, taking care not to disturb your sleep. It’s not long before he falls apart, dumping his load inside your undies and muffling his moan with your hair.

He takes a few moments to regain his bearings, breathing deeply, getting drunk on the scent of you and him mixing together. Then, with great care, he fixes your clothes on your unconscious body, as well as his own pants, and wraps your form in his muscular arms, pressing every inch of you against him, until you're completely enveloped in his embrace.

He can’t help but notice how right it feels to hold you like this, to have you nestled against his chest, protected and secure in his arms.

A content sigh escapes his lips.

Closing his eyes, he knows this time no nightmare will jolt him awake. Not with you, warm, soft, and alive, sleeping soundly in his arms. Not with the steady drumming beat of your heart drowning out the demons in his mind.

With one more kiss brushed upon your bare shoulder, he whispers, "Sleep tight, sweetheart." before succumbing to his own exhaustion.

MORE STORIES 🥀

Please also consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi if you want to (but mostly can) support me, thank you ❤️

[samoankpoper21]

JJK Men When You Get Your Period

A/N Split their reaction into 3 categories: freaking out, this is nothing, and wHAT 🤣 don't know if these would be considered "canon" but it's what I think may or may not be their accurate reaction 🤣Enjoy~!!

Gojo Satoru: This dude is high key low key freaking out I'm not even joking 🤣 he's seen blood but why is it coming out of there 🤣 "Babyyyyyy," Satoru's sweet voice rang throughout your shared apartment. You exited the bedroom in your robe, Satoru's smile dropping a little. "What's wrong honey? Why aren't you dressed?" "Satoru, I don't think I can escort you to your company's all white event." "Eh? Why? What's wrong? Talk to me." "In the state I'm in I'll end up cursing the whole event." "What are you talking about? You're scaring me Y/N-chan." "Everyone knows you don't wear white, especially now." "Make it make sense." "Babe I just started my period." "O-oh...ooooooooohmygawd are you ok?! Are you hurt?! Should I call in?! Yeah ima call in." "Satoru, stop being dramatic." you chided. "Go in my stead. This is the school's founding anniversary and plus you guys are honoring those who we lost. Can you imagine how Yaga and the rest of the staff will feel knowing one of their most prominent members doesn't show up?" "But what about you?" he pouted. You grabbed his face planting a kiss on his forehead atop his blindfold. "I'll be fine love. I'm just bloated and bleeding." "You're bleeding?!" "Satoru, I swear to gawd we go through this every month."

Yuji Itadori: Much like his (adoptive) father he's freaking out too. This is uncharted territory for him. "Megumi! Have you seen Y/N?" "She went home early, said somethin' bout not feeling too good." Yuji rushed off telling Megumi to cover for him. He ran to the store and brought you a bouquet of daisies, quickly paying the cashier, and rushing to your apartment. A flurry of knocks could be heard at your door and you groaned knowing who it was. "Y/N! Y/N! Hello? Y/N!" He reminded you of a puppy, albeit an annoyingly cute one. You cracked the door and you swear you saw his eyes light up with stars. "Y/N!" He quickly hugged you allowing himself in. "Daisies?" "Oh," he offered the bouquet towards you. "These are for you." You chuckle. "Yuji, I'm not dead, though I do feel like I'm dying." "Huh? What's going on Y/N-chan? Are you alright? Do you need to go the hospital? Where does it hurt? On a scale of 1-10 how bad is your pain level?" "Yuji," you chuckle again. "Calm down. My period started today." "Eh?" you kissed his cheek reassuring him. "Don't worry I'm not gong to die off of a little bit of blood." "Little blood?!" "Yuji I bleed from my vagina once a month." "Oh," he blushes at how you can nonchalantly refer to your genitalia. To this day he still blushes when you say dick. "Lay with me? I need your warmth as my personal heating pad."

Yuta Okkotsu: He wouldn't freak out per se but he is a bit confused as to what to do. He'll try to help you out as best as he could while trying to keep Rika at bay 😅 "Rika-chan, please!" "I swear to gawd Yuta if you don't get her out of here I'll make her disappear for you." Your patience was at an all time low as the pain from your cramps intensified. It didn't help that your boyfriend was low key clueless so he thought it was a bright idea to summon his former lover to 'help' him. You couldn't blame him though, he isolated himself growing up so obviously he missed out on 'the talk'. You took a deep breath and ask through gritted teeth, "Rika dear, be a doll and give us a second hm?" She looked to Yuta and he nodded, you letting out the breath you were holding. "I don't understand-" "Yuta-kun, please. Let me say this first. I don't blame you for not knowing what do with these situations due to your upbringing but I've said this before: this is normal. To bleed every month. It lets us women know that 1) we are not pregnant and 2) prepares us for the pains of child birth." A blush spread across his face. "O-oh, is that so?" "Yes and I would appreciate it if you asked me instead of relying on Rika. Part of being on my period means I'll be experiencing mood swings like now and weird cravings. I'm your girlfriend Yuta. I'm in the here and now." "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was like that." "It's ok." A moment of silence passed when he asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?" "Get me a pint of rocky road ice cream and we'll call it even."

Toge Inumaki: This poor baby would low key be freaking out 😅 he understands that you're bound to be in pain once a month but he still can't help but fret around 😅 "Mustard leaf! Mustard leaf!" "I'm fine Toge-kun. You don't have to worry. This is normal hunn'." "Bonito flakes!" "Toge-kun this. is. normal." "Salmon roe." You chuckled grabbing his face planting a kiss on his forehead. "Baby, the pain is nothing. It's just preparing me in the event that we have kids." His eyes grew big as he shyly says, "Salmon." You chuckled again kissing his forehead.

Kento Nanami: This man is a GOD SEND 😭 you want ice cream? He'll get it for you. Need a heating pad? Say less. This man is literally attentive to your needs especially when it's that time of month for you - he's those boyfriends that'll have a basket full of your favorite snacks ready for you 😭❤️ You walked into your shared apartment, body feeling heavy. Today was a long day at work and it doesn't help that you were on your period. You dropped your keys in the tray setting your purse down when you realized the scented candles, lights dim. "Baby?" Kento came around the corner mixing chocolate chip cookie dough in a bowl, your heart swelling at the image of him still in his dress shirt apron thrown over. "Hey love. Go ahead and take a bath. I ran the water so by the time your're done the cookies should be ready." You could feel your lips trembling as you walked to him enveloping him in a back hug. "Honey?" "You're such a blessing to me you know that? Too good for me." He turned around hugging you to him kissing your forehead. "I love you." "I love you too."

Megumi Fushiguro: This is nothing new to him, he's had to deal with Tsumiki when it was her time of the month. I feel like Megumi would be the one to get the sanitary napkins for you, no shame in his game 🤭 2 girls passed by whispering about how good looking Megumi is, Megumi not paying them any mind. He stood there pondering between the boxes of super tampons or ultra. "Would you like some help?" One of the girls offered. "No thank you. These are for my girlfriend." "Lucky girl." She purred as she moved closer. Megumi stepped back shoving the box of assorted pack in her face. "Thanks but I've found what I've been looking for."

Geto Suguru: Unlike his husbando counterpart Satoru, Suguru handles you with ease. He pries into your feelings trying to understand what it is that makes you tick during the time of the month and tries to help out as best as he could. A warm hand on your forehead rouses you from your sleep. You peel your eyes open to see your boyfriend. "Suguru?" "Hi love." he whispers. "How long was I out for?" "Couple hours," You try to sit up but wince at the pain in your lower abdomen. "You need another heating pad?" "No thank you." You look at your boyfriend small pools of tears welling at the corners of your eyes. "What's wrong love?" "I'm just-you're so good to me thank you, especially when my emotions are all over the place during the time of the month." Shushing you, he kissed your forehead gently reassuring, "Of course love. I'll always be here for you."

Ryomen Sukuna: This dude is a little shit ngl 🤣 when you're on your period he calls it your devil week because apparently that's when you act out 🙄 The King of Curses is usually never afraid of anything unless it's you on your period; he gets the concept of it and tries to steer away from you. There are a few times where he teases you about being on your period but he knows it never ends well 😅 You have a condition called menorrhagia so when you bleed you bleeeed. You had just got through changing out your pad for the 4th time within the last hour and a half when Sukuna snarkily remarks, "I've seen way more blood than that. What you got going on is nothing." You fling the used pad at his head. "What the hell Y/N!" "You see those clumps of jelly? That's my blood coming out of this vagina. Wanna know the worst part? Those jelly like clumps are blood clots, so don't you DARE FUCKING TALK TO ME ABOUT HOW LITTLE MY BLOOD IS BECAUSE GOT DAMN IT SUKUNA I WILL BLEED ALL OVER YOU IF I HAVE TO! "Ok ok chill it with the theatrics." "I swear to gawd Sukuna I will kill you with my own bare hands so help me God. If I can't kill you with these hands I will pour some holy water down your throat" "On that note let me go buy your favorite ice cream."

Choso: Choso is practically a blood bender 🤣 nah but in all seriousness when it's that time of month for you Choso is just 😅 his reaction is just 🤦🏽‍♀️ You groaned at how heavy your flow was. You were changing your pad while your boyfriend Choso was stepping out the shower glancing at your full one. "Ew babe, don't look at it. It's gross." "That's a lot of blood." "I know it's so annoying. Like how the hell am I bleeding this much and I'm still living and breathing!" "I can manipulate it you know, make it go back in thinner or something." "What?!" "Huh?"

Toji Fushiguro: I know there are some sharks out there and Toji is one of them 🤧 I don't know what it is about that time of month but it makes him twice as horny for you. Toji sniffed the air closing his eyes, inhaling deeply at your scent. He knew that it was that time of month for you. You were laying in bed when you felt your feet being dragged to the edge of the bed. "Toji!" you squealed. "I need you." "Babe," you tried pushing him away as he began leaving hickies on your neck. "I-ngh-I'm on my period right now." "I know." You grabbed his face asking, "Are you sure?! You're not going to be grossed out by all the blood??" "The fuck? Hell no. Besides I know you get just as horny as I do." You paused. Well there's no denying that. "Don't worry I bought the dark towels."

[dicktat]

ILLEGAL ALCOHOL DISTRIBUTION✨MURDER

EXPIRED MEDICAL LICENSE✨CANNIBALISM

LAB SAFETY VIOLATION ✨ARSON

God forbid women do anything smh🔥🔥🔪

Posting the lineart cuz I likey

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

“Love you a little too much.”

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ Earth 42! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, eventual angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ so I kinda switched it up and in this fanfic, reader is the one giving mixed signals.

Chapter 2: The Secrets You Keep

Warning ೃ⁀➷ Profane language, underaged smoking, mixed signals, horrible Spanish, mommy issues.

FIC MASTERLIST

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Silvery pavements, busy streets, neon lights, and brick-cold air.

New York never truly rests, as they say. A concrete jungle where dreams were once made of. All of what was once so promising about the Yorker dream was plucked out individually with each passing year; money, careers, romance, and peace. Even now, you try to find the beauty of what was once the New York your mother adored, yet what only stared back was this desolate, tragic dystopia. A city that's fallen to ruin.

As the traffic unknots, Miles gently nudges you to the inner part of the sidewalk— subtly shielding you away from the vehicles.

Gentlemen, your mother used to always say. You'll find them not in the fineness of their clothes, but in the way they treat their women.

You can almost picture her, sitting right in front of you with that sickly sweet grin on her face, pearls hanging from her neck and mascara running down her cheeks. Buried beneath her wedding band was a dying cigarette, to which she pulls to slip in between her lips— taking consecutive sips.

There was almost never a time your mother was a mess.

Almost.

Staring at your mother was like staring into a wretched mirror. You were everything she could've been, and she was all you might become.

There was nothing more frightening than looking into your future and finding nothing promising.

"Hey, that's new." And Miles, yet again, pulls you out of your murky thoughts.

"What is?" You pique, the sight of the city dragged back into your sights. Miles points at the ivy-covered building in front of you. It gleamed in warm colors inside, a sight utterly fitting of the autumn season. Its wide, Palladian windows were embellished with orange curtains and striped green dormers. Atop the roof sat a sign, the name of the establishment written in bold, vermilion cursive. You were lulled by the smell of s'mores, hot chocolate, and pie— all the sweet things that reminded you of your precious childhood memories. It had you standing there, reminiscing over the times that were long gone.

"I think it's a café and a book store. Two in one, pretty neat." Miles mentions, looking over to the sight of you. The store's lights seeped out the windows, its golden hues gleaming over your face, highlighting your lashes. You were too lost in thought to even notice his staring.

"How pretty." You airily whispered.

"Yeah." Miles replies, sights still glued onto you.

His gaze soon lowers, noticing your trembling hands fiddling with the hem of your hoodie— a habit the both of you shared. Hesitantly, he lifts his finger, urging to intertwine it with yours.

"Do you think I can apply as a part-timer there?"

He shoves his hands down his pocket instead.

“You wanna apply?”

“Yeah. I wanna save up for summer.”

He raised a brow. “That’s still next year, though?”

“I’m planning on going on a road trip.” You began, a clear view of your plans surfacing in your mind. “I’m getting my driver’s license next year too, so I really want to make the most of it.”

“Driver’s license?”

“Yeah, I’m sixteen.”

“Damn,” Miles shook his head in amusement. “Y’know, I tend to forget you’re older than me.” He then places his hand next to your temple, aligning it with his shoulder. “And it doesn’t help that you’re… This short.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And of course, Miles indeed didn’t shut the fuck up.

"… Y’know, I bet you'd walk out on your first day with an arson charge."

The two of you meet gazes once more. Miles looked at you with a dead stare, as if he was serious. "What? You're the one talking shit about wanting to go to jail."

"Yeah, I'm boutta fulfill that part of my checklist after I'm done strangling you."

He raised his brows, subtly amused. "Kinky."

You try to slap his arm, but he manages to dodge your hit. He stares deep into your oh-so-fiery glare, cheeks bursting from laughter.

"Look at'chu, you fight like a munchkin from the wizard of Oz."

Pulling your sleeves up, you ready yourself to brawl. "Yeah? Talk your shit, Tin Woodman."

“Oh, I will talk my shit, lollipop gild.”

Amidst your squabble, you and Miles push and pull against one other, lightly shoving each other off like little kids. Your fingers dig into the cloth of his jacket, gripping against his chest with fingers like steel. Though your little plan of shaking him by the collar is spoiled when an itch suddenly burns your nose. You turn around and sneeze, pulling away from his grasps.

".. God, I hate the cold."

He feigns a grimace, taking a step back. "Eww, germs."

"Shut up, you—“

"Stay away, you bubonic plague virus haver."

As you try to search for a comeback, you feel the same itch burn your nostrils— inevitably putting your words on hold. Miles watches as you placed your icy hands over your mouth, sneezing a couple more times. You could almost feel the cold climb up your arms like a ladder, leaving you a shivering mess. Some sort of heat begins to poke in the back of your neck, as though you were flustered like a little girl with a crush. You pull your sleeves down, stabbing your nails into your palm. Miles takes this moment to go behind you, his hands reaching out to unzip your bag. He probes inside in search of your scarf, the long silk pouring out with the grip of his fingers, like [f/c] bleeding into his palm.

As you sniff, the boy turns to you, gently wrapping the cloth over your neck. You look up, beholding the sight of a serious Miles who was too preoccupied with tying the scarf, mumbling about what's the point of bringing the damn thing if you weren't even gonna use it.

“M’not even gonna get a bless you?” You tease.

“You got me: the biggest blessing of your life. What more do you need?”

You hum. “Lots of sleep and an essential oil bath bomb.”

“The fuck’s an essential oil bath bomb?”

“What I need.”

As he finished, he slowly smoothes out the creases with both palms, looking up to meet your stare.

"… What'chu looking at?"

With an airy laugh, you reply. "Just.. You."

His hands pause, yet they stay on your scarf.

"... Idiot." Miles mumbles, grip tightening. "Stop lookin’ at me like that."

"Like what?"

Like you'd follow me to the end of the earth.

"Like a dumbass." He casually answers, flicking his nails over your forehead. "Now get moving, I’ve gotta get you home.”

Miles look over to the café once more, a hand over your shoulder. Slowly, it slips off and trails down your arm before falling to his side. Instinctually, his finger lifts to reach out for your own, though it drops when he hears a buzz in your pockets.

Despite the amount of times it rang, you simply ignored the damn thing. Eventually you did reach out for it, but without even glancing once at the texts, you set it all on 「☾ Do Not Disturb.」

It was only then, as each street passed, that Miles began noticing how the both of you were slowly exiting Brooklyn's poorest areas and started entering what seemed to be the finer parts of the borough. From skeletal buildings and desolate apartments, colorful brownstones appeared before his eyes— showered in leaves of scarlet and orange. It was the sort of Brooklyn you'd find in the movies, the dreamy sort of Brooklyn it used to be three years ago.

An immediate fresh breath of nostalgia.

There was that tiniest hope that lingered deep inside of him, believing that Brooklyn’s still savable.

Eventually, the both of you spot the local Gristedes down the road, the building growing larger with each step. Miles opted to slow his steps down, just to walk longer with you and yet, you paced hurriedly. He follows the sight of your silhouette prancing around, admiring you from afar. When you can no longer sense him, you turn around and halt your walk, waiting for him to keep up. Miles hurriedly jogs to meet you, humming a sweet tune when a sort of blurry vision clouds his mind.

A piercing pain shoots through his temple, making him wince. For a moment, his vision blurs and spots of red taint his eyes. Suddenly, you appear before him in the midst of a fire— glaring at him with such hatred. Your silhouette appears as a dark burgundy, taking center in a world set ablaze.

You call out his name in the feverish illusion.

"Miles."

He winces, taking a step back.

"Miles!"

Suddenly, he's pulled back into reality with your voice.

There you stood, eyes so riddled with worry.

"... What..?"

"Are you okay?" You walk back to him, placing a hand over his forehead. "Are you sick? What happened?"

He gasps for air, but only once. Seeing you now, looking so worried about him, it was enough confirmation that what he saw was all just a dream.

But what in the hell what was that?

As your hand presses against his cheek, Miles cups over it with his own, following the lead of your voice to find peace. "Sorry," He finally spoke, voice too much of a whisper for you to process. "It’s like I hallucinated or sum.”

You click your tongue. "You just had one hit of vape, man, the fuck you on?”

He mumbles an incoherent explanation, to which you grumble. “Do you need medicine? Maybe I can—“ You frantically turn your head in search of a place. “Maybe we can go somewhere and get you some medicine.”

“I’m fine, ma, don’t get all riled up.”

“You’re hot.”

“I know.”

“Not in that way!”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just– I’m worried about you, Miles.”

“Oh, are you now?” He teased, placing a hand over yours.

Miles gently places your hand down, eventually taking your other and burying them both in his palms. Your hands were much smaller and softer compared to his. Like velvet to leather, a paw to a claw.

He gently squeezed, an urge to hold them forever ringing in his mind. Miles looked up to see you and the way your eyes traveled from his hands, to his chest, up to his chin, and then straight into his gaze.

“Do continue worryin’ about me.” He whispers. “I’m feelin’ very special right now.”

You scrunched your brow, looking up with the softest gaze you ever endowed.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Mhm.”

It was enough to steal the air from his lungs. Of all the things, Miles didn't fear for this to all be a dream, he feared that this would all just be a game to you. Dreams would mean that this wasn't you, but a trickery of his mind— his anxiety. He'd be able to keep you once he wakes up. But since this was real, he'd have to suffer through the pain of either losing you or hating you, none of which were choices he liked.

He found you most confusing at times like these.

Most of the time, you were an open book. Your mouth was unfiltered, whether it be in conveying your emotions or saying the most out of pocket things, but at the same time, you often kept to yourself. He hardly heard anything about your family, your friends, or your life— aside from a few side stories you'd recall in the midst of reminiscing— other than that, you kept a lot of secrets.

And he didn't want to invade your privacy, or overstep your boundaries. He figured you'd tell him someday: the things that would bother you, or the memories that'd make you zone out for a few seconds.

He was too afraid of you finding out who he was. Too afraid of losing you, or hating you.

But moments like these were a detriment to his rationality.

In that icy weather, all that made Miles shiver was you.

“Miles.” You called out his name again. “... I think.. I have to go.”

Unconsciously, he mutters. “Already?”

“We’ll see each other again tomorrow.” You couldn’t help but comfort of him. “I promise.”

Let’s meet in our little place. I won’t call it my home, because home is wherever you go.

He swallows the lump that had formed at his throat, hesitantly releasing your hands. “Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, get home safely.” He detangles your fingers, savoring the warmth of your skin. You pivot your heel to leave, pulling your hood over your head. Miles simply watches as you walk and turn one last time.

“Bring your sketchbook next time, alright?”

He nods. “I will.”

“Buh-bye.” You wave one final time. Miles raised his hand to bid you adieu.

If only you knew.

As you disappear down the block, Miles clutches the notebook carefully hidden in his inner pocket.

It was at that moment, Miles couldn’t help but ponder.

How could I show you my sketchbook when all it’s filled of is you?

Uh, uh, catch me ridin’ like a bitch

Got the six forty-five, catch me ridin’ with my bitch

Uh, long hair, Lana, that’s my bitch

Uh, You can tell by the swagger and the lips, uh

The radio eases down with the volume upon the flick of a finger.

“How was she?”

Snapped from the voice of his uncle, Miles’ head perks up. An icy water bottle flies past Aaron’s hand, tossing it over to Miles as it landed straight into his palms. “Did’ya finally tell her?” He adds, to which the boy slumps deep into his seat and grumbles.

Drenched in sweat and small bruises, Miles took his well-deserved break atop his uncle’s couch— chest rising and falling with each heave, wifebeater all soaked. He squints at the ceiling while lazily popping the cap off the bottle. “I don’t even have to tell her, man. She knows— I know she knows, but I dunno if- if she likes me too or if she’s jus playin’ w’me.” Miles manages to rant in between heavy breaths, mind and body completely exhausted from training. Aaron sits by his side, dragging a towel over his neck.

“Yikes. What makes you think that?”

The cold water smoothly flushes down his throat, easing his fatigue. “She flirts with me more than I flirt with her— damn, I can’t even get a single line in.”

“.. You like a chick that’s got more game than you?” Aaron reiterates, amused by what he’s hearing. He laughs at Miles’ frustrated face, shaking his head. “You sure you’re my nephew, man?”

“Oh, I’ve got game.” The boy defends himself. “I held her hands and everythin’. She’s prolly hella into me too.”

“Or, she just plays the game better than you do.”

“Nah—“ Miles denies, but it makes him think. “Nah, she’s into me. I’m sure of it, but I think she’s kind of like… Denying it or I dunno.”

He recalls the way you scrunched your brows, and looked up at him as though he was all you could ever want to look at. It’s got him zoning out, nibbling on the brim of his bottle like a nervous little pup. Aaron simply shrugs. “I’m just sayin’, Miles, it’s not like y’all are in the Titanic. I don’t see why she wouldn’t go for ya.”

“I mean,” He scavenges for the right words to say. “I mean, what if she’s like.. Not ready or sum?”

“… How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

Aaron’s head spun in a quick flash. “Sixteen!? Aren’t you fifteen? Damn, now I don’t blame her. You’re a whole kid in her eyes, my man.”

“A ki— a kid!?” He scoffed. “I’d have to squat down just to reach her height— why the hell would she see me as a kid?”

While taking a sip off his bottle, Aaron lifts a finger cautiously. “That,” He spoke in between sips. “That’s the reason why she sees you as a kid.” Miles furrows his brows, completely anonymous to the reason. “You’re too defensive. You should be more suave, my man. Be a gentleman.“ He pulls up a couple moves. “Jazz her like this. The ladies love dancing.”

“You telling me I gotta dance with her or sum?” Chewing on his cheek, he grumbles. “Now, how the hell do I do that?”

Aaron hums.

“You know all about the shoulder touch?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Dark halls, hushed voices in a box.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

The chair’s legs screech against the marble as he stands up.

"She's turning sixteen next year, hardly even eighteen, if this gets out— not only would it be harmful for our family reputation, she'll be permanently eradicated from receiving opportunities in the future."

A dead gaze hung in the darkness, eyeing the figure that stood before him stubbornly.

"Your sister is incredibly capable, and she's doing a lot to support our means for the sake of the family."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Which is more than what I can say for you, Antonne."

Antonne stood before his father, chin held high and gaze, unyielding. The old man tapped his pen against the mahogany, each tick filling in the spaces between the clock's ticking. Within the spaces, and with each passing second, Antonne stood in the thick tension that filled the office like a soldier keeping his head above water.

The old man’s pen points at him accusingly. "Be happy for her, as she's cleaning up after your mistakes. Who would you be without your sister?”

The boy tenses.

“Do you think you’ll be able to save yourself?”

Antonne stood by the hall, eyes daunt and staring a thousand yards deep into an invisible void. For a while, he shortly allowed his mind to go completely blank. Well, it wasn't entirely blank, it was full— but everything was all blurred together that it was better to think that he was thinking about nothing.

A restless mind paired along with an unfortunately still beating heart.

His head’s piqued when a familiar sound of footsteps begin to permeate amidst the hall. The steady sound of heels thumping against the carpet, like a careful warning to those who stood in her way.

“Antonne,” Her voice calls out. “What are you doing out here?”

Your presence emerges from the shadows like a ghost who’d waited for too long. He steps in front your father’s office door, as if to block your entrance. Parting his lips, he calls for your name.

“… Your job. Are you sure you want to partake in such a thing?”

You raise a brow, understandably befuddled by his sudden disruption.

“I’m going to be honest with you.” He begins. “Our family is not the best. Our money doesn’t come mainly from sanctioned ways although we parade it as though it were. I can forgive all that, but what I can’t forgive is ruining all your potential.”

“I don’t understand. Where is all this coming from?” Your gaze narrows harshly. Though you try to appear genuinely ignorant of what he’s saying, the knowledge of it was enough to make your blood boil. Antonne sighed a deep sigh, a million words pouring into his mind like waves crashing.

“I am simply worried about you,” He claims. “You’ve been handling these affairs since you were thirteen. And it’s unfair for you to handle such things when you’re only fifteen—“

“I’m sixteen.”

“… When you’re only sixteen.”

You scoff. “Do you even have any idea of what I’m doing?”

“.. The job you’re doing, was my job three years ago.” Antonne’s words made you grit your teeth. “I know all about what you do, and I may have failed in what I did— I’m not as smart or as cunning as you— but I’ll never forget how that job ruined me.”

You snicker. “You talk like that, but you want the job to yourself.”

Your brother stiffens, but his face remains ever-so stoic.

“It’s better for you to give the job to me.”

“This is what it’s all about?” Your voice lividly lowers into a hush as you take a step towards him. “You abandoned all your responsibilities, made me carry the hotel for three years, and now that the work’s lighter, you want to take it away from me?”

With each step you take, Antonne soon finds his back pressed against the door, swallowing the lump that had formed at his throat. With one final attempt to get you to listen, he finally pulls.

“Does he know?”

Gesturing over to the fineness of your clothes, the shine of your pearls, Antonne then hissed.

“That boy you meet in Brooklyn. Does he know who you are?”

Visibly startled upon the mention of Miles, your frustration crumbles into caution. Your head turns away, lids twitching. “I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about.” Was your attempt of a lie. Antonne straightened his lips, determined to rekindle his confident stature.

“… How naïve of you.” Antonne seethed. “Do you think father’s going to let this go once he finds out?”

You scoff. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning.” He corrects of you. “Have you forgotten who you are? You’re our family’s only daughter— you’re the face of our family in high society. Not only that, but you’re engaged.”

“I’m sixteen. Fuck you mean ‘engaged’? That engagement’s hardly been processed as a legitimate promise. You and I both know it’s for the sake of shutting up the Fisks, anyway.”

“It’s scandalous.” Antonne spewed with venom on his tongue. “You’re not a kid. You’re two years away from being an adult.” He thrusts an accusing finger into your shoulder blade. “And everyone’s eyes are on you— if people were to ever find out about your little escapade, you’d be ruined.”

“Then cover it up.” You ruthlessly shoot back. “That’s all our family ever does anyway.”

As you try to maneuver past him, Antonne then interjected.

“Then what about that boy? What would he think?”

And that’s enough to make you freeze.

“Would he be able to handle you? You… Don’t forget that he could’ve known someone who was a victim.”

You could almost imagine Miles’ face contorting into disgust upon the unveiling of the truth. An inevitable scene. You’d been trying to run away from the scene like a dog with your tail caught between your legs. Your teeth dig a little too deep into your lips, blood seeping in the corners of your frown. Though you try to keep your composure, the mention of Miles was enough to send you trembling.

“No matter how much you hide it, he’ll learn about your identity sooner or later.”

“He won’t.” Your reply came out haggardly. “He won’t find out.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

Your jaw clenches, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. You think about throwing something at him, or pulling on his hair— yet you ease your nerves like any other dignified girl.

As if on cue, your father opens the door, exchanging glances between you and your brother, reeking of fresh tobacco and dust.

“What the hell are you two doing, bickering in front of my door?”

His voice is harsh and demeaning, like winter at its worst peak. A voice that haunted you all throughout your younger years, now it was just nothing but another normality to you and your dull days.

“It’s nothing, dad.” You reassure, casting a side-eye at Antonne. “Nothing at all.”

Only then, you pulled the manila folder up to exit the situation. “In regards to the landscaping for the hotel, I have the submissions. I figured we should discuss about it.”

“Right,” He snaps his fingers. “Shall we?”

You leave Antonne in the darkness, shutting the door with a slam.

“God… She’s going to be the death of all of us.”

[the-grey-hunt]

i was encouraged for two seconds and now you all get to look at medieval ghost trick—heavily based on the medieval AU by @theriveroflight!

MORE WORDS BELOW THE CUT:

im gonna talk about each outfit specifically because again, someone encouraged me for 2 seconds and i love talking

YOMIEL (and SISSEL): Sissel gets a little medieval hood instead of a plain kerchief, because it's adorable.

Yomiel's outfit is based on this gentleman here, but with a longer doublet to mimic his suit jacket. His red clothes are plain and a common color, but the richness of the color (from an early dye batch) indicates that it's probably a bit expensive, and the rich black collar and blindfold (because sunglasses didn't exist) are also some flashy signifiers of wealth.

The white leather of his shoes and belt would also be pretty showy (even if those white shoes are a bad idea in medieval mud...). I couldn't figure out a way to make the hat work, but I kinda wanted to.

CABANELA: As a knight, Cabanela not only has some flashy white leather for his belt, but he's wearing a full-length chainmail shirt (expensive!) AND a deep black skirted tunic—lots of fabric that would take LOTS of expensive dye. This is conspicuous consumption to the max, showing off his status (indicated by his silver chain and pendant) as a royal knight.

His sword doesn't quite seem to match...as it's not his, but Jowd's old sword, still bearing Jowd's family's crest. Cabanela's outfit is taken from these two 12th/13th c. knights.

LYNNE: A younger and less established knight than Cabanela, she's wearing more common colors (red, blue, yellow) from cheaper dyes, and her armor is based on this 9th/10th c. fellow. Older gear and much less flashy—she has plain brown leather accessories—but she bears the green ribbon favor that shows her commitment to Jowd's case.

Plus, her hose (pants) are a pretty deep blue and her armor is polished. She's taking good care of her handmedown gear and has made a few splurges on clothes! Her sword may not have a crest, but there's still a few jewels set in the hilt, befitting a royal knight.

KAMILA (and MISSILE):

Kamila as a young noblewoman is referenced from this statue of a French queen. Her veil and circlet are typical for medieval women—most wore some kind of hair covering—but her circlet is metal, while most ordinary people would use fabric. I'm very proud of how nice all the gilding turned out. The power of shading!

Her little purse is not only expensive, but a royal favor—it's silk dyed Tyrian purple, a color that was often legally banned for anyone not in the royal family. I imagine it's a gift from her friend, Princess Amelie! Her clothes are pretty plain, light colors for a noblewoman, which is probably a matter of taste and/or youth.

The pose she's in, holding her cloak fastening down so it doesn't pull against her throat, is very common in medieval artwork of the period where this type of sash fastening was common.

Missile is Missile. you can't improve on perfection XD. I have given him a green collar, in a style to match Kamila's fancy gilt belt.

JOWD:

Jowd is dressed in his "prison clothes", this rough brown friar's robe and rope belt that I copied the pose from as well. However, being brought back onto the case as a knight, he's recovered his old green "coat", a very nice garment called a gardcorps. It's a simple green, not too expensive, but it's lined in a contrasting white, showing the care put into its make.

I switched the opening on his gardcorps to the front, rather than the side as in the original illustration, so that the rope belt would be visible because I really liked the belt. It's got most of the "penitent" vibes I was trying to give Jowd. Also, like the friar, he is barefoot (prison does not give one a big clothes budget).

The background shows the city, like the original green-monochrome city skyline from the game's promo images. This city, however, has fewer and smaller lights, indicating the palace and the castle wall—and over the sea, the Viking longships of Sith's country are swarming in! (it's explicitly not longships in the fic I reference, but the Vikings are just too suitable a reference)

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest (2)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, trauma, mention of sexual harassment, violence, swearing, self-destructive behavior ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

He woke up suddenly pulling himself up to sit down, breathing loudly, his heart pounding so hard he thought he was dying. He looked around − he was alone in his bedroom, his room in semi-darkness, it was barely dawn. He swallowed loudly feeling his sweaty t-shirt stick to his back and ran his hand over his face, trying to calm himself down.

Every time he thought he had got over it, it all came back to him in nightmares.

Embarrassed, he found that his legs were shaking as he rose from the bed, heading towards his bathroom to take a shower. He stood under the rain of warm water and leaned his forehead against the wet, tiled wall, trying not to think about it, to push it out, to forget it.

He tried to focus on his classes, on the fact that he had to prepare, on the fact that his midterms were coming up soon as well as the deadline for his stained glass windows for his next church.

He needed to focus on his work.

He went to his workshop earlier than usual, taking only a cup of coffee with him, knowing that he wouldn't last alone at home anyway, with only one thing on his mind.

He felt like he was about to throw up and stopped for a moment, clenching his eyes shut. He swallowed loudly, acknowledging that the feeling had passed, and clicked the light switch on the side of the table, the pieces of glass he had cut earlier lit up in bright, intense colours.

He thought that although the glass had hurt him so many times, cutting his hands, in the end it rewarded his suffering with a beautiful final work that he hoped would last for centuries. In this case, he thought, his physical harm had a purpose, it was almost noble.

Unlike what had befallen him then.

He pressed his lips together at the thought, feeling sick again, and put down his brush of patina, putting his hands on the table and leaning back, tired.

He had no strength left.

He heard someone's footsteps − someone walked into his workshop, but did not greet him.

He shuddered when he smelled an intense female perfume beside him and stepped back like a man possessed, looking at Jason Lannister's student with wide eyes.

He felt like something had locked inside him, he couldn't move − the girl opened her mouth to say something, but he wouldn't let her.

"Get out. Immediately." He said coolly, feeling that his hands were trembling.

Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.

The girl smiled at him in a way he hated, in a way that suggested she thought he was teasing her, that he was pretending.

"I only came to ask for advice on my work, Professor Lannister is absent today." She said surprised, fixing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Get out." He repeated, louder this time, his heart pounding like a mad.

Whore.

Slut.

Bitch.

Get out.

"Are you so unpleasant to all female students, or just to me, Professor? Oh, I forgot, you don't accept women into your workshop. Fucking chauvinist." She growled, furrowing her brow, recognising that she had a right to judge him, to speak to him like that in his own workshop, to a professor who had achieved more in a few years than she would achieve in a lifetime.

"Get the fuck out." He hissed, looking at her menacingly, all tense, unable to get the smell of her perfume out of his nose, too much like her smell, then − he felt like he was about to really throw up though, his stomach twisting in an intense spasm.

The girl bit her lip, putting her hands at her sides, looking at him with some kind of pride, as if she thought she had the right to do so, to tell him how it was going to be, to bring him down to earth with her feminist bullshit.

"You have no right to speak like that to any woman, Professor. Do you understand? I demand an immediate apology." She said with certainty, from which he laughed out loud, shaking his head in disbelief. His face turned from amused to pale with rage, he saw fear and discomfort in her gaze.

"When Jason pats your ass you squeal with joy. Did you come here because you were hoping for the same thing? Then you were wrong. Now, get the fuck out." He hissed, shaking with anger and horror at the same time, her cheeks flushed scarlet.

She really thought he hadn't seen it?

It was things like this that he paid the most attention to.

He had fought for years to get all those fucking perverts thrown out, and because of students like her, Lannister believed that what he was doing was normal, healthy.

He felt a gag reflex in his throat and stepped back, swallowing loudly, trying to catch his breath.

You are such a pretty boy, Aemond.

Your eye, your scars don't bother me at all.

Why are you so tense?

He stepped back, horrified, as she came close to him, too close, looking at him with her lips clenched, her breasts exposed in a substantial cleavage rising and falling in uneven breaths.

All he could think about was wanting to pull away from her, but he couldn't move.

"I know very well that you are a worse pervert than he is. Why do you not accept girls into your workshop? Maybe you're afraid you'd rape them because none of them would ever want you of their own free will?" She hissed, and he slapped her face so hard that she fell to the floor.

He stared at her with his mouth wide open, panting loudly − she looked at him with resentment and horror, catching herself with her hand on her red cheek, not believing he had done it.

"I won't leave it like that, Professor. Have a nice day." She mumbled terrified, on the verge of crying, and walked out, leaving him alone.

He barely had time to run to the sink where the students washed their hands after finishing their work before he threw up.

Why are you so tense?

Just stay still and let me take care of myself.

Look, see?

You wouldn't be so hard if you didn't want it.

He was panting loudly, coughing in convulsions, trembling all over, clasping his hands on the metal sink. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it was a panic attack, that it would pass soon, it would pass, it would pass, as it always, always had, and it would now too.

It took several long minutes before his heart stopped beating like mad, before his mind sobered again, before he felt he knew what was happening to him again.

He rinsed his mouth out quickly with cold water, washed his face with his hands and groaned low, terrified, knowing what awaited him now.

What he had done.

He was not surprised when, later that same day, the rector himself called him in.

He hadn't reacted as strongly when he reported to him that Jason was too fond of his female students and not every one of them was happy about it.

He listened calmly to the allegations, but when the man asked him to explain, he said nothing but what he really thought.

This slut deserved it.

If he could, he would slap her again.

She was just proof to him that he was right.

He didn't want any woman in his workshop.

His therapist was not happy to hear that.

"Why did you do that?" He asked, fiddling with the pen in his hand, and he sighed heavily.

"She suggested I might be a rapist. She came and threatened me in my own workshop. She came too close, she…"

"…violated your space." He finished calmly, and he pressed his lips together, tracing his chin with his fingers.

"Yes."

"What consequences will you face now?" The man asked him, correcting with a slight movement the glasses slipping off his nose. He sighed heavily, massaging his temple, no longer having the strength to think about it.

"None. I bring the university too much money from the curia. The girl won't press charges against me because I know about her relationship with Jason, but she's slandering me on some inferior gossip site. She implies that I was interested in her. Fucking bullshit." He chuckled, burying his face in his hands, shaking his head.

"Is this ever going to stop? I don't want to hurt any women. I just wish they wouldn't come near me anymore."

The next two years he faced the wry stares of other students and lecturers. He knew what they thought of him − that he had hit innocent young girl, that he was an abusive man with mental problems who needed psychiatric treatment.

If it had been a female student who had slapped him, everyone would surely have thought that he had obviously done something to deserve it, that he had picked on her or made immoral proposals to her.

The fact that he did it must have been because he was habitually violent.

Even if he tried to explain it to them, they would still think he had gone too far.

He didn't give a shit.

They couldn't destroy him any more than he already was.

He just wanted to be able to work in peace.

When he saw before the new semester in the system a woman's name on his attendance list for the second year of his specialisation he decided immediately that it was a simple mistake and went to the dean's office with it, wanting it fixed. The woman grunted loudly, looking at him uncertainly.

"It's not a mistake, Professor. She signed you in as her supervisor." She said, standing up, pulling out for him the documents she had submitted to confirm her words.

He looked through them quickly and clenched his eyes, feeling like he was about to explode.

Why?

Why couldn't he have holy peace?

He figured that he would simply not read her out during class, that he would pretend she didn't exist until she was discouraged. He had no intention of wasting his strength or attention on her.

That's what he did.

"She's not like that, Aemond. Really. She focuses on her work, she's diligent. Three times I made her start the same face over and she did it without saying a word. She is humble and learns quickly. It's a shame to give her up to waste to Jason or Floris." Said Cregan, massaging his chin, sitting across from him in his office.

His words surprised him, as it was the first time since they had worked together that he had tried to smuggle a girl into their workshop despite knowing what his opinion was on the subject.

"No. There are always problems with them sooner or later. She was almost crying by now. I don't want any weepy scenes in my workshop. I −" He paused as he heard a loud knock on the door, Cregan immediately got up and opened it.

He glanced over his shoulder surprised that he hadn't said anything and saw her notebook and pen.

He squeezed his eyes shut, running his hand over his face.

Fuck.

No. No. No. No. No.

"Please, find five minutes for me, Professor." He heard her soft, pleading tone. Cregan stepped back and it was only then that he saw her.

Although dressed like a boy, she had something of a girlish lightness about her − her face was pleasant, her eyes large, full of terror, surrounded by dark long lashes, her lips pressed into a tight line.

He figured that if he didn't let her say what she wanted she'd probably pester him with messages, and he didn't want that, so he hummed under his breath, took out his phone and turned on the stopwatch.

"Five minutes." He said lowly and heard Cregan walk out quickly leaving them alone.

He felt his heart pounding hard, his whole body trembling as he saw her take a step towards him.

"Don't come up, just stand there and talk. You're running out of time." He burst out coolly, clenching his hand into a fist, feeling his whole body take on a defensive form, ready to react aggressively immediately if necessary.

She, however, stepped back and swallowed loudly, looking down at her fingers, fiddling with her notebook in a nervous gesture.

"I know what rules you have set in your workshop and I wish very much now that I had been born a man, but unfortunately I am not." She muttered with difficulty, her voice trembling with fear. He felt a squeeze in his heart at her words and thought that it was indeed not her fault, but he couldn't help the way he was either.

"I saw your artworks while I was still in high school at St. John's Cathedral, and having always dreamed of creating stained glass for churches, I wanted to be taught by someone who is such an accomplished specialist in the field as you are. I know how difficult the job is and I promise to do what you tell me to do without a shadow of dissatisfaction. I will not approach you except to revise my designs or projects. I will always work at the furthest table and sit in the last seat as far away from you as possible, dressing in such a way that you do not notice me and forget my existence on a daily basis. Please." She uttered the last word pathetically, pleadingly, on the verge of crying.

He knew she cared and some part of him sympathised with her, but the other distrusted her, trying to see through the manipulation in her behaviour so notable for women.

He thought she talked about his work to please him, that she was cowering in front of him and trying to pass herself off as humble, where surely if he had only agreed she would have shown him her true face straight away.

They were all the same.

They dressed their disgusting desires in the most beautiful words.

You are such a pretty boy, Aemond.

He swallowed with difficulty, drawing in air quietly.

"Just because you're a fan of my works doesn't make you a talented person. What good is it to me that you work in silence if none of your pieces will be at least satisfactory and your colleagues will have to correct your mistakes?" He asked indifferently, glancing at her again. He could see that she was growing pale and stifled, her big eyes looking at him as if she was about to fall to her knees before him and beg him.

However, she did not.

"Well. All I have with myself now are quick sketches in my notebook. They're portraits of people I see travelling on the bus to my classes." She mumbled, looking at her notebook. He sighed heavily, burying his face in his hand, disbelieving that, knowing his attitude, she hadn't brought anything with her on which he could judge her artistic ability.

What an idiot.

"So you are unprepared." He summarised and saw out of the corner of his eye that she had moved restlessly.

"None of my colleagues had to −" She started with a frown, but closed her mouth immediately when she saw his disgruntled, warning look.

"− I − yes, I'm unprepared. I'm very sorry." She whispered in shame, lowering her gaze, and he sighed again, looking ahead, raising his hand in the air.

He heard her walk up to him and slip the notepad into his palm − he didn't smell any perfume, just the scent of some pleasant coconut shampoo and lotion.

He began to look through her sketches page by page, finding that they were ordinary, simple, not bad, but not good either. He stopped, however, at a depiction of a mother holding a child on her lap, sketched quickly with a simple outline and linear shading.

The composition made him think of Renaissance paintings depicting the Madonna and Child − a young woman was leaning slightly towards the infant, helping it to hold something in his small, clenched hand.

His attention was also drawn to a drawing of a thoughtful old man with carefully depicted wrinkles and an endless, lifelong weariness, some age-old wisdom flowing from his aged eyes outlined with such quick and simple movements.

He paused, too, at the drawing of the young man, his face almost resembling that of an angel sunk in deep sleep, leaning with his temple against the glass, his lips slightly parted.

He sighed heavily and massaged his forehead, himself not knowing what he thought of it, tired and discouraged. He raised his hand with her sketchbook without looking at her.

"Three of your fifteen sketches I would consider good. Do you think that's enough?" He asked dispassionately, hearing her move restlessly.

He thought for sure she was about to start crying and begging, saying that she would improve, that she could do better.

Bullshit.

"No. It's not enough." He heard her heartbroken voice and hummed under his breath, satisfied with her answer and any self-criticism, tossing her notebook into the bin with a slight movement, where it belonged.

He lifted his gaze to her, having the feeling that the matter was now settled and that if she had any doubts about whether she wanted him to teach her, they had just been dispelled.

He saw that she was looking at the spot where he had dumped her notebook in disbelief, her lower lip quivering slightly.

"So I'll do 200 sketches, 40 of which will be good. Or 300 of which 60 will be good. I will do as many of them as you see fit, Professor." She exhaled with difficulty, but with a kind of certainty and ferocity that surprised him. He felt a strange tightening in his stomach − he didn't know what to make of her words, feeling that this was a challenge of sorts.

He shuddered as he heard the ringing of his timer and reached for his phone, muting it, staring blankly ahead.

I will do as many of them as you see fit, Professor.

"400 sketches. And they're all supposed to be good. Without them, don't even show yourself to me. Anything else?" He asked coolly, impatient and angry with himself for not being able to discourage her enough, for not being able to find an answer to her words.

"No. Thank you for the chance, Professor." She mumbled in surprise and simply walked out, closing the door behind her.

A moment later, Cregan walked in, excited, pretending not to ask her at all what he had decided.

"And how did it go?" He asked, and he threw him a furious, tired look and stood up, taking his leather jacket from the back of his chair and walked out, slamming the door loudly.

He walked out in front of the university building through a side exit and fired up a cigarette while standing by his car, taking a deep drag of the smoke, clenching his eyes, trying to calm himself down.

He didn't want her at his place, he wished she would just leave him alone.

He looked around him with absent-minded eyes, seeing students entering and leaving from a distance − he spotted a face he recognised after a moment, but something didn't feel right.

The same girl who had begged him to let her study under his supervision was apparently just walking towards the bus stop, but instead of a long black hoodie and black trousers she was wearing a light-coloured dress with buff sleeves and long woollen socks to mid-thigh.

She had changed her clothes.

She came to his class covered up, dressed as a boy.

I know what rules you have set in your workshop and I wish very much now that I had been born a man, but unfortunately I am not.

I will always work at the furthest table and sit in the last seat as far away from you as possible, dressing in such a way that you do not notice me and forget my existence on a daily basis.

He was furious with himself for feeling some kind of shame and pain, knowing that she looked perfectly normal.

Now, looking at her sideways, he realised that if he had seen her dressed like that today when she came to talk to him, he would have immediately lost his good opinion of her.

Most girls who applied for a place in his workshop thought that the prettier they dressed, the sweeter and more appealing they looked, the better the chances were that he would say yes. However, his tendency was just the opposite and for some reason this girl knew it.

She knew she wasn't the problem, it was how he perceived her and she wanted to change that image in his eyes, to blend into the background.

He swallowed hard, taking a drag on the remainder of his cigarette, staring blankly ahead, realising that she really must have cared.

He figured that if she did what he told her to do, he'd give her one and only chance.

For that sacrifice, for the fact that she understood what he had a problem with.

She showed up only a week later with two thick folders filled with sketches, again dressed in a big black sweatshirt, black trousers and trainers.

For some reason, he felt a squeeze in his heart at the sight of her.

He took her to an empty classroom so he could look at her work without the curious stares of other students. He knew she had done as many sketches as he had told her to, but he didn't have the energy to look through them all.

"Lay them out here. Show me the top 40." He said impatiently, standing a good distance away from her with his hands folded behind his back, smelling that coconut shampoo again.

He saw that she gave him a quick, horrified look and parted her lips, looking at the thick bundle of papers she held in her hand. He rolled his eyes, trying not to explode.

"Can't you judge which of your works are suitable to be shown to me?" He growled warningly wanting her to pull herself together, but she shook her head quickly and began at last to choose.

He frowned as he saw that most of her works were copies and sketches of details from churches he knew well, at least dozens of them, so he decided that she had really taken his task to heart.

"That's enough." He commanded and stepped closer to the table − she moved away immediately.

He thought he liked how she respected his private space and allowed him to focus without her input on what he was seeing.

He leaned over her works, noticing that they were more refined than the ones he had seen before, still light, but also enigmatic and expressive, all drawn on scrap paper, so they reminded him of sketches by Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo.

He liked the fact that she had wisely chosen to portray saints and angels, as these were the most common commissions they received as a students or workshop, showing her skill in this field.

He picked up one of the sketches of a sculpture of the Virgin Mary which he knew intimately, having looked at it often as a child when he went to Mass every Sunday with his mother.

"Is that a figure from the church of St Michael the Archangel?" He asked indifferently, wanting to see if she knew what he was talking about, or if she was sketching by looking at pictures on the internet.

She, however, nodded quickly.

He hummed under his breath and stepped back, looking at everything she showed him from a distance, folding his hands behind his back again.

He thought he was pleased with the result of her work.

That he could give her a chance.

"A month. For a trial. If you disappoint me, I'll kick you out." He said lowly and walked out, leaving her alone with his words.

He stepped into the workshop and was met with curious, uncertain looks from his students.

"Don't you have anything to do?" He growled, and they immediately bent over their tasks and sketches, all around him the swish of a diamond knife and the sound of breaking glass, the rustling of paper and brushes.

Cregan walked up to him and stood over him, unable to contain his curiosity.

"And how did she do?" He asked quietly, but before he had time to answer him, he saw her standing in the threshold, pressing her sketches to her chest, looking at him questioningly.

He nodded for her to enter, and with a light, happy step she crossed that invisible, mysterious line that separated his world from everything else.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[satinsummer]

Chapter 2: Movie Night

Summary: It's been over a week since the group has last seen Y/N or Y/BF/N. After the Friday night soccer game gets cancelled due to the thunder storm, they decided to plan a movie night where one thing leads to another

Pairings: G!P Reader x Fem!Sam Carpenter, Fem!Y/BF/N x Tara Carpenter

Chapter 3: https://www.tumblr.com/satinsummer/761170724084973568/chapter-3-the-morning-after?source=share

Warnings: Suggestive language, Drug Use (smoking weed), Fluff 18+ No men or minors pls and thanks!

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Nobody's POV:

"Why don't we invite everyone over for a movie night and sleepover?" Y/BF/N suggests to the small girl laying on her chest. Tara looks up at her, eyes lighting up immediately "Really!? You know the rest of them have been dying to see where you keep me tied every chance you get" Y/BF/N is now hacking up a lung at her girlfriends bold statement barely getting out a "just invite them" before running to the bathroom to collect herself.

While Y/N was finishing up an article about Blackmore's Women's Flag Football Team comeback. She hears Y/BF/N rushing into their shared bathroom sounding like she was dying. Rushing from her desk and out of her room into the hallway she follows the sound of Y/BF/N crazy ass coughing which luckily subsides as Y/N enter the bathroom. "Bitch are you good?" Y/N asks laughing at the poor girl. "Yeah, Tara was just being Tara" Y/BF/N says, cheeks slightly tinted rose. "EWWWWWW" Y/N teases back, before making her way out of the bathroom. "Hey, Wait up! I told Tara she could invite the girls over for a movie night and sleepover. You in?" Y/BF/N asks. "Double date or is chad going to be keeping me company again bec-" "Chad won't be here, she said GIRLS Y/N" Tara interrupts, now joining both girls in the hallway. "Fine. Can you at least invite Sam? Only so she doesn't think this is another plot to go party. She nearly killed me last weekend" Y/N says whining

Tara and Y/BF/N share a knowing look between them after hearing Y/N complaint understanding there was more to her reasoning but not further pressing the topic. They simply agree and send a group text to which everybody eagerly replies to even, Sam. "Do you want me to send a car for them or should we go pick them up? it's way too rainy outside for walking or trains" Y/N says while staring out of the window watching raindrops chasce each other down the glass. "Sending a car? Since when are you so chivalrous Y/N" Tara teases glancing over at the girl on the other side of the room. "Oh, shove it up yours pipsqueak. Y/BF/N send them both cars unless they are all together then obviously just send one" Y/N says calmly after a moment passes, still staring out of the window. "I'll make sure the guest rooms are re-" "GUEST ROOMS?!?!?! HOW FUCKING BIG IS THIS PLACE" Tara yells, as she's about to start taking off down the hallway she's scooped up by Y/BF/N "I will give you the official tour when everyone gets here, baby" Y/BF/N says. "Fine" Tara huffs, stomping back over to the couch.

Y/N excuses herself to go finish editing the article she was working on and afterwards she heads to the bathroom for a scorching hot shower. Once all is said and done in the bathroom Y/N is making her back to her bedroom when she catches a glimpse of Samantha Carpenter walking past the entrance to the hallway and into the living room with Mindy and Anika close behind. Damn, had she showered that long?

Entering her room, Y/N made sure to lock the door as she started to moisturize and get dressed. She didn't want anybody walking in on her whether they were thinking it was the bathroom or it was on Y/BF/N promised tour of your shared loft. Just as Y/N finished getting dressed a soft knock on her door broke her out of her thoughts about tonight and how seeing Sam made her heart race even though she didn't even see her in the hallway. Opening the door Y/N is greeted by 3 smiling face and 1 curious looking Sam staring back at her. "Last stop on the tour: Y/N's room. Notice the low lighting and collectibles." Y/BF/N says as they all push past her and enter the room. "Y/N has a very strict policy of look but don't touch in here. Everything is meticulously placed and kept very orderly. In the center of the room we have a bed that barely sees anybody especially her body, might be here for decoration. You never know" Y/BF/N teases.

Sam found herself looking around Y/N's room more than she'd ever admit aloud but it was hard not to, she was finally in the girl who occupied all of her thoughts personal space, she was in her room, looking at her bed, skimming her fingers across the jam-packed bookshelf. Just next to it stood Y/N's desk, right underneath the flat screen TV on the wall. It also faintly smelled of lavender? Very soothing, Sam might have added if she cared.

"So Y/N how many poor girls have you had in here" Mindy asks with a smirk on her lips. "Wouldn't you like to know M&M, a true lady never kisses and tells" Y/N says looking over at her from the doorway. "Don't let her fool you Mindy, no girls have gotten the chance to touch her bed with all that time she spends in the kitchen SHE barely touches the bed" Y/BF/N says through a laugh. "HEY! You can't just barge in here touch my stuff and insult me!" Y/N whines. "Alright and that concludes the tour of our loft, no questions please and thanks. You can give your tips to Y/N."

Y/BF/N says walking back to the living room with Tara in hand, while Mindy and Anika were close behind the two. Sam still lingered by Y/N's desk, just looking at the papers scatted about, the sticky notes stuck to her monitor screen reminding her of different tasks she still had to complete.

"What do you think? About my room, of course.. does it really scream chick magnet?" Y/N jokes with Sam. After a moment of silence Sam replies "Definitely, Not" as she exits the room to join the others. Y/N stands there only able to chuckle before turning off her light and heading to the living room as well.

After sitting down on the loveseat across from the couch, Y/N took her hoodie off and almost immediately she felt all eyes on her. "DAMN Y/N/N, when you get so cut?" Anika laughs while Mindy feigns fanning herself off as if it was just too hot to handle. "Did you get a new one?!?" Y/BF/N exclaims as she comes over to examine Y/N arm. Sam hadn't seen her bare arms during any of their other interactions and encounters but now she could fully take the younger girl in without the extra coverage on her body. Tattoos covered both her arms, she has a full sleeve on her left arm stopping ever so slightly where her wrist and hand connect while on her right arm it looks like it stretches from her shoulder down to her elbow.

Sam wonders how long each of them took, she wonders what stories are behind them, she found her self wanting to trace them. "Not on my arm" Y/N replies to Y/BF/N "I did get one on my back, it just finished healing. Wanna See?" Eyes lighting up as she finishes her sentence. Before anybody has a chance to agree, Y/N is standing up and pulling her shirt over her head just enough to keep her front covered while exposing her entire back and shoulders.

Truthfully, Sam thought she had died and gone to heaven, Y/N's back was beautifully sculpted, toned in all the right places just waiting to be lic- "That shit is SICK! Is this the cybersigil piece you designed last year?" Y/BF/N asks reaching out to trace the line of the tattoo covering Y/N's back. "Yeah, With a bit of revision and 12hrs of free time on a random Monday night here she is" Y/N responds softly.

"Are we going to start the movie or keep lying about how hot Y/N is" Sam says "No lies are being told, Sammy" Y/N says smirking at the older girl. "The sooner you admit you like my room, and my tattoo(s) the sooner I'll let you taste me" Y/N adds after pulling her shirt back and on. Sam goes completely red in the face, this is the second time Y/N's boldness had left her SPEECHLESS. Instead of responding she just rolls her eyes and picks her phone back up to distract her from burning holes into Y/N's back. Sam wanted to see the tattoo covering the expanse of the girls back again, maybe inside Y/N's room..in her bed...

As all the girls got settled to watch some random movie Tara picked out without anybody else agreeing but disagreeing meant having to find and pick another movie and none of them really had the energy for that right now. "Has everybody eaten? If not I have some thai chicken satay prepped. Could turn them into rice bowls or serve with some more Thai apps if I've got the ingredie-" Y/N rattles off and is walking towards the kitchen before hearing "BOWLS PLEASE" from Tara and Y/BF/N ."Want us to pause the movie?" Y/BF/N asks now joining you in the kitchen. "No, go ahead. I'm gonna get this started and this maybe go down/out for a smoke. I'll make sure to change and wash up a bit after. I don't to trigger T-bones asthma" Y/N states while chopping the veggies, looking over ever so slightly to check the heat on her cast-iron. Burning food is unacceptable to her and everything must come out fully cooked and on time. She's kinda anal about these types of things.

Y/BF/N made her way back to the living room and rejoined the others while the scent of Y/N's cooking began filling the loft. "What are we watching, my love?" Y/BF/N asks Tara "The Babysitter:Killer Queen" She responds never talking her eyes off of the screen but moving closer to Y/BF/N to be held. Soon after Y/N reenters the living room with a serving tray filled with 4 bowls all neatly packed, with chicken rice and veggies, it smells just as good as it looks. She works her way around kindly serving everyone a bowl, noting all of their specific tastes and personal preferences she had learned throughout the entire year she had been friends with girls. "Sorry Sam, I didn't know what you liked, so I opted to put everything on the side and you put in whatever you'd like. There is a peanut sauce served on the side for dipping or drenching. Enjoy" Y/N states and makes her way back into the kitchen to finish cleaning and she goes out up the rooftop for a well deserved joint.

When Y/N finished on the rooftop she just stood there for a bit, taking in the night air, noting how it smelled of heavy rain that promised to engulf the city once again. Making her way back down to the loft, she quietly slipped back inside and started her journey to the bathroom. As she passes the living room, Y/N noticed Anika and Mindy are now gone, probably in the guest room making babydolls while Tara, Sam and Y/BF/N are on their second movie of the night. After freshening up and changing Y/N went back into the kitchen to complete the rest of the dishes , chopped a bit of fruit to eat. Walking back to the living room fruit and water in hand, she takes a seat next to Sam on the couch, offering her some fruit to which she politely declines until Y/N is holding a strawberry up to her lips, eyes on boring into Sam's. "Open" Y/N says and Sam does just that, taking the strawberry between her lips all the while staring Y/N in her eyes. "Good?" Y/N whispers never breaking eye contact with the girl sitting beside her. Sam says nothing and just turns her back to face the TV.

Once the movie was over Tara and Y/BF/N made their way back to Y/BF/N's room, after mumbling a quick "goodnight, love you" to Y/N from Y/BF/N and one from Tara to Sam. The two girls left on the couch sat in a comfortable silence watching the previews for other movies related to the one they had just finished, shortly afterwards Sam got up taking the bowl from Y/N and made her way back to the kitchen putting the bowl in the fridge and making her way back to a stunned Y/N. Sam was walking around like she owned the place and Y/N kinda found it hot.

Before Y/N could process anything else Sam's voice cut through the silence "You're staring again Y/N" She says with a small smile. "I-Y-you're so pretty Sam" Y/N says looking directly into her eyes, then down at her lips and then she slowly makes her way back up to Sam's eyes who now looks ready for Y/N choose to give her. Y/N can't help but to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Sam's ear, rubbing her thumb softly over her ear and down her jaw. It feels like her entire body responds to not only the compliment but the touch has her on fire.

"Sleep in my room with me" Y/N whispers and Sam can't do anything but nod, allowing the younger girl to lead her down the hall and into her room. Once in the confines of Y/N's room Sam took her hoodie off and climbed into Y/N's bed with ease, it almost felt like she was supposed to be there. Slipping into bed next to her Y/N softly smiled and reassured Sam "I don't want to do anything and I'm sorry if my abrupt request made you uncomfortable. I jus-" "You didn't make me uncomfortable" Sam gently interrupts the younger girls slight rant. "Okay, good..Um goodnight?" Y/N says, turning off the bedside lamps. Afterwards both the girls laid there in complete darkness, listening to the rain that began falling outside as the storm took over the never sleeping city.

They found themselves moving closer to each other until Y/N reached out and pulled Sam into her body. Now with Sam's back pressed against her front, face buried in chocolate tresses she felt like the world had finally settled down. "Goodnight, Y/N" Sam whispered after turning around in Y/N's arms to face her in the dark. Their faces were inches apart and suddenly Sam was leaning in brushing her nose against Y/N's who took that as her greenlight and she kissed Sam so softly almost thought she might break. The kiss got a bit heated between them and eventually Sam was on top on Y/N, kissing her HARD and letting her hands roam down her down her body feeling the swell of her breasts beneath her fingertips, faintly running down her abs underneath her shirt.

Suddenly Sam was flipped on her back and Y/N was above her pressing into her, almost embedding her body into Sam. As Y/N pulled away from her lips, she began kissing down sam's neck and slowly rocking her hips. They both moaned, each one almost too sinful for the other and that's when Sam knew she had to slow this down but it just felt so good. Here she was in her younger sisters girlfriends best friends room underneath her halfway to the point of no return. She felt Y/N's bulge through her sweats pressing into her while they continued to move against one another and as she moaned Y/N slipped her tongue into the kiss and lord Sam's control was slipping.

"O-o-Okay, we have to stop Y/N" Sam pants as the girl pulls away and starts working back down her neck. She pulls back immediately after hearing what the girl below her said "I'm sorry, I-" "Stop saying sorry, I just want to slow this down with you. That's all" Sam says shyly. "Of course, Let me just.." Y/N trails off as she moves from over top of Sam and shuffles out of the room and into the bathroom.

By the time she comes back Sam is half asleep and now wearing one of Y/N's shirts having taken off her own tank-top after the girl rushed off. "You okay?" Sam asks. "Yeah, just cant sleep with a stiffy, so i took a cold shower" Y/N grunts while settling back into bed beside Sam. Pulling the other girl over to her once again, Y/N buries her face back into Sam's hair. Arms wrapping protectively around her and intertwining their legs both girls fall into one of the most comfortable sleeps either of them have experienced in a long time.

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AN: how do ya'll like chapter 2? took me a bit but here she is!

still trying to come up with an actual name for this fic :(

Lmk what yall think!!

[mumms-the-word]

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 3

The first 40 days

Hello, friends, and welcome to the third and final installment of this little series about the Shadow Curse in BG3. Part 1 talked about Ketheric's descent into Sharran worship and how he built his Dark Justiciar army. Part 2 detailed the events of the war between the Harpers/druids and Ketheric's army, a bloodbath that culminated in Ketheric's supposed death and a high-cost victory for the Harpers and druids.

With Ketheric's dying breath, he utters a curse and the shadow curse takes full effect within hours. That's what this post is about. There are two journals that give us a day-by-day breakdown of the shadows as they roll outward from town, Olam's Journal and Oliver's Diary. Using these (plus other materials, naturally), I wanted to construct a kind of timeline for the first 40 days of the shadow curse as it slowly took over the landscape.

Quick cw: some descriptions of madness and implied sexual trauma from one note left behind by a Reithwin citizen

As always, long post ahead, under the cut!

———

Dear Diary, Day 1: Nothing ever happens in this town. I'm ready to go to the Gate. If Mother won't let me, I'll run away myself. She says my lungs are too weak for the smoke. But how am I living at all, when all I do is milk the rothe? [mumms' note: I imagine this diary entry by Oliver was written before the battle, but during the siege. I can't imagine him writing "nothing ever happens" when a battle is actively taking place.]

Let me set the stage. It is the third day of the battle between the Harper-druid army and Ketheric Thorm. The Harpers have already tried to surrender, only to be denied by Ketheric, who joins the battle himself. The death tolls are astronomical and the citizens of Reithwin are either cowering and trying to survive the battle that rages outside their doors or fighting as part of a volunteer force. The tides have turned in the Harpers' and druids' favor as reinforcements for Dark Justiciars inexplicably stop coming (thanks to the mason's infernal deal). At last, some lucky Harper or druid strikes the blow that finally fells Ketheric Thorm. Ketheric uses his last breath to utter a curse on the land, the actual words lost to time, and dies. Together with other Harpers and druids, Jaheira assists in dragging Ketheric's body from the battlefield and sealing it inside the Grand Mausoleum. But the damage has already been done.

It's day one of the shadow curse.

Day 2 of Darkness I stood calm as Ketheric uttered his final curse and then withered. As my fellow Harpers dragged his putrid corpse from the battlefield, I allowed myself to feel relief, even solace. A wrong had been righted, an evil thwarted. Victory had come - but I had yet to know its true cost. The darkness shrouded the land like a vast cloak. It began as a chill, as if the Claw of Winter had gripped us. Within hours, every breath was a dagger piercing my throat. I hungered for air like a wolf hungers for meat - yet I could still get my fill, thanks to my armour. Would that the men and women of Reithwin had been so well-equipped. One by one they fell, only to rise as shadows of themselves, intent on extinguishing all light, and all life. The shadows hang less heavy in this place. It still takes some effort to fill my lungs, but better to expend effort than to unite with darkness. My traps should keep me safe - or at least, safe enough.

Olam, an aasimar Harper who eventually fell victim to the shadow curse as he was trying to find ways to reverse it, is our best record for the first day. According to him, the first sign of the curse was a chill, as cold as the Claw of Winter, a reference to the winter month of Alturiak.

Months in Faerûn have two names, a sort of "official" name and a common name. The second month of the year, Alturiak, is commonly known as the Claw of Winter, a month of deep cold that sets in after Midwinter (the day right before Alturiak 1). Given that Ketheric's speech to his troops suggests they're preparing to face winter, and the fact that Thisobald's notes tell us that Ketheric was poisoned by the Harpers in Elient, the month that contains the Autumn Equinox, it's safe to suggest that the battle happened in late autumn. A sudden chill as cold as deep winter would be very alarming, especially accompanied by an unnatural darkness.

So, first comes the cold, so piercing and uncomfortable it makes it hard to breathe. Then comes the shadows, a darkness that settles over the town and begins to spread. If you're in armor, if you've trained your body to withstand magical and physical attacks, if you're resistant to any kind of damage, if you're one of the miraculous soldiers who hasn't been horribly wounded and weakened, you have half a chance to survive the initial shadows.

The untrained citizens of Reithwin don't have even that half-chance.

One by one they fall to the shadows. One by one they rise again as twisted, changed, ravenous undead, "intent to extinguish all light, all life." We've seen what the curse does ourselves to Harpers like Yonas, or to other living creatures like the hyena or the goblin near the mountain pass entrance. The Harpers and druids who believe that they can put battle behind them at last are now faced with a new enemy—the undead, shadow-cursed husks of innocent (and perhaps not so innocent) citizens.

Image: An armored arm covered by black and green shadow magic reaching out.

Not just citizens, either. The shadows soon claim Harpers and druids too. The shadows do not discriminate.

Halsin: Even in defeat, though, Ketheric turned to Shar. Not long after we sealed him away in his tomb, the shadow curse took hold. No one had seen the likes of it before. No one knew how to react…Then it started to claim all those within its reach. Those who had survived the battles now fell to the shadows - became part of the shadows. And worst of all…I lost contact with Thaniel. I wanted to try and find him, but we couldn’t stay. We would have all succumbed. When the Archdruid of the Grove - my predecessor - was seized by the curse, I had to lead the survivors to safety. That was my first day as Archdruid. An inauspicious beginning.

The Harpers and druids no doubt scatter, scrambling for light, caught flat-footed in a fight against the undead they must now kill, some of whom might even be their own allies, their own friends, and a darkness they can scarcely understand. As more and more people fall, more and more corpses reanimate. There's no use fighting. Their only real choice is to run.

Halsin, among the survivors, desperately tries to gather together druid survivors and rescue the wounded from the curse, going so far as to carry some on his back, according to unique dialogue with Jaheira. As they attempt to flee, the former Archdruid falls, seized by the shadows. Halsin is forced to leave him behind to ensure the survival of the other druids.

Halsin: It is an honour to see you again, High Harper. Jaheira: No need for titles. You may call me Jaheira, so long as you are content to be known as Halsin. And the honour is mine. Your stewardship of the Emerald Grove has made for something of a story among the circles. The apprentice who survived the shadow curse, and carried his masters home on his back. Who was raised their master in turn, and searches still for a way to save what was lost. [mumm's note: Halsin says he never met Jaheira, but this could be him being polite, or him referencing that he has seen Jaheira before, they've just never spoken or officially met.]

At the same time, he's lost contact with Thaniel. The spirit of the land has been pulled into the Shadowfell somehow by the onset of the curse as it spreads outward and begins to take over the landscape. Perhaps the Shadowfell claims others, as well, the moment the darkness falls over them, rather than transforming them into undead shadow corpses. We know this happens to Art, after all.

But Halsin doesn't have time to think about Thaniel, unfortunately. With the Archdruid dead, it is now his responsibility to look after the wounded and surviving druids and lead them to safety.

[This is an ancient notebook, whose ink is faded and pages are starting to crumble. It's not easy, but some words can still be made out.] Ketheric is finished, but it cost us the land. Darkness has fallen, corruption is everywhere. [...] ...chased by shadows, picking us off, druids and Harpers alike. [...] ...our wounded were safe, I returned, searching for survivors... [...] ...lost, but I found his shade. I put it to rest and took his glaive... [...] ...blade infused with shadow. I have locked it away, to serve as a reminder that even victory can taste bitter.

In the launch version of the game, the glaive Sorrow belonged to the old Archdruid. (In early access, it belonged to Halsin, but that is an entirely separate post.) Halsin's old notebook reveals the lengths he went to save the wounded, becoming the Grove's leader the very hour, the very minute that the old Archdruid succumbs to the curse. He doesn't stop to fight the Archdruid's shade. He must save whoever he can.

In town, others are trying to flee the curse as well. The first couple of days, it's all the citizens can do to stay ahead of the darkness and escape the shadows before they're taken. One person attempts to send word via a raven seeking help. The raven, too, succumbs to the curse.

[This letter is written on a scrap of paper. Blood and age have made it near illegible in parts.] HELP! A darkness has rolled into Reithwin, cutting us off on all sides. We’ve sent people through, but no one can make it more than a few steps before [the words are obscured by drops of blood.] This letter is our last hope. Send help - anyone, from anywhere, I beg of you. I will renounce our Lady Loss and kiss the Moonmaiden’s feet if that’s what it takes. Just don’t let the darkness take us.

It's nearing the end of the first day. Halsin has at last seen the wounded to some kind of safety and turns back, braving the shadows again to try and find the old Archdruid. He finds his shade and kills it, taking his glaive as a reminder, since the shadow-corrupted body must be left behind. With his duty at last done, Halsin departs the shadow-cursed lands to return to the Emerald Grove with the survivors. He does not return again until a century later.

———

Day 2 of the shadow curse.

Olam the Harper manages to secure something of a safe refuge in a hidden room of the House of Healing's morgue where the shadows hang less heavily. He sets up traps to deter shades and shadow-cursed zombies.

Citizens of Reithwin who haven't fled the curse on day one and are resilient enough to survive the first day are slowly succumbing, too. Some citizens seem to willingly give themselves to the shadow curse, or are taken entirely by surprise.

A couple on the roof of the House of Healing lay together, whispering poetry to one another as the darkness falls. Another couple lays curled up in their home, perhaps trying to hide from the shadows as the darkness presses against the doors and windows. Other citizens drag their feet, trying to pack up their lives and follow after more slowly. The result is the same for all of them. Death to the shadow curse, or the shades it creates from the dead. Their skeletal remains lay untouched for decades afterward.

———

Day 5 of the shadow curse.

Olam, sequestered inside the morgue, is simply trying to survive. The curse begins spreading outward, its borders expanding toward the outer reaches of the landscape.

Day 5 of Darkness The shadows ebb and wane. A torch flame is sometimes enough to burn them away, but no light can dispel the deepest of them. I called my familiar Corvin to my side, but he could scarcely take wing. Tomorrow I search, and not just for food and drink. I might find a scroll, or an artefact, or an arcane focus that can ward off this curse. Perhaps I might even find another survivor. 

Olam is hopeful, but he is very likely the sole survivor of the shadow curse within the town itself. There are, however, survivors outside the town, some of whom are still trying to flee. Others, like Oliver and his mother, are forced to stay in their home as the shadows creep closer and closer.

———

Day 7 of the shadow curse.

Before Oliver held half of Thaniel's essence, he was a young boy (possibly a tiefling) on a rothé farm on the outskirts of Reithwin. He seems to have been born with or developed a chronic illness of some kind, as his mother worries about his lungs not being able to handle the smoke of Baldur's Gate (I assume this is a passing reference to some early industrialization of the city). But by day seven of his journal, the shadows have already started to spread outward toward his home.

Day 7: Ha, a strange fog is descending over our own town. Hasn't left in days. Getting hard to breathe. Mother is eating her words, saying we should head out to the city to stay for a while until it lifts. We go at dawn.

(I personally don't think the numbered days in Olam and Oliver's journals align, where Olam's Day 5 of darkness is also Oliver's Day 5 in his diary. I think it's more likely that they're offset by 2 or 3 days, with Oliver beginning his journal 2-3 days before Olam did, so Olam's Day 4/5 would be Oliver's Day 7, and so on. But for simplicity's sake, I'm just going to use both of their dates as if they were perfectly aligned.)

———

Day 8 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother try to brave the shadows to head west to Baldur's Gate, but the shadow-cursed creatures are too dangerous. They turn around and take shelter in their home once more. They spend another several days protected from the curse, somehow.

I suspect it's Thaniel's lingering presence near the house that is saving them. But they couldn't possibly know that.

———

Day 14 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother have given up hope for any kind of escape. The shadows are too dangerous. It's too late to leave.

Day 14: We tried to leave, but there are creatures from beyond the grave, skulking around the outskirts of our land. It's too late.

———

Day 18 of the shadow curse.

Everything is dead or undead. Everything except Olam, Oliver, Oliver's mother, and the animals they care for...for now. The town is still, as if suspended in time, but not quiet. Things stir in the darkness.

Day 18 of Darkness It's a particular loneliness, in these shadows. Corvin shows great affection when I call him, even as he suffers. Those few minutes are at least some comfort, for us both. It is remarkably still in here, and even stiller out there. I have found a few scrolls and books near the House of Healing, as well as some scattered artefacts, but they hold nothing for me. The only answers call out from within the House itself, where I dare not enter. I hear the moans of the anguished, the shouts of the cruel. There are those who make their home in the shadows, but I am no less alone for them.

Olam's hopes are dwindling. The shadows had taken the life of everything they've touched. Many shadow-cursed undead lie dormant, waiting for something to stir them back into action. Others have been reduced to shades and towering living shadows. Still others, like those inside the House of Healing, have been transformed. In particular, it seems as though the nurses, if not Malus himself, have become twisted undead versions of their living selves, something different than the average shadow-cursed corpse.

Because, you see, being transformed into a shadow-cursed being doesn't simply mean death and undeath. Not always. It also means a descent into pure madness as you lose your entire sense of self. Some victims choose to venture more into the darkness rather than fight it.

Shadow creature transformation is like this: I am standing in a tunnel with one way leading into light and the other leading into darkness. The tunnel glistens and stinks like a tube of rancid sausage. Everything slick with slime. I've got to get out of here. I know I do. But which way? Light or dark? Not day and night. The light is coming from the face of my grandfather, who used to squeeze my knee under the dining table with his bony fingers. His wizened, grinning face is the face life wears. It has flayed off his face and is wearing it now, lantern bright, in the light at that end of the tunnel. The dark though. The dark is absolute. No faces there. No old family trouble there. No bad dreams or memories there, well, well that's decided then isn't it! Sauntering now, striding now, running into the velvety black, embraced, bones snapping, body softening, silking, feeling the change, old life left behind, new life new me let's go yippee!

(There's also weird poetry about the shadows, if you're interested.)

The shadow curse is still Shar's darkness, and the allure of the dark's embrace is still there. Victims who lose their minds to the shadow curse as they turn into shadow creatures are drawn to this twisted idea of a new life (an un-life, really). As we see with Yonas, they're eager to bring others down with them.

Harper Yonas: There you are...come...join me...

Reithwin may be dead, and it may be still, but it isn't quiet.

———

Day 21 of the shadow curse.

In the outskirts, the shadows have possessed Oliver's rothé. They too grow mad, attacking one another and dying, only for the shadows to resurrect them again.

Day 21: The rothe are all possessed, knocking down their fence, battling and bashing one another to death... Dying then fighting again. The shadows are everyone... right outside our window. I can't see more than a few strides out.  [mumm's note: I think "everyone" is supposed to be "everywhere" here.]

The darkness is only getting worse.

———

Day 26 of the shadow curse.

Nearly one full month since Ketheric's death. The shadows have grown darker and darker. In Oliver's cabin, he and his mother can only see a few strides beyond their windows. In town, where Olam continues to try and search for ways to end the shadow curse, the air has darkened from grey to black and grown so thick that breathing it in is like swallowing molasses or tar.

Day 26 of Darkness I called on Corvin yet again, but I cannot bear his torment. Nor can I bear my own. Grey has turned almost to black, and the air might as well be molasses or tar, so hard as it is to choke down. 'All beings should walk free of fear', I was taught. Oh, if only were I granted such a fine fate.

This is the last entry in Olam's journal. After days of trying to break the shadow curse, experimenting with various spells to push back the darkness or dispel the magic, after days of him and his bird familiar, Corvin, being the only living things he has encountered since the onset of the curse, Olam finally succumbs to the shadows. Perhaps he chooses to end his own life, or perhaps the shadows have crept into the morgue and at last killed him. Either way, his body, tainted and ruined by necrotic magic, remains sealed in his morgue hideaway for another century.

———

Day 28 of the shadow curse.

There are only two people still living in the midst of the shadows. Oliver and his mother remain unaffected by the curse, so long as they stay within their home. Oliver has no idea why the curse does not push into their house—it certainly has no issue creeping into every other home in and around town.

But I suspect Thaniel is at work. Given that Thaniel's spirit was torn in half by the shadow curse, perhaps the part that lay behind took refuge in Oliver's home. Perhaps that half is already in Oliver himself.

But Oliver grows restless. Though the curse has yet to take them, living with it is not easy. His weak lungs can't handle the shadow-thick air, even if it does not corrupt him immediately. He begins to contemplate death.

Day 28: I'm not dead yet. But I'm going to die here, aren't I? I can hardly breathe. Why does it not get into our house? Why doesn't the curse take us already. Day 35: I can't stand this. I've been trying to write a memoir of myself but it's still no good. I'm too weak to pen fine words. I am going to die unremembered, be what may. It's getting pointless to cower in here. There is nothing we can do about this all-encroaching dark. Tomorrow, I will walk out into the fog, and I will laugh. With love, a farmhand, forever to be unknown.

———

Day 35 of the shadow curse.

Olam is dead. Everyone in town is dead. Most people in the outskirts are dead. Except for Oliver, and perhaps his mother, and even Oliver can no longer handle the loneliness and despair of the shadow curse. Oliver plans to leave the safety of his home and give in to the shadows, rather than die a much slower death as the shadows continue to creep in.

———

Day 36 of the shadow curse.

Oliver opens his door and walks out into the dark fog of the curse. Some flowers still bloom, untouched by the curse or the shadows, just outside his doorstep. The corpses of the rothé lie inert in the darkness, having died twice over days before. Oliver likely doesn't linger on either detail. It only takes a few strides for the darkness to envelop him.

It only takes moments for it to change him.

Oliver as he was in life is gone, taken by the shadow curse. But some vestige of Thaniel keeps him alive, keeps them both alive. But the shadows have already done their damage.

Oliver remains near his home as the years pass, his laughter and his games turning ever deadlier as the curse strengthens and grows.

———

Day 39 of the shadow curse.

Halsin and the other druids have long since returned to the Emerald Grove. The mantel of leadership weighs heavy on his shoulders. He has sealed away the old Archdruid's glaive, tainted as it is with shadow magic, and begins to turn his attention to leading the Grove. A task he never asked for, and doesn't feel he deserves.

Jaheira has moved on to other adventures, working independently or with other Harpers. It will be another several decades before duty calls her back into the shadow-cursed lands, back to the site where she fought to maintain balance and put an end to a corrupted Sharran general.

The town of Reithwin and the surrounding landscape is dead. Dead, but not quiet. The shadows sink into the land itself, twisting the trees, slowly cracking the very earth apart. Shadows continue to stir, corrupting everything they touch. The unlucky undead that are not granted blissful oblivion shamble among the ruins of the town, between the remains of the battle. Their actions are twisted recreations of their living days, as nurses or as patrons of the Waning Moon. Their minds are all but obliterated.

The town settles into a pattern of hungry shadows on the hunt and undead corpses shuffling mindlessly through the motions. This pattern will remain undisturbed for a century or more.

———

Day 40 of the shadow curse.

Inside the Grand Mausoleum, behind the sigil-sealed doors, the crypts of the dead are not as still and silent as they should be. Something, someone moves in the darkness.

Ketheric Thorm, pulled back into the land of the living, stands at the foot of his daughter's sarcophagus. He wants to forget. He wants the darkness to swallow him whole. But it does not.

A bloated, fleshy hand reaches out in the darkness, and Ketheric hears an all too familiar voice, deep and resonant with dark magic.

"Let us refocus our efforts, General. In here, we have everything we need to bring her back. It will only take time."

Ketheric, having lost everything, agrees.

———

Okay, so maybe Day 40 was just me guessing/wanting to get creative. I believe Ketheric probably woke up, since he's still functionally immortal thanks to Aylin, relatively soon after the shadow curse was unleashed. But because he was sealed in the mausoleum by the Harpers and druids, he must have spent the better part of a few years, maybe even a few decades, trying to gather the strength to blow open the doors and leave.

He's been defeated, and Shar has likely withdrawn her blessings on him. His only power now is his immortality (probably). We know he doesn't build an army again until a century later, when he does so under Myrkul's command. So I imagine he probably spends many decades in the mausoleum, trying to forget, or (failing that) trying to resurrect his daughter.

Forgetting evades me in this infinite darkness. Balthazar is my own source of the barest comfort - the thought that, perhaps, she might be brought back to me. If oblivion can fail, what defence have we against death? None except its mastery. Balthazar's words have never felt more promising.

Somehow Balthazar finds him. Perhaps Balthazar was sealed inside the mausoleum too. But Balthazar promises to find a way to restore the one thing Ketheric wants. Ketheric doesn't desire vengeance. Ketheric doesn't want another army. Ketheric wants Isobel. And Balthazar, a powerful necromancer, believes he can deliver.

So the experiments begin. And fail. And fail. Thisobald, Gerringothe, Malus. The Thorm family members rise again, except they're twisted, grotesque, a little mad. Not how Ketheric wants Isobel to be. But they keep trying. Until at last, nearly a century after his defeat, after a century of struggling to forget and fall into oblivion, ignored by Shar, Ketheric turns to Myrkul. He agrees to become Myrkul's Chosen and do his bidding, in exchange for the one thing he wants most.

Isobel.

Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn't raze the world entire for her sake?

Ketheric at last renounces Shar to pledge himself to Myrkul. And Myrkul, unlike Shar, keeps his promise. The death that began the spiral into Sharran zealotry, that led to the shadow curse itself, is finally reversed.

After more than a century of death, Isobel wakes up.

———

So ends the three-part series about the shadow curse. What a ride. I'm so fascinated by this entire act/history because it feels like diving into war history or something. So thanks for following, if you followed all three parts!! Let me know what other deep dives you want me to do!

Tags for those who wanted an update! @fingons-rad-harp @stuffforthestash @cakenpiewhyohmy

[maboroshi-no]

Hamefura LN14 Chapter 3 Part 3 Summary

I am currently reading Hamefura LN14 and will post summaries as I read.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1: The Encounter at the Party: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Chapter 2: What Dark Magic Is: Part 1 Part2 Chapter 3: The Domain Where Cyrus Was Born and Raised: Part 1 Part 2

Chapter 3: The Domain Where Cyrus Was Born and Raised (Part 3)

Maria Detect Dark Magic

Maria suddenly calls Katarina and seizes her arm. Katarina quickly turns towards Maria. Her face is very pale. Katarina asks in a low voice if she has sensed dark magic. Maria silently nods. Sora instantly moves in front of them to protect them. He scans the surroundings.

Katarina tells Cyrus that Maria has sensed dark magic. Cyrus asks Maria what kind of presence she is sensing. Maria replies the presence starts from where they are and continues far ahead. 

Cyrus asks the local Ministry employees to return to the fields because it could be dangerous. Tylor asks for at least him to accompany them since they are not familiar with the area. Cyrus tells him they will be fine since he is familiar with this forest. After all, he has played there a lot before. He assures Tylor they will be back by evening. Tylor reluctantly accepts to go back. He warns Cyrus that he will go search for him if he is not back by evening.

Tracking the Dark Magic Presence

After the Ministry employees have left, everyone follows the dark magic presence thanks to Maria. Katarina wonders why only Maria can sense it, not Sora or her. Is it because she has light magic or because she is powerful?

Everyone advances deep inside the forest while following the dark magic presence. They go beyond the maintained area. The inside of the forest is dim, and there are no signs of animals ever since they entered the forest. There are no birds chirping or anything, just the wind blowing.

The Mountain of Animals Corpses

Katarina sees some kind of hill a little ahead. She wonders what it is. When they move closer, everyone has their breath taken away: the hill is a mountain of animals lying on top of each other. The animals' eyes are open and look empty: they are not just unconscious but dead. There are various animals: tanukis, foxes, rabbits, etc. There are also large animals. The animals have no external wounds and are not bleeding. 

Katarina shudders over this ominous sight.

Maria tells everyone she senses strong dark magic coming from the corpses. Laura concludes the animals were killed with dark magic since there are no external wounds. Sora and Raphael approach the corpses, look at them, and confirm they can't see any external wounds. Katarina feels like she should better take a look too, but her legs refuse to move. Raphael wonders if dark magic can murder animals. Laura thinks there was a case of someone killing a person by stealing their energy. She asks Cyrus what he is thinking.

Cyrus looks sickly pale. Katarina asks him if he is alright. Cyrus snaps back and tells her he is fine. He was just shaken. Cyrus tries to take a step back but hits a little rock and almost falls.

Looking at Cyrus, Katarina remembers that he told her he had been scared of interacting with animals ever since he saw his dog dying in front of his eyes. Cyrus is uncomfortable with animals - corpses in this case - but she thought he could manage in work mode like when interacting with young women. But it doesn't seem to be the case.

Laura asks Cyrus if he really is alright. She can carry him on her back if he isn't well. Cyrus assures her he is fine.

Cyrus starts joining the others in assessing the situation but his face still looks pale. He agrees that there is a high chance this was caused by dark magic. He asks Maria if she can sense anything besides the strong dark magic presence. Cyrus seems to have at least recovered the tone of his voice and attitude.

Maria replies she can. She didn't notice it right away because she was shaken, but the dark magic presence continues ahead. If they follow it, they might be able to find the source. She asks Cyrus if she can go after it.

Katarina notices that Maria's face looks more severe than usual. She is really furious. She is making the same face as when Katarina was falsely accused. The gentle Maria is probably furious because all these animals were killed.

Cyrus replies that he would very much like to pursue the culprit but the sun will go down soon. It would be dangerous to go deeper inside the forest.

Maria impatiently retorts that the dark magic presence might disappear tomorrow.

Cyrus replies that everyone's safety is the top priority. He won't put everyone in danger.

Maria is taken aback. She looks at everyone and bites her lips. It seems like she really wants to pursue the culprit but she doesn't want to put everyone in danger. She is probably feeling frustrated. She hangs her head down and reluctantly accepts Cyrus's order. 

Exiting the Forest

Everyone starts leaving the forest. The sun is setting, so they quicken their pace. The forest feels even more ominous to Katarina after seeing the corpses, so she wants to get out as soon as possible. Cyrus leads them out of the forest and they safely exit it before the sun has completely set.

Tylor is at the fence. He has been waiting for them and is relieved to see them back. He seems to have been worried for them since they said there was danger ahead.

Katarina wonders if Cyrus is still pale, but she can't see well because it is too dim.

Reporting the Situation

Everyone hurriedly heads back to the branch office. They go to the same meeting room as earlier in the day. The room is brightly illuminated by magic lights, so Katarina can tell that Cyrus is still pale. His fear of animals must be more serious than his discomfort with young women if he still hasn't recovered. Tylor seems to have also noticed Cyrus's pale face. He asks him if he is alright but Cyrus flatly replies that he is fine.

Cyrus explains to Tylor that they found a mountain of animals corpses deep inside the forest. They were all kinds of animals, from small ones to big ones, and they were just lying dead with their eyes open without any external wounds. Tylor is confused. Cyrus explains he can't say more since the matter is confidential and apologizes. Tylor understands since he also has to deal with confidential matters while working at the Ministry.

Tylor asks Cyrus if the case is very dangerous. Cyrus replies it is, but they have come prepared. He adds that he won't put anyone in danger. Tylor understands but asks Cyrus to promise he will return safely no matter what. Cyrus promises. 

Now that the report is over, everyone returns to Cyrus's house. It is dim inside the carriage so Katarina can't tell if Cyrus is still pale.

Back Home

Once they arrive at the manor, they are warmly welcomed by Cyrus's family.

They are notified that dinner is on the way. Katarina doesn't have much appetite after what she saw in the forest and is worried she might not be able to eat anything. However, after seeing the food, all her worries go away and she can enjoy the food normally.

Katarina looks at Cyrus. His complexion has returned to normal but he doesn't seem to have much appetite. It seems like he still hasn't recovered. His discomfort with animals seems serious. Katarina doesn't recall Cyrus having such a severe reaction when Pochi came out. She recalls Cyrus telling her his dog died before his eyes and then realizes Cyrus probably has a worse reaction to dead animals than to live animals. After all, his dog died before his eyes, so he probably saw its corpse. But even if she has realized this, Katarina can't do anything for Cyrus.

Haru and Cyrus's family worriedly ask Cyrus if he is okay. Cyrus tells them he is just tired.

After dinner, everyone returns to their room.

Katarina Witnesses Haru and Cyrus Talking

Katarina wants to ponder Cyrus's issue but she feels the need to go to the bathroom.

On the way to the bathroom, she sees Cyrus and Haru near the terrace's entrance. Haru has probably come to see Cyrus because she is worried. They have serious expressions on their faces so Katarina wonders if she should leave.

Haru tells Cyrus she has heard from the others that they saw a mountain of animals corpses in the forest. She asks him if he doesn't look well because it reminds him of what happened to "him".

Cyrus confirms but adds that it is something he must deal with by himself and asks her to leave him alone. Cyrus goes alone to the terrace. Haru looks sad because of Cyrus's flat rejection.

Katarina tries to go to the bathroom pretending not to have seen anything but Haru sees her. Katarina can't run away.

Katarina Talks With Haru About the Circumstances of Cyrus's Dog's Death

Haru asks Katarina if she heard them. Katarina apologizes and tells her she did. Haru replies she is not to blame. It is her fault for talking here.

Katarina asks Haru if by "him" she meant Cyrus's dog. Haru is surprised Katarina knows about him. Katarina tells her she heard it from Cyrus at the fields Ministry. He told her his dog died before his eyes in an accident.

Haru ponders, then finally tells her that Cyrus's dog was named Leo. It was a big dog and Cyrus let her play with him many times. She heard that the dog died in an accident when Cyrus went to the royal capital.

Katarina didn't know Cyrus's dog died in the royal capital. She wonders if he was run over by a carriage. Haru replies that despite what Cyrus says, it wasn't an accident. While playing hide-and-seek, she accidentally overheard Cyrus's father say that Leo was killed by someone.

Katarina's eyes grow wide. She asks Haru who killed the dog. Haru replies that she doesn't know. At that time, Cyrus's father sounded scared, as if he couldn't voice the person's name. But after growing up, Haru figured that if a border count's son had his dog murdered and couldn't make it public, there was probably someone with a very high status involved.

Katarina agrees. A border count has a high status since he is a key person who protects the country. Despite it, this border count had his dog killed and had no choice but to keep quiet and pretend it was an accident.

Katarina remembers what Geordo said about the succession strife. Dark magic was revealed when corpses appeared in the royal palace. The royal palace was in turmoil when she was still not old enough to understand. Cyrus is several years older than her, so he may have walked to a place of turmoil without knowing it, and then his dog got killed. And then the royals probably said he couldn't complain even if he was a border count.

It is just speculation but if things really happened like that, Katarina really couldn't do anything for Cyrus. What could comfort him at a time like this would be…

Haru continues. Ever since this incident, Cyrus has started avoiding not only dogs but also animals. And then, after a little while, when they found a dead dog while playing together, Cyrus became sickly pale and fainted.

Katarina is shocked. At this level, this is not a discomfort but a trauma. She wonders what could have happened to him at the royal capital.

Haru is worried about Cyrus and was hoping he would rely on her since she knew his circumstances. She makes a very sad face. Katarina tells her Cyrus tends to not rely on anyone. Haru doesn't feel better.

Haru apologizes to Katarina for telling her such an unsettling story. She asks her to keep it a secret from everyone and lowers her head. Katarina agrees to keep it a secret.  Haru excuses herself and leaves.

Haru's figure looks very lonely to Katarina. It may be because Katarina has overheard Haru murmur "So it can't be me…" after Cyrus left for the terrace. Haru's words sounded just like Mary's in Fortune Lover 1, which she murmured because she couldn't support the one she loved. Haru's position and situation are similar to Mary's, so it feels painful to Katarina.

Katarina remembers she wanted to go to the bathroom. She decides she will speak to Cyrus if he is still around when she returns from the bathroom. She doesn't think she can do anything about his trauma but she shouldn't leave Cyrus alone when he is pale like this.

When Katarina returns from the bathroom, Cyrus is with Maria and his face seems to have relaxed. Katarina feels relieved, but at the same time, she feels sad for Haru.

Mental Meeting

Katarina discreetly returns to her room so Cyrus and Maria won't see her.

Since Maria is dealing with Cyrus's trauma, Katarina decides she will rather think about the case.

Katarina summons a mental meeting.

Based on the animals' behaviors, a Katarina thinks things will go the same way as the case from before. 

A Katarina asks if a dragon will also appear in that case.

A Katarina remembers they fought a dark familiar dragon at that time.

A Katarina remembers Pochi became huge and fought the dragon.

The Katarinas are glad that Pochi can become strong when needed.

Chairman Katarina redirects the conversation to the case at hand. They must think about measures in case there will be more dark familiars or a bigger dark familiar than in the case before. 

A Katarina asks why there would be more dark familiars or a bigger dark familiar.

A Katarina replies it is because they found a mountain of animals corpses. Given the number of animals killed, they may face an enemy of a higher level.

The Katarinas praise the Katarina's smartness.

Chairman Katarina redirects the conversation again. She asks the others what they should do if it happens.

A Katarina replies they will just have Pochi beat up the dark familiar. It is not like they can defeat it with their Earth Bump.

A Katarina wonders if Pochi will be strong enough this time. If Pochi loses, then…

A Katarina tells her she worries too much after hearing about Cyrus's dog. Besides, she doesn't want to think of what to do if Pochi gets killed.

A Katarina adds that Pochi is strong after all.

A Katarina says that Pochi is not invincible and can still lose. That's why they need to fight with him. Pochi is their precious family, so they need to protect him.

A Katarina agrees. Even if they can't use Earth Bump, they can still use dark magic.

A Katarina retorts that even if they can use dark magic, all they can do is absorb darkness.

A Katarina remarks that it could work. Since they could absorb the huge black snake from before, they may be able to absorb a dark familiar.

A Katarina agrees: they may be able to absorb a dark familiar. So if a dragon appears, they will just have to absorb it.

A Katarina adds that when they do, everything will be settled.

The council agrees on absorbing the dark familiar as a measure.

Katarina is intent on fighting with Pochi rather than leaving everything to him. She is determined to protect Pochi and everyone.

Katarina goes to sleep.

Cyrus's POV

Cyrus still hasn't recovered from what he saw in the forest. He feels irritated about it. He is making his coworkers, who don't know his circumstances, worry about him, and he is making his family, servants, and his childhood friend, who know his circumstances, worry about him. He feels so embarrassed about it.

He can't handle animals, especially corpses. Just seeing them makes him feel sick. He feels so pathetic as a director of the Ministry. 

He knows the cause of his ailment. But he has put a hard lid over it so he won't think about it. But after seeing the corpses today, especially those bizarre ones, the lid opened, and it put him in this state. And now that he has remembered, the memory won't disappear. it will probably take a long time before the lid closes again.

Still, as an adult, he can't avert his eyes from it forever. He needs to face it and overcome it.

How Cyrus's Dog Died

When he was still a child, his father took him along when he went to the royal capital for work. He was excited since it was the first time he went to the royal capital. He had his dog Leo with him at that time. It was a big white dog about as tall as him and he would spend time with him whenever he could.

Cyrus's brother was considerably older than him but Cyrus didn't feel lonely thanks to Leo. His parents brought Leo home a little after he was born. They grew up together and he was a precious family. 

Because of this, Cyrus threw a tantrum so he could bring Leo with him to the royal capital. His parents doted on him since he was the youngest child, so they allowed it under the condition that Leo wore a collar. It was a mistake, though. He shouldn't have brought Leo along.

Cyrus enjoyed sightseeing the royal capital, and since he was excited about the big castle, he went along when his father went there for work. Of course, he took Leo with him. But as could be expected, he couldn't take pets inside the castle, so he waited for his father in the garden with Leo. He felt moved by the big castle and excited by the big garden. 

Then he suddenly heard a loud noise. He was really curious about it, so he took Leo and they headed towards the sound. His father had told him to stay put, but he was a very curious child at that time, so he wanted to go see just a little bit. He shook off the servants and started running. Then a little ahead, he came across a scene he had never seen before.

A child of about his age was being kicked by a woman. The child was trampled again and again.

The child screamed. Without thinking, Cyrus ran up to the child. Then he told the woman to stop because the child seemed in pain. The woman glared at him with bloodshot eyes, which gave him shivers.

With a high-pitched voice, the woman asked what a kid and beast were doing here. She walked towards Cyrus and raised her foot above him. Just when Cyrus thought he would get kicked, Leo jumped in front of Cyrus to protect him. Leo's body shook, probably because he took a hard hit. The woman shouted, "That lowly beast has stained my shoe!".

The woman went away. Relieved, Cyrus hugged his dog and thanked him. But then, something dripped down. He didn't know what it was at first, but then he saw blood coming out of Leo's body. Cyrus calls out to Leo in panic. When he looked closely, there was a sword stabbed into Leo's body. While he was dumbfounded, the woman's high-pitched voice resounded in his ears. She told him that she just couldn't let a lowly beast stand in her way. 

Cyrus removed the blade from Leo's body and then blood gushed out. Cyrus's vision turned bright red. Inside his red vision, there was the young woman with bright red lipstick. Her smile was distorted into a frightening expression.

His memory stopped there.

When he woke up, he was on a bed, in the royal capital's townhouse. His father was on the verge of tears and kept apologizing for bringing him here. Cyrus had a high fever and his head was dazed, so he didn't understand the situation. But when his father told him that Leo had died, he cried so much his tears might have run out.

When his fever went down, they returned to the domain. There, his mother and brother, on the brink of tears, hugged him.

Cyrus's Trauma

Since then, Cyrus had been very uncomfortable with young women and scared of approaching animals.

He told the servants and his friends that Leo had died in an accident. He couldn't tell them that he was killed because of him. And then, seeing him depressed, everyone avoided the subject. 

And afterward, when he found a dead dog while playing with Ryou and Haru, he fainted but he didn't get a high fever like that other time. He could gradually heal with time.

And finally, after time had passed, he put a lid on his memory so he wouldn't remember it. Because it was the easiest way for him to live. Even so, he still couldn't handle young women and was still scared of animals. 

When he turned 15 and had to enroll in the Academy of Magic in the royal capital, his parents worriedly asked him if he would be alright. He had put a lid on his memory, so he readily replied he would. 

But at the royal capital, he felt sick when he saw dressed-up young women wearing red lipsticks. The lid on his memory slowly opened, but since people also made fun of him for being a country bumpkin, he convinced himself that it was the reason why he was uncomfortable with women.

Then, after entering the Ministry, the lid on his memory opened after seeing animal corpses. So, he decided he would investigate what happened since he felt that he couldn't stay like this forever.

After investigating it, he learned that terrible things were happening then inside the royal palace because of the succession strife, to the point corpses would appear. But because it was concealed, his father, at that time, wasn't aware of it since he lived in a remote region. As a result, his father took him along to the castle, Cyrus unfortunately got involved with a bad royal, and this happened. 

Thanks to the present king's reform, all of the vicious royals were punished, so they were not in the country anymore. Everything was over. 

Cyrus felt relieved that the frightening woman who haunted him wasn't here anymore but it didn't alleviate his discomfort. However, interacting with Katarina and Maria did.

Just when he thought he might become okay at this rate, he saw animals corpses for the first time in a while, especially bizarre ones, and lost his senses. Cyrus feels pathetic.

He feels like the time has come for him to stop running away, and to face it and overcome it. Even so, he doesn't know what to do.

Maria Talks to Cyrus

???: Lord Cyrus.

Cyrus is startled and turns around. It is Maria. He didn't detect her presence because he was absorbed in his thoughts.

Maria (anxiously): Are you alright?

Cyrus: Yes. It is a problem that I must deal with by myself one way or another, so please leave me be.

Cyrus has told Maria the same thing he told Haru. He expects Maria will also leave him alone.

Maria (flatly): I won't.

Cyrus opens his eyes wide and stares at Maria.

Maria (straightforward look):  No matter how I look at it, you look like you are brooding things alone, so it would be unreasonable to leave you be.

Cyrus feels his shoulders relax.

Cyrus (awkward smile): …You're right. I have been brooding things but I don't know what to do. 

Maria makes a firm face

Maria: For starters, instead of brooding things alone, maybe you should talk to someone, and then something might change. So If you have something you can talk about, please do.

Maria spreads her arms and invites Cyrus to talk. 

Cyrus: I told you before at the Ministry's fields that my dog died before my eyes, right?

Maria: Yes, and then you said you became a little scared to interact with animals since then.

Cyrus: Yes, that's right. But this is not true. …In truth, my dog, Leo, was killed because of me.

Maria: Killed…

Cyrus: Yes, when I visited the royal capital as a child, I went to the castle with Leo. There, driven by my curiosity,  I left the garden with Leo and stumbled on a horrible scene.

Maria: …A horrible scene?

Cyrus: A child of about my age was lying on the ground and a young woman was kicking them. The child screamed, so without thinking, I ran to the child to help them. With my reckless childish sense of justice, I told her "I want you to stop". It seemed to have made her even more furious, so she turned her foot towards me and was about to kick me. 

Maria: …

Cyrus: Maybe because Leo considered me his brother, he always tried to protect me from danger. This time too, he did the same and tried to protect me from that woman. He put himself between me and the woman and was kicked in my place.

Maria: …And then he died?

Cyrus: No, Leo was a big dog, so he wouldn't have died from being kicked by a woman.

Maria: Then how?

Cyrus: It seemed like it got on her nerves that Leo came in front of her. So she snatched the sword of a knight nearby, came back, and stabbed Leo with it.

Maria: ?!

Cyrus: Blood gushed out and Leo died in my arms. And it seems like I lost consciousness there. When I woke up, I was in bed in the royal capital's townhouse.

Maria: …This woman…

Cyrus: At that time, the royal palace was in turmoil because of the fight for the throne. That woman and child were involved in it. That's why, with my position, I couldn't say anything.

At that time, Cyrus couldn't say anything even if his beloved dog was killed.

Cyrus: When I woke up in the townhouse, my father apologized to me, saying "I am sorry for taking you to such a place. It's all my fault". But that's not his fault. It was all mine! I threw a tantrum because I wanted to take Leo to the royal capital, I said I wanted to go to the castle, I willfully walked out of the place where my father told me to wait, I jumped out there because of my childish sense of justice. All of these… It was all me! It was all my fault. I… 

Cyrus has shouted this all at once.

Maria: …Lord Cyrus.

Cyrus: If I hadn't done these things, Leo wouldn't have been killed so cruelly. Because I was an idiot who didn't think things through, Leo tried to protect me and was killed because of me… Even though he was my precious family who grew up with me…

Maria: …The reason you are afraid of interacting with animals… Could it be because you are afraid of something happening to them if you do?

Cyrus opens his eyes wide. 

Cyrus: I am scared of something happening to them…?

Cyrus repeats Maria's words. They perfectly fit that space that has been blank until now.

Cyrus: I see, so I was afraid that animals would be killed because of me again. Like Leo was…

Cyrus stands in shock, dumbfounded. He was only aware of his fear until now. But thanks to Maria, he has realized what he was scared of.

Maria: Also, Lord Cyrus.

Cyrus: Yes.

Maria suddenly moves close to him.

Maria: Leo-chan's death wasn't your fault.

Cyrus: Huh? What are you talking about? No matter how you think about it, it is my fault…

Maria: No matter how I think about it, it is not your fault. Of course, it is not your father's fault either. Everything is that deranged woman's fault!

Cyrus: Th-That deranged woman…

Cyrus freezes after hearing that word coming out of Maria's mouth.

Maria: After all, she kicked up a little child, tried to do something to the child who came for help, and stabbed with a sword the doggy who saved the child. She was mad. No matter who you ask, anyone would definitely say it was that woman who was to blame. If there were one bad thing about you, it would only be your luck. You had bad luck for encountering a mad and crazy person. Aside from that, you didn't do anything wrong!

Maria raised her eyebrows and spoke in an angry voice. It is the first time Cyrus has seen Maria like this.

Cyrus: …The only bad thing about me is my luck…

Maria: That's right! Just your luck!

Cyrus: But if I hadn't taken Leo to that place…

Maria: Lord Cyrus, you didn't get injured at that time, right?

Cyrus: Yes, I somehow didn't.

Maria: Then I'm sure Leo-chan was glad that he could protect his precious family. After all, you were always together, so he probably considered you his very precious family. I don't think Leo-chan regretted being there and protecting you.  

Cyrus recalls Leo. Leo probably considered him as his younger brother and always protected him. That time too, he immediately protected him.

Cyrus's shoulders relax. He feels like his dark thoughts are clearing up little by little. Now that he precisely knows the reason, his fear is fading. It is just like Maria said. Leo was killed because of that woman and since she is not here anymore, animals won't get killed just because he approached them. 

Cyrus: Thank you, Maria. I think your words saved me. But I still can't seem to completely forgive myself. 

Cyrus feels like he can't instantly change his feelings just because he was told it wasn't his fault.

Maria: That's right. I don't think the fear and pain you have felt for so long will immediately disappear. But please somehow forgive yourself little by little. If you keep blaming yourself, I think Leo-chan, who protected you, will also be sad.

Cyrus: …Ah, you're right.

Maria makes a gentle smile. It causes Cyrus's heart to make a big thump. 

Cyrus looks at Maria. Maria accepts not only his facade at work but also his plain country bumpkin side. The more he interacts with her, the more he feels captivated by her inner strength and beauty. And yet, when he is with her, he feels nervous and his head gets blank because she is so wonderful and he hasn't been able to interact with women until now. 

Cyrus is sure of it now: he is in love with Maria. He has for her feelings that he has never felt in his whole life. He wants her. He wants to live with her. He has never felt this before.

As Cyrus starts to smile in response, he feels someone looking at him. He looks in that direction. It is Haru. As soon as she notices his gaze, Haru leaves.

Cyrus decides that he needs to properly tell Haru that he loves someone. That because he has such strong feelings for that person, it would be dishonest for him to get engaged with someone else, even less someone who has feelings for him. 

Cyrus notices that the moon has changed position in the night sky. He needs to let Maria rest since they have planned to go to the forest early. But he still wants to enjoy his time alone with her just a little longer, so he gazes at the night sky a little longer.