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leggerefiore · 25 days

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Have you ever done HCs for characters tending to their partner’s wounds? I feel like Ingo would be externally panicking but ultimately know what to do. Emmet would be the reverse, outwardly calm, but hiding the fact that he doesn’t know what to do for your sake.

Colress and Cyrus would be really analytical about it, but I feel like for different reasons.

Grimsley, being the vampire that he is, would like…try to drink your blood or something.

I did the reverse (caring for their injuries), but this is also cute....

cw: light injuries, blood mentions, uhh a little angsty with some comfort

characters: Ingo, Emmet, Cyrus, Colress, Grimsley

~~~

An afternoon walk with your boyfriend was supposed to be relaxing and casual. It was a sort of catch-up after he had recently been busy with work. The two of you walked side by side on city streets, mumbling in conversation. Whatever had been spoken was not of utmost importance, but the feeling of being out with him was always nice. Everything had been going well. The sun was out, the streets were not overly busy, and the temperature was pleasant. Yet, all that had been interrupted by a single loud pokemon cry.

A young child called out after it. It ducked and weaved through pedestrians on the sidewalk before changing right into you. The surprise of hitting something solid made the nervous thing raise a claw and scratch you. Your boyfriend quickly was reaching for his own pokeballs to settle the situation in case it grew desperate, yet the small child finally caught up and returned the pokemon to its ball before any further harm could befall you. They sheepishly apologised, regretful that they had been unable to control it. You reassured them it was alright before finally parting ways with the child to sit down at a bench nearby.

Your boyfriend's face grew pale, and his expression distressed at the sight of your arm, which had been the target of the pokemon's attack. A straight line bubbled up with a familiar red liquid. Your hand quickly moved to stop the bleeding, but your boyfriend seemed to move faster…

▲Ingo▼

● The Subway Boss was trained in first aid. He knew that knowing both CPR and first aid could benefit his duties should any emergency situations arise on the trains, yet his trained calmness was out the window when it came to you. His anxiety was already up from what had just happened, and now this was unfolding before him. His handkerchief was fished out of his pocket and immediately pressed to your arm, applying pressure to the bleeding area. All the information and techniques he had memorised flew out of his mind when he saw you yet apparently his body remembered.

● His normally stoic face shifted with worrying and panic as his eyes remained big and focused on the fabric, which quickly was beginning to stain with blood. Admittedly, the wound was not anything overly serious. It was not longer than a few inches, nor was it deep, yet he felt as if somehow it would claim your life. His hands followed procedure despite how messy his mind appeared to be. You could see him carefully lead you through the streets of Nimbasa, ordering you essentially not to come “uncoupled” from him. His grip on your arm certainly provided good pressure until you both were in your shared home.

● Ingo sat you on the toilet as he quickly collected everything he needed to tend to the wound. The bleeding had thankfully stopped, yet he seemed on high alert still as he cleaned the skin carefully with water and then an antiseptic spray. A bandage was carefully applied over the wound. It was at that point afterwards his arms wrapped around you tightly. “Oh, I'm deeply sorry, dearest,” he apologised. His body shook. “I should have acted faster!” You reached an arm to hug him and pat his back. Reassurances came from you that it was no one's fault. The wound was properly tended to, and there was no more risk for anything to happen. A sniffle came from him as he finally freed you. His eyes were red, but the emotion was forced down. Another apology attempted to leave him for how he was acting. You kissed his lips to silence him.

▽Emmet△

○ His expression was eerily calm as his hand held your arm tightly. Blood continued to ooze from the wound. His jacket that he had been wearing was slipped off and pressed to the wound. While his face might have reflected both focus and a level of confidence. Inside, however, Emmet was screaming louder than his brother ever could during even the busiest hours at the station. He had barely been able to do anything about a pokemon suddenly attacking you, and now you were bleeding. Granted, it did not seem serious, but everything was collecting together and making his heart race. Ingo had made them take first aid and CPR classes, but Emmet apparently nearly forgot everything when it came to you.

○ You whined when he suddenly began to pull you away from the busy street. No words had been spoken. Emmet was dead silent as he navigated the streets of Nimbasa with an ease provided by his years dealing with questions about locations in the city. His jacket was growing stained with your blood, yet he was completely apathetic. The Subway Boss even pushed through people without a single “excuse me.” No one dared say anything after catching a glimpse of his expression, however. His grip was deathly tight as he led you into your shared home and right to the bathroom.

○ You sat on the toilet as the jacket was carefully removed to check the status of the injury. Upon seeing that the blood had stopped, he pulled away the jacket and wet a cotton pad to clean your arm and the wound. An antiseptic was applied, followed soon by a bandage. For a moment, he knelt at your side completely frozen. Then, Emmet suddenly sprung up and pulled you into his chest. His hold was ironclad around you. “Darling,” he whined, voice warbling, “I am verrrry sorry! It is my fault! I failed to anything…” You sighed. His facade had dropped entirely. Soft hiccups came from him as you began to rub his back. This cuddle session would last a while.

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ The blue-haired man's expression was almost unreadable as he held your wrist and simply stared at the bleeding wound on your arm. His thoughts scrambled to process everything. He had thought to deny your request for a walk before, unfortunately, relenting. You had seemed desperate for some kind of date, and Cyrus wished not to deny you and make the situation worse. Yet, this had happened! Your voice calling his name broke his mind from its trance. Right. You were bleeding. A handkerchief came from his pocket as he used it to apply pressure to the wound. The urge to shudder was forced down. Blood… blood was not a pleasant thing for him, but he knew you did not have anything that should concern him.

☄️ The public setting grew to make him more frantic. Too many people kept speaking and walking around you both as he held your arm up above your chest. Eventually, Cyrus asked for you to follow him. The streets of Veilstone were easy to follow as he quickly led you back to the apartment. His mind was all over the place still as he brought you inside and froze for a moment. A few frantic breaths left him before you softly pulled yourself away from him to head to the bathroom. He followed behind you wordlessly.

☄️ Before you could check the bleeding yourself, Cyrus moved to do it. Upon seeing that it had slowed immensely, items were retrieved from a nearby cabinet. His hands shook as he brought a wet cotton pad to wipe away the blood around the wound and once again while applying an antiseptic and a bandage. A sharp breath left him after he had finished. The room's air was tense. You thanked him for helping you, but he only reached to grasp your hand. His lips were pursed, and his eyes could not meet yours. A red tint seemed to flood his face. “… Beloved,” his voice wavered, “… I apologise. I should have declined your offer as it led to this situation–” You grasped his hand back and brought your free one to hold his chin. Upon hearing that his Weavile had once done worse damage to you, he felt mortified yet silenced. He supposed there was no one to blame in the end.

🥼Colress🛸

🧪 There was no panic, nor worry even, on his face. The scientist might not be a medical doctor, but he does have some formal training in that area. Granted, it is for pokemon, but he doubts that matters too much. He knew what to do, of course. Lab accidents and first aid do go hand in hand. He pulled out a handkerchief from his lab coat's pocket and pressed it against your bleeding arm. Your arm was then raised above your heart by Colress. He almost forgets that you two are in public as he contemplated how the connection between that kid and their pokemon was. You had to call his name a few times to break that focus.

🧪 Upon realising that he probably should further tend to your wound, he asked you to keep pressure on your arm while leading you back to the hotel you were staying at in Alola. He began to tap away at his keyboard. You could only wonder what it was while you followed him through Heahea towards the hotel. He hummed to himself as he noted various things, from how the pokemon had reacted to the type of slash on your arm and the severity of it. He almost failed to notice that you both had made it to your floor and room. Finally stopping, he opened the door to the bathroom.

🧪 Once inside, Colress checked on your bleeding and discovered it had slowed to a manageable amount. He took a wet cotton pad to wipe away any remaining blood and possible debris from the sight before applying an antiseptic dutifully. Watching him go was like seeing an automaton move, but it all came to an end with the bandage being placed over the wound. The blond sighed and readjusted his glasses. “Are you alright? Any chills or pains?” he asked, almost sounding like a doctor. He took your replies seriously before nodding. “… I'm glad that you are okay,” it was genuine coming from him, as was the small smile on his lips, “I don't think those two have any potential with their bonds. How unfortunate.” … And it was gone. The ways of Colress were often like that. You sighed. A soft kiss was then pressed to your bandage. “Our bond surely will accelerate your body's healing process,” he commented. At least he stopped madly ranting about Z-Crystals, you supposed.

♠️Grimsley❤️

♤ His expression was unreadable, but when was it not? Grimsley gazed at your wound, oozing out your precious lifeblood by the moment. It was before his eyes, and temptation called him… Is what he would be thinking if he were not more worried about where that pokemon's claws had been. He sighed as he pulled out his handkerchief from his suit's pocket. It was pressed against the wound. As fun as free blood could be, your health did take priority. He also felt frustrated that luck had called out this result. If the pokemon had just leaned more to the right, it would have run into him instead. His luck must have beat your own… How unfortunate.

♡ Grimsley held your arm up above your head while asking you to follow him back home. The slash, in truth, did not seem all too worse than the ones his Liepard usually gave him. Of course, any injury was still a risk to your health. The gambler actually liked you, so he did not intend to let anything bad happen to you. Which was another reason that he was frustrated. He forced his feelings down. You did not really need that right now, after all. He grumbled as you both navigated through Black City. Trainers and passers-by seem to move out of the way unconsciously for the Elite Four member. He supposed it was convenient enough.

◇ When you both entered his apartment, he sat you down in the bathroom as he quickly gathered a few things. The wound was wiped down before being bandaged. He sighed at the wasted opportunity but figured it was for the best. “Unlucky, isn't it?” he shook his head while bringing a finger to trace the covering on your arm. You nodded in reply while also voicing an agreement. “At least I've gotten better at wound care,” Grimsley cupped your cheek and leaned in close, “… Too bad that one was too much of a gamble. Maybe I'm getting too soft for my favourite thrill.” He pecked a teasing kiss to your cheek. You could only wonder what he meant by that.

#pokemon x reader #ingo x reader #emmet x reader #cyrus x reader #colress x reader #grimsley x reader #pokemon/reader #pokemon ingo x reader #pokemon emmet x reader #pokemon cyrus x reader #pokemon colress x reader #pokemon grimsley x reader #ingo/reader #emmet/reader #grimsley/reader #colress/reader #cyrus/reader

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grandlinedreams · 6 months

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... hi, it's me again ʕ⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴥ⁠ꈍ⁠ʔ i'm on finals week so i need a heavy dose of daydreaming with my comfort characters. can i request some hc (or an escenario, again whichever you prefer) about law helping the reader to study for an exam? maybe his reaction to the reader thinking that their grade wasn't good enough after taking the test? (great score, not the full mark) thank you sm ! i love your writing and i hope you have a great week and take proper rests mwah .⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Oof, finals week is always a doozy :( you've got this bb, I'm hoping that you got wonderful scores!!

[Heads up!: modern!au, fluff, comfort!]

You've been studying for weeks. Hours upon hours spent poring over your notes and text books, making flashcards and begging Law to help you review them, make sure that your grasp of the content was solid.

Highlighter stained fingers and paragraph after paragraph ㅡ burning the midnight oil until you can't keep your eyes open any longer. Law helps where he can, both in studying (he even drags out some of his old notes) and in making sure that you don't turn this into a detriment to your health.

("I'm not just your boyfriend," he intones as he more or less pushes you towards the bed, "I'm also a doctor. And I don't want you to pass out, so bed. Now.")

And ultimately, you have a good feeling that all of your hardwork will pay off ㅡ you're a good student, you pay attention, you ask questions when you need to.

It feels like a slap to the face when your score doesn't reflect that. At first you think you've read it wrong, trace it with a finger and mouth it to yourself ㅡ and then disappointment slams into you like a lead weight.

With yourself, with the material, even your professor (who, oddly enough, is one of the sweeter people you've had for a class) ㅡ it isn't fair.

You tried. You tried so hard ㅡ and it still isn't enough.

Law's first warning that things aren't okay is the fact that you don't answer your cellphone when he tries to call and ask what you want for dinner. The second is that the lights are off in your shared apartment, something that never happens (both of you have odd sleep schedules even when things are normal and there is almost always a light on somewhere) ㅡ and that he can't find you.

Your shoes are at the door, jacket hung up, along with your keys ㅡ you're home, but where is the question.

With limited space, there is only a handful of places you can be and when he sees you're not in the room that doubles as both a study and his office, he checks the bedroom.

Yor back is to him and were it not for the tremble of your shoulders, he'd think you were asleep. But you're not, you're crying and his heart sinks.

"[Name]," he says as he approaches, coaxing you up and into his arms, "why are you crying?"

It takes a minute or two for you to answer, sniffling as you take a shuddering breath. "Got the results of the exam back."

Law frowns. "And?" He prompts gently, wiping at your face, tear tracks cooling on your skin. He watches you, the tremble of your lips as you tell him your score, and his frown deepens. "That isn't that bad," he says, "that's only a couple points off."

"But I studied my ass off, Law!" Frustration colors your tone. "I worked so hard to ace that exam and it doesn't feel like I did enough."

Law understands the need for perfection, for everything to have a place and for nothing to be subpar ㅡ but he also knows how detrimental that can be for both your self-esteem and your overall health.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Law says, cradling your face gently. "You're still on the higher end of score for that exam, [Name]. And you can always ask your professor where she docked points and why."

Law has a point, and you sniffle before you press into him, sighing as he rubs your back. "You're right. I'm sorry for crying, that's stupid."

"No, it isn't." Law chides gently. "But these past few weeks have been stressful for you. I brought home dinner, and I can start a bath for you after, if you'd like."

You press a soft kiss to his shoulder. "Can we cuddle after?"

"Of course."

You hum, letting yourself cling to your boyfriend a little longer. "Sounds perfect."

#ㅡmine.#one piece scenario #one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader

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venuslcver · 2 months

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RELENTLESS ⋆

pairing: pushyex!rafe x kook!reader

synopsis: you run into your ex, rafe cameron.

tw: feminine described character, ex-lovers, hands described as slim, pining, profanity, alcohol consumption, toxic love (no use of y/n)

any type of interaction including likes, comments, and reblogs is appreciated! but ultimately not necessary. let me know if im missing any warnings!

the olive color palm of mia, your close friend, waved vigorously afront of your, now, crimson stained cheeks. eyes lowered while your slim fingers fiddle with your skimpy-sized skirt.

"hello!" "are you even listening?"

now realizing that you had completely zoned out, only in your attempt to avoid a particle douchebag of an ex-boyfriend, rafe cameron. you knew that you shouldn't have come to the country club for brunch, but with mia being convincing enough, you caved. raising your head a sufficient amount you finally replied, "uhh yeah. what made you think i wasn't?"

Mia began to mimicking you, "uhh i don't know... maybe the fact that you weren't even looking at me or responding back"

"yeah shit, that's my bad. i'm sorry", moving around restlessly in the, usually, comfortable seats at the country club. the sharp eyes of rafe cameron exerted daggers into you shamelessly. the corner of your slightly raised gaze caught him boldly looking up and down your slumped-over figure before licking his lips. making no attempt to be subtle, though that's how he had always been. from the first day he locked his eye on you, he knew he wanted you, and there was only so much pushing him away before you caved.

"hey, you ok?"

too anxiety ridden to resist looking down at your skirt, while your knee began to bounce viciously, you responded, "y-yeah, i think i just need to use the restroom. will you excuse me?"

"absolutely. want me to come with you?", mia offered.

"no... no i'll be fine"

you heard mumbling come from mia that wasn't audible, walking away from the small outdoor table that you were sitting at, strutting towards the bathroom. you clocked that you would have to walk right past rafe if you wanted to escape to the bathroom, for even a small, malleable amount of peace. though, rafe saw you walking past him as a challenge. taking the chance, he angled himself to be right in your view, stretched to reveal his rather shredded abs.

you tried to not gawk at him, but fuck he was even more fit than when you two were together.

not wanting to visibly see his ego inflate, you began to walk with even more haste than before, only staying in his vicinity long enough to hear a chuckle leave his mouth.

after taking a few moments to yourself, and gathering yourself, you began walking back towards the table when a voice spoke up, "i saw you checking me out"

rafe cameron

letting a vexing scoff leave your plush lips, you turned around to face rafe's large figure, "and i saw you checking me out"

catching on to your rather agitated tone, rafe responded, "you know if we tried this again, i wouldn't mind you looking at me anytime."

seeing him bring a finger to point in between you two made you angrier, "nice try but i would rather die"

bending down, now splaying his large hand on your right shoulder, rubbing his thumb against your collar bone, he spoke, face coming closer to you, "oh come on baby... you can't keep this act up for much longer."

"shoot me" you thought to yourself

rafe had always been your weakness, and him touching you, well made you a puddle. you knew exactly what he was saying but you found that acting dumb might help you out.

"and what act do you happen to be speaking of?"

a laugh escaped his mouth while the wheels in his head spun, his hot breath now fanning your face, eyeing your lips before speaking, "the one that possesses you to act like you don't want me fuck you senseless"

mouth wide open from his language in front of a few retired old people who came to the outer banks for relaxation. not wanting to add fuel to the fire you completely ignored what he said.

"i gotta go, mia is probably wondering where i am" "it's good seeing you rafe"

bold-faced lie

feeling his fingers effortlessly wrap around your forearm, you lightly pull away, "come on, don't make a scene"

seeing his mouth start to open, you interrupted, "please"

hearing you beg, caused a moment of weakness for rafe, letting go of your arm, he watched you walk away.

"i'll get her" he thought

#rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe imagine #rafe smut #⋆ rafe cameron fic ⋆#pushyex!rafe

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neverchecking · 11 months

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Maybe some yandere legend headcannons with a reader that dotes on him as they are aware of the things he does for them but loves him back close to a yandere degree and shows public ways of claiming him to other people like sitting in his lap or kissing him so much to the point he turns the same color as his hair.

Legend is like that fugly little rat in the corner that I tried hating but now he's just my baby boy.

Fugly ass rat (affectionately).

This was written under the idea that Reader, when paired with Legend like this, takes no shit. Eats name and takes ass. Stays in drugs, doesn't do school. You know, the Cool kid.

The Cheaper Things in Life

・❥・So, Legend isn't used to open affection. And I know the obvious route is that he's against it, he hates PDA, yadda yadda yadda, BUT-

(It's my comfort character and I'll mis-characterize him if I want to-)

・❥・Hear me out. It's the exact opposite. With the Yandere mindset, Legend is constantly reminded that things can be torn away, just like that`, constantly. Marin was a grim reminder of this fact. Honestly, Legend swore of love entirely because of the trauma the loss of her left him with.

・❥・But then you, in all your divine glory, come bulldozing into his life, probably flipping off his trauma along the way, and throwing him on his ass along the way.

・❥・He didn't even know how to react when you went right up into his face, barking at him to back off from the taunts when he pushed a little too far one too many times.

・❥・He had been stuck falling for you ever since.

・❥・It took a lot of pride time for him to apologize to you, but he did so, gently asking if you could give him a do-over. And to his surprise, you eagerly agreed, holding out his hand with a wide smile. Reintroducing yourself as if every syllable wasn't already branded onto his tongue.

・❥・He played along however with a small tilt to his lips and a cheeky bow-- even going as far as to take off his hat and holding it in the hand that folded against his torso.

・❥・From then on, your interactions become much more amicable. He'd even go as far as to say (Heart-racing, soul cleansing, spirit leaving-) friendly.

・❥・You seem to be a relatively affection 'friend' however. He can't number the amount of times you've bounced up to him, pressed a sin stained peck to his cheek before bounding off with a laugh on your lips and his hat on your head, leaving him sputtering for a second.

・❥・Or how many times you've come to lean on the back of his chair, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders as one of the others goes on about a battle plan.

・❥・Or how many nights you've spent cradled in his close embrace, muffling your sobs into his shoulder as you mourn your life previously lived and have broken his heart with your cries about you miss it.

・❥・He would do it all over again, in a heartbeat though. He would fight Hylia herself should you wish, just to minimize your anguish.

・❥・That all being said, he can't even find himself to think of you two as friends anymore. What sort of friends do that? None that he knows of (Never mind that he never lets anyone close enough to do that sort of thing).

・❥・So you must not be friends! You must be too shy to call him otherwise! Which just wouldn't do. How could he let everyone else know you were his and his alone and he would die to keep you by his side or pit his blade against anyone who dares to try and take your place were taken?

・❥・He's the one to ask you out, sitting on a high enough branch that the others couldn't hear you, but you could still watch over them.

・❥・He took a mental picture of your red-cheeks and flustered expression as you stumbled over your words before ultimately nodding slowly.

・❥・After that, it was as if you had been dating for years rather than hours, days, weeks, etc. He just made it so easy.

・❥・You spoke of him with such awe and grace, like you believed the hero title bestowed upon him. You spoke of the little things he did like they were worth tenfold what the monumental ones were.

・❥・And it was so perfect. You didn't care for all the heroics or the adventures, you cared for him. You didn't care if he could take out armies of bokoblins, no, you cared much more when he took the time to fix a hole in your pants. You didn't care if he had solved more puzzles than he cared to remember, but you did care when he took the time to set your bed mat out near the fire before you got ready for bed to ensure it was warm enough for you before nightfall. You didn't care for all the trinkets and rings and items he had that did incredible things. But you did care when he let you lay against his chest, watching him work through more sewing work, with some tune hummed under his breath.

・❥・Golden three above, he couldn't get enough of you.

・❥・At first, he assumed that you were taking your time to warm up to him, and he was giving you your space to do so lest he chase you right out of his arms and into someone else's He wouldn't let that happen, he wouldn't, not again, not again, notagainnotagainnotagainnotagain- . He was fine with that.

・❥・But when he's talking to some unnamed daughter of a merchant, who's much to talkative and trying way to hard to show off her chest to him-- something he took no interest in, not when he had truly ethereal you-- he figures that no, you are in fact holding yourself back.

・❥・You had gone off to some stall, looking at an assortment of fabrics with Legend following obediently after you, aweing over the different textures and colors as he stood on watch. That was when this...wench appeared, twirling a long lock of red hair around one of her fingers. He merely scoffed at her, turning his attention back to you. You were carefully examining two different red fabrics, pinching them closer together to view them side by side. You had an absolutely adorable little pout on your face that he just ached to kiss. He went to do just that before this HARLOT was getting in his way.

・❥・Could she not get the hint?

・❥・Scathing insults laid on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be fired before your hands, soft and understanding, full of nothing but pure love in touch alone, landed on his bicep. Your gaze was sharp and dangerous, honeyed lips leaking venom as you feigned innocence, asking what she was doing.

・❥・He knew he was completely ruined for anyone else when your smile turned razor edged, now a full blown smirk, and your tone remained saccharine sweet.

・❥・He was down so bad.

・❥・You, without breaking so much as a sweat, much less this character you had donned, tore this witch to absolute shreds, watching with some sort of amused glint in your eye as tears welled in her eyes before she was storming off in an embarrassed huff before you were dragging him in the opposite directions, completely oblivious to his lovesick gaze.

・❥・"Their fabrics were cheap anyway."

・❥・Great Din's tits, he was going to marry you someday.

#linked universe #linked universe x reader #yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linkeduniverse #legend of zelda #yandere legend of zelda #loz #link x reader #lu legened #yandere legend #yandere lu legend #yandere lu legend x reader #lu legend x reader #yandere legend of Zelda

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cecilxa · 2 years

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soft cries best violent minds

summary: cyno's not the best at feelings, but he'll try his damn hardest for you

contents: hurt/comfort, character heavy (?), gn!reader, tighnarisibling!reader (teeny tiny mention)

cw: reader crying (can be implied as to having a breakdown/panic attack), low to mild violence

a/n: based of off this ask (tw)

Cyno can hear you crying. In the small, well ventilated huts of Gandharva Ville, he can hear your sobs echo off the walls back into his heart. With every tear he knows you shed, with every breath you gasp out to take, his heart twinges every time, each newest thump even more shattering than the last. It's not right, he thinks, you don't deserve pain; you deserve joy, hope and laughter. Anything but sorrow.

Cyno believes in the ways of justice, in the ways of fairness and equality, so why do you think you deserve to feel this way? He can’t see anything past his rose-tinted glasses, his perfectly imperfect impression of you, and even if he was blindfolded, gagged and deafened, he knew he'd find his way back into your arms. So why are you sad, why do you think it’s worth it, why- oh why- does Cyno not help you in a time of need?

He knows the answer to that. The polearm he’s wielding is a dead giveaway. How much blood has been shed by the cool surface of his deadly weapon? How many screams has he heard, begging for mercy, receiving it in the form of divine retribution? There’s no going around it. First and foremost, the General Mahamatra’s ultimate instinct would be to hunt whoever, or whatever, hurt you. No matter how long it would take, no many how many long days and nights he would have to endure, he would find them, and he would judge them. Judge them using the might of his strength, and the harshness of the desert sand.

He doesn’t dare enter your hut. He’s afraid that he’ll lash out in anger- mouth setting in a grim frown- eyes dulling, emotionless, as he’ll demand you, in his low, dangerous voice, to tell him who hurt you. Cyno keeps a sharp mind, and he knows that anything that he’d do in anger would only hinder, not help, the situation even more. There’s only one thing that he values over justice, and that’s the smile on your face.

Frowns don’t settle quite right on your features, especially when paired with sorrowful eyes glassy with tears, and he can’t help but feel his heart twanging however much longer you’re crying for. If he were to be the reason for your red-rimmed eyes staining even more vermillion, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

So what to do? He knows Tighnari might make you feel better; the inside jokes you share with each other from growing up as siblings might make you giggle, and you’d take on that soft smile he knows he loves. He may even call out for Collei, who’ll ask you to help her with a new job she’d taken on. Anything to stop the pain rooted in your system; anything to make you happy.

At this moment, for perhaps the first time in his harsh life, Cyno is indecisive. He cannot, and will not leave you- his morals involving you forbid him from doing so- but the things he would try to do to help will only leave you crying even more. He will not let that happen either. Tighnari and Collei would be called, but Cyno feels something in his chest that doesn’t let him shout out for them. Throat closing up, mouth drying, he’s suddenly very aware that his body is not allowing him to speak. His mind is racing, thinking of ways that would make you feel better, anything to stop the tears from flooding his heart, when a feeble voice calls out his name.

“Cyno…?”

Something snaps in him.

Immediately, and without hesitation, he pads into the room as quietly and quickly as he can. Kneeling down on the floor in front of your figure, sitting down on the bed, he gazes up at your crystal face. He doesn’t know how someone can look so much like a broken angel; it’s an oxymoron in any sense. You’re still as captivating as when you grin at him in excitement, but there’s a hollowness in your eyes, which makes his heart crack ever so slightly, the same way your sobs make him choke up as well.

Maybe something overtakes Cyno, but what happens next surprises him. Thoughts of violence and retribution seep out of his mind, leaving him with an instinct to comfort you. He cups your face, kisses both your cheeks, eyes softening, as his thumbs settle on your eyelids, dainty as a battle-worn hand could be.

The General Mahamatra may not know how to make you laugh out in raucous joy; he may not know how to distract you from your problems, but he knows how to get rid of things that don’t belong. Two gentle thumbs softly brush away every last teardrop you shed. It might’ve been an hour, two hours, five minutes, but Cyno is still there, wiping away. Your tears haven’t let up, but at least your breathing has stabilised. It’s quiet, but neither of you mind.

The sound of cheerful birdsong interrupts the silence, yet Cyno carries on, polearm stashed away in a dark corner of your room.

a/n: as always, likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! mental health is important, don't neglect it!

#cyno x reader #cyno x you #cyno hurt/comfort #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin hurt/comfort #this is slowly descending into a cyno blog #i’m here for the ride though

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deadboyfriendd · 1 year

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Cochise l: Nellie

Summary: A dark stranger blows into town, bringing Hell with him. Little did he know, Hell was already here, in the form of you. The air here is stale and the residents stagnant. This town was as wild as the west was able, and you are the most wild thing about it.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, wet dream, smut included, feminine rage embodied and I gave her a gun

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.4k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading!

Find the series masterlist here!

When the dust blew in from the East, Hell came with it.

And Hell hath no fury like a woman’s reproach.

1890. From the ashes of the Civil War rose a phoenix of economic expansion and spurs the great migration west. Farmers, ranchers, prospectors, killers and thieves seek their fortunes. Cattle drovers turned cow towns into armed camps with murder-rates higher than those of modern-day New York or Los Angeles. Silver is discovered in Arizona, and the prospectors dragged their young wives and their Parisian fashions with them. Siphoned together out of greed, hundreds of Texas outlaws banded together to forge a new way forward, resulting in the birth of early organized crime.

Out of this chaos came the great legendary lawmen, and none as mean as you.

The air was stale this time of year, heavy enough to flatten a lizard, when the turn of the season brought the green back to the ironwoods and the snakes back from their hides. When it brought the heat back with a haughty laughter and a heart full of vengeance. The sun cast down a glare that warped the mirage of the desert backdrop of Cochise County, turning from a comforting radiation to a wasp sting when the night turned. The cereus blossom fragrant with rot that filled the stagnant night air and its timely beauty– and ultimate untimely death.

He reaped a certain morosity with him, spurs scraping across the floor like a toll, steps sure as snow in the northern country– as they dragged the dust from his heels eastward. His skin was of alabaster, and his clothes of obsidian. He was not from here, and it drew a shudder from the mesquite doors upon their sun-dried hinges. The dirty faces of prospectors, drunks, and cattle drovers turning to peer at him under sweat-laden brows.

The Whispering Sands was not the ritzy bar, no, that was the bar located in the lobby of the Grand Hotel up the holler. No, Your dealer was as straight as a Christmastime wreath, your doors hung as crooked as your dealer, and if you didn’t carry when you walked through, you had spares. There would be no clean men and women with their Parisian dresses and costly hat pins occupying this place. This was the lowest of the low.

He peers at you from under the brim of a coal-stained, honest-to-God gunslinger wool Stetson, lined with the hammered silver and turquoise-inlaid band. It laid flat across the top and around the brim. You hadn’t seen one like it since your wedding night on the ritzy hardwood grounds of the Grand Hotel herself. He takes a seat in a singular fell swoop, frock coat flaring outwards and casting a soft breeze over your presence. Single-breasted, large notch lapels. Beneath it, his dark pinstripe trousers folded under the weight of his body, the silver brocade vest above the black cravat remaining stiff. From where your eye connected with him, you could see the nickel plating of a Colt 1873 single action revolver, sheathed under the oiled ellipse of the leather-bound shoulder holster. It was apparent he wasn’t here to push cattle.

It was a fleeting gaze, the kind that rattle each of your vertebra and settled in your coccyx. A single golden curl slipped over a broad shoulder and swung heavy in the tension between your two bodies.

There was a resonant patriarchal tenor that buzzed amongst the patrons in this space, tense on the outcome and flat-lining in deliverance. They tried to avert wandering gazes from this new resident— strung together words in staccato, interrupted by morbid curiosity and on-looking eyes. Michael Doten– amicably monickered “Mudsill”, shattered this hum like china. He was a worm of a man, slimy in all of the worst ways, and, on this day in particular, aptly under the impression of laudanum and drink. He shared these sympathies with his own father– a man no more than fifteen years his senior.

He slinked through the door with the demeanor of an old tom-cat, crooked in stride and greasy to the touch— not that you could fathom anyone wanting to touch him at all. He demanded a house whiskey with a slovenly belch– a concoction made from your own sarsaparilla, burnt raw sugar, and chewing tobacco.

“Michael, I’d say you’ve about had enough today.” You chided, firm in your answer. The stranger peered a doting gaze towards you, then turned it toward ‘Ol Mudsill from a downturned hat– wistful in demeanor and daring in residence. He watched as Michael cast a thumb of brown saliva onto your floor, intentionally ignoring the existence of the spitoon a mere few feet from it.

He sneered towards you through leather-laden eyelids, a protuberance straight from the aforementioned spittoon, and filled with piss and vinegar, “Now,” He started, “ – if I wanted an old bitch telling me what I can and can’t drink, I would have considered marrying.” It was a slimy statement with a profound lack of remorse. It dripped from the gaps of his rotting teeth like a tar.

“I wouldn’t marry you, even if I was fixin’ to face death herself.” It wasn’t the first time you had denied him a drink, nor was it the first time he had spoken ill toward you. You doubted it would also be the last. You were a harum-scarum, devil-may-care woman, tough as nails and pretty as a mink stole.

“You don’t listen too good, now do you?” Mudsill spit back, standing now. Your fingers grazed the pearl handles of the Remington Model 1890 tucked away in the fold of your dresses. You hoped to God you didn’t have to use it.

Before ‘Ol Mudsill could think of something to say back, the dark stranger stood, “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“Is that a fact?” Mudsill raises a wiry brow towards the man, standing erect in front of him.

“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He said back, quietly. It was a discerning quiet, the kind where you figure trouble might be brewing.

“Well, for a man that don’t go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless there, don’t ‘ya?” The stranger said, standing a little more erect– like he was fixing for trouble, though, by the context of the rest of the conversation, you’d say trouble had already been brewing. Now, you waited for the pot to boil over, “No need to go heel to get the bulge on a tub like you, huh?”

Mudsill glared toward him though tight lids, a reckless abandon only a drunk could possess, “Is that a fact?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, I’m ‘real scared.” Musill replied with a bobbling nod of his head, reaching for the firearm tucked away behind his waistband.

“Damn right, you’re scared. I can see that in your eyes.” The stranger followed the movement of his hand momentarily, eyes settling over the worn wood of the stock before meeting back up with his eyes, “Yeah, go ahead, skin it. Skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.”

“Listen Mister, I’m gettin’ awful tired of you–” He was cut off, the stranger landing a stinging, open-palmed blow to his face.

“I’m gettin’ tired of your gas, now jerk that pistol and go to work.” Mudsill stared back, stunned. Frozen like a scared lizard. Another blow. “I said throw down, boy.” A third blow landed across his cheek, harder this time. You could see where the blood filled his mouth and covered his teeth. “You gonna do something or just stand there and bleed?”

“No?” The stranger raised an eyebrow, reaching upwards to put a forceful hand on mudsill’s shoulder, “Now, come on, Junior.”

The wire snapped behind ‘Ol Mudsill’s eyes, and with a sleight of hand, he reached for the worn pistol tucked into his overcoat. The dark stranger was fast, but you were faster. The pearl grips cold and smooth against the sweat of your palms. Quickly and in one motion, you stepped out from the bar, hand forced steady only in fear alone.

“You’re bluffing.” Michael sneered towards you, taking a step forward, closer to you with the barrel now in your direction. It was enough for the stranger to bear his arms as well, though, he wouldn’t need them today. The barrel met Michael’s forehead.

“I don’t bluff.” Your thumb met the hammer, pulling it back enough for a deafening swell click, “Now your family may be back to rush me, but that won’t stop me from blowing a canoe through your head first, y’hear?”

His eyes widened, and he pulled the barrel back from you, finger leaving the sheath of the trigger and thumb only staying tucked around the grip enough to keep it held.

“Don’t come back here. Ever.” You ordered, and he nodded slightly.

“Yes’m”

The stranger spoke then, pistol still planted firmly against the back of the offender, “And you’re gonna drop that weapon right here, Michael.” He ordered.

The worn colt clattered against the floor as he tossed it from his waist-height to the ground. The stranger took this as the opportunity to grab Michael by the collar and drag him out the front doors like a calf. You could see the durst stir from outside, but didn’t sense a further commotion. You sat idly in one of your stools, letting free an exasperated sigh as you threw your head down against the bar. You didn’t sign up for this when you found yourself out west.

You felt the stock of a pistol press into the meat of your upper arm, “Here. Keepsake. Hang it over the bar, Nellie.” The stranger spoke back to you, sliding the firearm across the worn mesquite bar top.

You raised a brow at him, more at the moniker, but also at his enthusiasm, “Nellie?”

“I had a horse like you once,” He released a breathy laugh between his words, maybe more nervous at the fact that he was comparing you to a horse, “ —even after she broke she was meaner than hell, but prettier than a mink stole. It’s a pleasure, Mrs–”

He thought it was foolish, comparing you to that mean old mare, but he didn’t have time to dote on it before you stopped him mid-sentence.

“Ms.” You corrected.

He couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted down to the ring on your finger, a single thin gold band that he dwelled on for just long enough for you to notice the cogs attempting to turn in his head.

“Dead.” You clarified, and he felt his heart contract as the word left your lips.

“Sorry to hear that.” He dips his head low, only now taking off the Stetson to greet you properly, “Name’s Munson. Edward Munson.”

You shook your head, forcing that still-bruising ache away to push a smile, “Ain’t no changin’, may God have willed it, Mr. Munson.”

He matched your smile, handsome cheeks creasing deeply around the curvature of his mouth, “Just Edward will do, ma’am.”

You pulled open the humidor, nimble fingers gracing along the stack of cigars beneath its lid. You chose the one with the cleanest-looking wrapping, one that looked sufficient enough as a thank-you, before offering it to him. He took it with a nod of his head, thick fingers wrapping around the base gently before pulling the kerosene vase near him. You watched the smoke roll from between his lips in a vapid crescendo, all too graceful and all too beautiful.

“I take it you're not a prospector?” You questioned him gently, voice sure, yet smaller than his resonating alto.

He laughed softly, the kind that heaves itself from the chest. Hearty, “No ma'am.”

“Then how does someone like you find yourself in a place like this?” You leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting firmly in the warmth of your palm. You tried to ignore the sweat building between the flesh.

He looked down at the cigar between his fingers, twirling it around and feeling the paper it was rolled in, “Well I find I could ask you the same thing–”

The bell above the door was shrill in the staleness of the air, the resonance of the prior entanglement floating back up in a cloud in an attempt to re-settle over the old furniture like silt. The man that waded through its wake was tall, but not gangly, no, he did not share the demeanor of a scarecrow. He looked like he meant business.

You pulled your attention away from Edward for a brief moment, your eyes tearing from his personage and settling over the familiar face, “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Hello, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his hat towards you in greeting, peering briefly at the man sat at the bar in front of you, “‘Ol Mudsill seems pretty shaken up, did somethin’ happen again?”

“Nothin that Edward here couldn’t handle.” You watched as his eyes flicked back and forth between you and Edward, like he was trying to piece a puzzle together but there were too many missing pieces, “Sheriff, this is Edward Munson, just unloaded from the train in Tucson.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached a broad hand out to meet with the sheriff’s.

He accepted the offer, hands locked together in a firm grip, “Steve Harrington.”

“Pleasure.” Edward mentioned, politely.

“You have a place to stay, Edward?” He asked, hand still interlocked with his for a brief moment.

“Not as of yet. Know of anyone housing?”

“I’d say the Grand Hotel just across the way.”

The walk to the other side of the road is brief, but the sun beat down against Eddie’s back like a brand– the eyes that followed his movement, the hands that held the iron. The dust kicked up behind him and collected at the bases of his boots seemed to slow his stride as he sunk into its softness. He would have to have them polished tomorrow.

Steve turned to him, boots casting a hollow thud as they stepped up onto the decking of The Grand Hotel, “I am inclined to ask, what exactly happened back there?”

Eddie cleared his throat, righting himself, “Just some drunk. Got all riled up when she wouldn’t serve him and started waving his gun around.”

Steve shook his head, removing his hat to run a finger through the hair beneath it, sand ripplying against his scalp beneath his finger, “Christ, well, thank you for handling that for her. She’s been through too much this year.”

“She dealt with that right on her own, sheriff, the only part I took part in was getting him out.”

Their boots made a clunk against the sun-rotted wood on the staircase of The Grand Hotel, stairs creaking in affliction. There was a moment of silence between the two men, tense and fleeting, like there was still something to be said.

“Her husband died last spring.” Steve finally mentioned, understanding that it wasn’t his place to tell.

“She mentioned it.” Steve felt a relief at him knowing. He didn’t want to be the one to have to bear the shock of the statement.

He sighed before continuing, “Shot and killed on that bar floor. ‘Couple of bandoleros robbing the place.”

“Chist–- She seemed capable.” Eddie mentioned to him, raking his hair back under his hat. He felt the sweat bead around where the band met his skin.

“But still, no woman should ever have to bury her husband.” The sheriff said, reaching up to place nimble hands on his hips, “‘Specially not that young.”

The Grand Hotel is the essence of luxury in the west. Well, as luxurious as they could ship by train. Mahogany covered the expanse of the palace in a grandeur scale, only being broken by the pin-striped wallpaper covering the upper half of the wayne-scotted wall on the second floor. The taxidermied elk that hung above the bartop was shipped from the northern country, as were many of the axis and whitetail deer that hung on other walls.

This seemed to be the only place in this town that a fine layer of dust hadn’t settled over.

The velveteen nature of the drapery that hung over the stage to the left in a heavy abismality had remained nearly untouched by the traces of the desert around it. The gold of the drawstrings that held them back still contained the luster under the light.

He couldn’t help but to search for you in the madness of coiled, unabashedly tentative curls piled on the heads of the women in the large bustles that scraped between tables and each other. You looked like you belonged here, but he knew where you would be.

This night’s show had ended already, the lingering patrons also taking residence within the palace. The backing curtain drawn to a close and the actors retired to their quarters. Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, overrun, overplayed. Edward thought about it. Of all the things in the world to know, why learn The Devil’s craft? He figured if it was the only thing left to know, he’d probably learn it, too.

There is a man of about five foot, ten inches sat at the bar, elbows rested against the glossy finish of the bartop. He is a burly man, Eddie can see that even from his sitting position. Steve guides Eddie towards him, taking his own seat next to him. Eddie stayed standing.

He looks back behind him, Steve muttering a few words that Eddie couldn't seem to hear over the drabble of lobby patrons, “Milt. County Marshall.”

He sticks a rough hand out, and Eddie takes it in a firm clasp.

“Edward Munson.” He shakes his hand once, Milt was a man of few words.

Steve buys Eddie a drink. A golden bourbon, not watered down like many of the bars out west did for reserve. Real golden bourbon. An import. A thanks.

They settled on a less-occupied corner of the palace, one that lacked faro tables and drunk patrons. On the opposite side of the baby grande that played anything its player knew how.

“Her husband was a good man.” Steve said between sips, sweat dripping down the crystalline glass like glitter, “Too good if you’d ask me. It’s what got him killed in the first place.”

He felt the pang in his chest, a tightening of muscles like tears, “It’s a shame. Pretty woman like that having to run that place by her lonesome.”

Steve chucked a bit in agreement, looking back over his shoulder like you would somehow appear, “That isn’t by our choice. She could have her pick if she wanted it.” He took another sip of his drink, and Eddie knew he was right. You were pretty, sullen skin like satin, hair like ribbon. He’d pay all of the money in his pocket just to touch.

“She doesn’t?” Eddie questioned, looking over to meet Steve’s eyes.

“I’d reckon not.”

He tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the piano. He watched the woman sat on top, the way the lace of her undergowns flowed upwards with the swing of her ankles. He watched the man play with skilled– albeit drunk– fingers.

This place was lively, perhaps a little too lively for the hour. People still yelling obscenities and praises over faro, ice in glasses. He felt the sweat from the glass beneath his fingers, and it matched the band of it building beneath his cap. His collar felt tight, like someone had been pulling it from the back. Shouldn’t it have gotten cooler when the sun went down?

“I’d reckon I’d better turn in for the night.” He said suddenly, placing the glass down on the bar in front of him, about a milliliter of fluid left watered-down and pooling at the bottom.

He ascended the mahogany staircase to his quarters, where he would retire for the night. However, as he stripped himself of his frock coat and underclothes, he couldn’t help to peer towards the luminescent glow coming from The Whispering Sands upper floor across the bend.

The curtains billowed outwards towards the street below, casting a light over the sand beneath it like a halo. White linen backlit by yellow butane lighting. And there you sat, all woman. He’d have half a mind to buy you some night clothes, and the other half a mind to burn them if you even had them.

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He could feel the windowsill digging into his palms, it grounded him– kept him from free-floating into the stagnant desert air.

The Grand Hotel is a loud place, and it never sleeps. The faro games did not stop on his account, and he didn’t expect them to. He closes his eyes, a glass breaks. A fight breaks out downstairs in a triad of commotion, shuffling, and yelling. This was the first time he had been in a bed in days, yet, it felt horrendously unceremonious. Sleep would not evade him in the way he willed it.

The flooring creaked, drunk patrons hit the wall outside of his quarters with intense, muffled thuds. Two people in the suit next to him were clearly of relation. He tried to ignore the way the oak headboard creaked and hit the wall in a rhythmic fashion. He tried his hardest not to think of you.

This place did not sleep, and he knew he wouldn’t either. So instead, Edward collected his hat and gun, pulling his trousers back on and lazily doing his shirt back up.

The night air had cooled some, less blistering than when the sun was out, yet it remained stale. He walked a bit, eyes still shimmering with the adjustment of light from the palace to the stark darkness of the desert. Light traveled a lot further here, darkness even further. The hum of the palace dimmed as the distance between them grew, air heavy like a barrier that stopped the noise from traveling.

He settled himself in the soft sand beneath him, back planted firmly against the knotty base of that twisted old ironwood. Someone else still awake at this unholy hour plucked delicately at old piano keys– these ones slightly more out of tune and reverberated off of the walls with a static hum that resonated through the otherwise empty streets. Sleep evaded in a thankless percussion.

And there you were.

He allowed his fingers to trail over the delicate expanse of your shoulder, brushing soft curls over its bridge. Soft presses of his mouth trailed from your year to the valley of your clavicle. He pressed your gowns down your shoulder as he went, the loose garment sliding off with ease.

In your glorious, supple nature. All woman all the time. Your hands, nimble and soft, were forceful against his chest as you pushed him back against plush white linens. Fingers as sure as death and as right as rain. The haze from the butane lamp cast a glow around you, baby hairs illuminating around your head like a halo.

Slowly now, but with an urgency, you right yourself in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his shirt in a way that made him want to beg just to feel a finger brush against his skin. He whined as he watched you with wide eyes.

His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, a welcome breeze blew through the open window, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. Songs of “Oh- Gods” and small giggles creating perfect songs- a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of the desert around you. You could feel his hands on your back, fingers his fingers unwrapping you from linen bed sheet confines and introducing you to your own bedroom like an heirloom– a home in which you yourself haunted. The palms of your hands feeling the smooth surface of stone beneath the skin, and the dewey droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue.

His fingers pressed firmly into the plush of your outer thighs, and your skin was soft. Calves skin, another import. Too soft for this place. Too soft for this sadness.

“So soft.” He whispered, voice a tenor to its usual pitch.

He watched where your bodies connected, the way you slid up and down on him, the way his fingers rippled your skin where they dug in, the gyration of your hips. Your hair is down this time, braid long since combed through, and the ends of it tickle as they brush against him.

“God, Nellie.” He isn’t particularly introspective or anything, but he does know that he’ll never feel something like this again.

Your tender touch a velvety petal trailed down the expanse of his chest where it heaves, nothing left to impede your touch. No overcoats, no holster or gun. Your hands like the claws of the bobcat pawing into the sand where his heart lay in an unmarked grave.

“Edward,” You whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands pressing the center of your back to bring you close against your chest. It was a plea. It read like a prayer. “Take me, please.”

His upward thrust slowed from long, meaningful bass crescendos to harsh uneven staccatos. Your breaths became erratic in nature to match. Your release washed over you like a storm, rolling and violent and all at once. His own followed suit.

Edward realized then that this was how the west would be won. If it wasn’t, he’d wage the war himself.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie munson smut #eddie x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie x you #Spotify #outlaw!eddie #cowboy!eddie

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vixannya · 15 hours

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It's Gallery Time!

Just to reiterate:

OoC Information: THIS IS NOT AN IN-GAME EVENT! This is meant as just something fun to headcanon for your character (and write about if you like - especially with @daily-writing-challenge currently happening), if it is something they are able to attend! If you do choose to write any stories about this, please feel free to tag me - @vixannya!

Vixannya owns an art gallery in Dalaran where she hosts various art exhibitions throughout the year. Two or three times a year, she will display her own work which is always accompanied by a massive grand opening and follow-up afterparty in another location.

Invitations are always given to those who make large contributions to the gallery and to the arts in general, as well as to prominent families from all over, friends, fellow Tarts, and those depicted in her work.VIP access goes to the largest contributors, her muses, and anyone who purchases one of the pieces from the gallery on opening night. Even if your character cannot attend the grand opening and afterparty, the gallery is open to the public for a month!

!Adults only!

THIS IS GOING TO BE A LONG POST!

Her first exhibition of the year is:

As above, so below As within, so without As the universe, so the soul

THE GALLERY:

The red carpet treatment always marks the entrance of the gallery, a place for the guests to show off and be photographed in their designer gowns and suits, or whatever else they choose to wear. The fashion seen here always rivals that of the city’s grandest galas, just don’t upstage the art! The hostess herself will be a representation of 'The Magician' tarot card, acting as a conduit between the spiritual and the physical.

A group of master illusionists have transformed both the inside of the gallery and the afterparty space, with the various rooms mirroring themes in their separate locations. The gallery version of each space is a little more simplified than that of the afterparty, in order to feature the art over all else.

The art itself has a single or multiple subjects, but each subject is painted twice to represent the duality of life and death. One portrait of each subject falls within her main area of expertise, the one she has become well-known for, Death. A premonition of how her living muse will die, according to her own secret form of divination. Many of which, in the past, have shockingly come true. The other portrait of the same subject is how they lived in a similar manner; their body position often mimics in small or large ways that of their death portrait, and more often than not these paintings are hedonistic in nature. (Example: A man pinned to the wall by his lover, versus the same man pinned to the wall by a polearm stabbed through his gut.)

The focal portraits are placed at the end of the gallery, one was depicted in THIS STORY. A soldier crushed to death, surrounded by cracked, purple stained glass and slate roofing the color of lapis lazuli. Those with a keen eye would recognize this surrounding rubble to be Dalaran, which is ultimately why she had decided to highlight this particular set of portraits. Its brother portrait presents the same man very much alive and enjoying being crushed beneath the weight of his lover and fellow soldier.

Centered high up against the ceiling within the main room of the gallery, a large, brilliantly glowing orb that flares outwards every so often. Those familiar with the Radiant Song would recognize this to mimic it.

A lone violinist plays within this room, but his song travels all throughout the gallery itself, making it sound as if he’s present in every space. Even with attention focused on the art, one cannot help but feel the emotions the music seems to convey, especially those more open and empathetic. Just as there is duality in the art, there is in the music as well; providing moments of pure joy and comfort contrasting with moments of melancholy and woe. *You’ll find @jacelandon here playing the violin*

THE AFTERPARTY:

This is in a separate location from the gallery itself!

The Tree of Life greets you upon entrance into the grand space. A massive tree growing from the hard ground strung with twinkling lanterns of all colors of the rainbow touches the vaulted ceilings and lends a welcoming and warm ambience. A circular room with a variety of open arches leading elsewhere, a string quartet plays off in a corner; this room seems to act as a general mingling area where the waitstaff carries around a variety of drinks and hors d’oeuvres on trays. The entire floor appears to be transparent, allowing guests to see the roots of the Tree of Life stretch down into darkness.

The archway leading directly behind the Tree of Life appears to be the food area, where guests can choose from dining in a variety of upscale restaurants or at an extravagant buffet. If you crave it, they will create it.

The archway leading off to the right is labeled ‘As Within, So Without’. A grand hallway covered floor to ceiling in mirrors takes you to a variety of rooms that provide various services for mental, spiritual, and physical healing. Fortune tellers of all sorts gather, offering everything including, but not limited to, cartomancy, palmistry, astrology and more. There are also confessors, diviners, spiritual healers, meditation rooms, and quiet rooms. A full service spa is also located here, as well as escort services, for those seeking something a little more physical.

*You’ll find @xylaes working here as an escort for part of the evening*

The archway leading to the left is labeled ‘As Above, So Below’. The path splits here, to go above or below.

Above will lead you to a ballroom decorated like the cosmos itself. Twinkling stars float mid-air that can be captured within the palm of your hand, planets and galaxies loom high above. Aerialists dressed as constellations perform high above the crowd, seeming to almost float in space. An orchestra plays on stage and bars line the edges of the room.

Below will lead you to a ballroom decorated like an underwater fantasy. Phosphorescent bubbles float mid-air that can be captured within the palm of your hand, massive glowing jellyfish and other varieties of sea creatures loom high above. Aerialists perform above the crowd, seeming to be almost suspended in water as their hair and clothes flow as if they are below the surface of the sea. An orchestra plays on stage and bars line the edges of the room. Warning: There may be some nudity present here among the performers.

*You’ll find @rylandfalkov performing here, and @serazhen bartending*

The two ballrooms seem to mirror each other perfectly, should you look upwards through the illusions, you’ll be able to see the other ‘world’, upside down, and mirrored to the one you stand within.

The final area of the after party, you enter through the Tree of Life itself. This is the ‘anything goes with consent’ area; so nudity, sexuality, and drugs will be heavily present. You traverse downwards through the roots that begin to glow with bioluminescence in every color imaginable. It eventually opens into a larger area where music groups and DJ’s perform throughout the entire night, small stages off to the sides and raised platforms throughout the dance floor holds various performers whether it be go-go dancers, burlesque performers, fire manipulators, body or rope suspension demonstrations. Should one look upwards, they can see a silhouette of the Tree of Life growing above.

*You’ll find @dicenne here performing with fire and demonstrating rope suspension on others.

The roots of the tree weave through every space here, creating a variety of winding caverns that contain various spaces and surprises around every corner. Hidden bars made from tangled roots, private rooms for any variety of activity, performers dancing within a cage of roots, darkened caves that open into a grotto for swimming, and temptation around every corner.

To return to the surface, you must keep traversing down further into the deep recesses of the space where eventually you will find yourself, somehow, exiting through the Tree of Life.

The final message on the archway leading out of the afterparty reads 'As the Universe, So the Soul'.

Remember, what happens at the after party stays at the after party!

*All stories relating to this event will be reblogged with the #asabovesobelow tag, feel free to do the same!*

#asabovesobelow #story #vixannya #gallery

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mingtinys · 1 year

Text

Stained Glass [ pt. 2 ]

pairing : choi san x gn!reader

mafia!au , soulmate!au , angst , hurt / minimal comfort

warnings : language , depictions of blood and open wounds , mentions of poison , mentions of general violence , mentions of needles , major character death

word count : 5.6 k

requested ? no

a/n : sorry , sorry , sorry , sorry , i promise i have some fluff in the works to make up for this ( p.s. if you wanna cry like i did while writing this , i seriously suggest listening to “something in the orange” by zach bryan )

[ part 1 ]

In hindsight, you probably should have put a little more thought into your exit. But you weren't thinking about anything except getting the fuck out of there as fast as humanly possible. It didn't register that you had neither your phone nor a ride back to the base until the crisp air greeted you and now it was too late. No way in hell could you possibly muster up the courage to walk back inside and grab a set of keys. So instead, you take up residence on the porch steps, sitting down and using the railing to lean against, shutting your eyes for just a moment.

Someone would walk out eventually. Ideally, it'd be Yunho, the two of you weren't close enough for him to pry on the situation and he had a good sense of when to ask questions and when to squash his curiosity. San was out of the question completely for obvious reasons, and Mingi, while better than the latter, would surely pester you with questions you can't cope with hearing at the moment. Then again, maybe all three boys would just avoid you altogether, out of hatred for what you'd done to San. Is it bad you actually kind of prefer that option?

A heavy sigh flows through your parted lips, eyes blinking open slowly to adjust to the golden light of the setting sun. It almost evades your mind that this is your first sunset, well, the first one you can actually admire the true beauty of. It's even better than Mingi described it to be. Hues of pink, purple, and orange blended together in perfect harmony and morphing into deeper shades as the minutes tick by.

San would quite like this. He'd always dreamt of watching his first sunset with his soulmate tucked away in his arms. It was the one aspect of finding his soulmate he used to talk about the most. Guilt spreads through your veins like wildfire, you never realized a heart could physically ache in such a way. You don't deserve the sunset. How dare you sit here and enjoy the one thing San wants most in the world while he lays inside covered in blood and in pain.

It's all too much. You squeeze your eyes shut and pull your knees to your chest. You don't deserve to watch the sunset any longer, so you won't.

It's lost on you how long you stay in that position, curled up and hiding your face from the world. But it can’t have been longer than an hour when the front door finally squeaks open and you feel a heavy presence sit down beside you. You flinch when the person rests their warm palm against your back, rubbing in slow circles like you would to soothe an upset child.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. It's just me." Mingi's voice is unbelievably soft for how deep it is. You should've known it'd be him. No sense beating around the bush with him, not when he can read you about as easily as a picture book.

"Did San tell you?" It comes out muffled, but Mingi seems to hear your words just fine.

"He did," His tone is cautious. "Are you ready to talk about it?"

You shake your head, still refusing to look up and Mingi sighs. "Okay, I'm here when you are. No judgment, I swear." Usually, you'd make him lock pinkies with you anytime he made a promise, but his words seem genuine enough and you really don't have the energy to tease him like usual.

It's the silence that ultimately pushes you over the edge after just a few minutes pass. It wraps itself around your throat and gradually constricts your airway until the words are practically choked out of you. The first sob you let out summons Mingi's embrace, long arms looping around you in a matter of seconds and nestling you into his side. The second one has you leaning against him for support, shaky hands gripping the fabric of his shirt while endless cries spill from your lips.

"I feel fucking horrible."

Mingi, surprisingly, stays dead silent as you vent. It isn't until your rambles slow to a halt that he finally speaks his mind. "For the record, I don't think you're a horrible person. I think you're scared."

You blink away the few remnants of tears that fog your vision to meet Mingi's gaze, you're not sure you've ever seen him look so solemn. His usually cheery expression is shrouded in darkness, purple-ish semi-circles already forming under weary eyes.

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but you need to talk to him."

You shake your head and speak through sniffles. "I can't go back in there, not after what I said to him."

Mingi releases a sigh and tugs at the roots of his hair, "Do you love him?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

Yes, you do.

"Still, it doesn't change anything." Your gaze drifts back to the sky, it doesn't look the same as it did just minutes ago. You'd heard from many that as the sun gradually dips towards the horizon, the colors become more vivid and rich. But honestly, they kinda just seem muted and dull, grey almost. Perhaps that's just how sunsets worked, it's not like you would know any better anyways. "I can't take back what I said, and my opinion on soulmates still stands. San's better off with someone else anyways."

"I don't believe that. Not even a tiny part of you wants to be with—"

"Can we please stop talking about it, I feel like I’m gonna throw up if I have to spend another second thinking about it."

Mingi nods and fixes his eyes on the sky as well. He must see something in it you don't, as he stares at it with a certain twinge of awe in his eyes. "How do you like your first sunset?" He muses, bringing a much-needed change of topics.

You shrug, "It was good at first, but now I think you're kinda full of shit."

Mingi lets out a breathy laugh, relieved to see a bit of your usual self shining through your broken exterior. "Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Don't know." You lean back on your palms. "It's just kind of . . . uninspiring? Dull. Greyish. But hey, to each their own I guess." Your useless attempt at a taunt falls flat, but it's really all you can do to stop thinking about what's looming just inside.

A cool breeze rustles the trees, plucking loose leaves from the branches and sending them swirling to the ground. The windchimes Seonghwa had insisted on putting up to make the safe house look more natural and inconspicuous resonate with their pretty song. You're almost positive they were originally a gift from his soulmate, way back before everything went to shit. Hongjoong had protested them from the very beginning, often referring to the object as a noisy beacon to the safe house's whereabouts. But after what happened to his soulmate, Seonghwa was dead set on them being put up, and no one had the heart to tell him no.

While their backstory is tragic, you've come to enjoy the music it produces. You always loved the stained glass pendulum that dangles perfectly in the middle. Finally able to see the colors of the design, you make out a pink lotus flower atop a green lilypad, the background an aqua blue. Looking at it now, even those colors look faded. You chalk it up to months worth of sun damage.

It isn't until your gaze meets back with Mingi's that an uneasy feeling begins to metastasize in the pit of your stomach. Etched into his sharp features is a look of pure confusion and apprehension. You furrow your brows at him, "What?"

Mingi looks to the sky, then back at you, "What color are the leaves?" You don't like the way he’s visibly connecting dots in his head while everything remains unknown to you. The uneasy feeling climbs its way into your throat and renders your mouth dry. You're almost too scared to glance back at the leaves and check their color, but will yourself to regardless.

"They . . . they're um—" Panic sets in like a raging storm. You're completely frozen in place, wracking your brain to decipher any semblance of the bold fall colors you've heard all about your entire life. But the once vivid hues begin to fade into the familiar dreary tones of grey, white, and black.

"And the sunset?"

"I— I don't know. . . Kind of, dark grey?"

It's Yunho's urgent yell for help that finally clicks the last piece of the puzzle into place. Mingi's expression morphs into one of pure terror, coming to the same realization just seconds before you.

Everything dawns at once. The day Seonghwa lost his soulmate, a memory that’s haunted you every night since. The fear in his eyes as his vision melted away, leaving nothing but monotone greys in their absence. The agonizing cry he let out when he realized it was too late and there would be no more reason to keep up the search for his missing loved one. Their kidnappers didn't even have the decency to return their body to him. To this day, Seonghwa still never regained the gift of color in his vision.

You don't remember bursting through the wooden door and into the living room, much less even standing up. But one moment you were sitting on the steps outside and the next you’re hovering over San's trembling form.

"What the fuck happened?" Mingi stands before a very grim and frazzled Yunho. He's rummaging through his bag, discarding objects left and right. Yunho's voice is shakier than you've ever heard it before. "I think whatever was in him had poison laced in it. It's spreading and we don't have enough time to figure out what it is."

"What does that mean?" Mingi asks, his gaze flits back and forth between San and Yunho's bag of supplies.

"It means he's gonna fucking die if I don't find an antidote or get it out of him somehow." Finally, he grabs a glass bottle filled with a clear liquid and a syringe. "Call Hongjoong and tell him to get over here with every antidote we have stocked up now." Mingi doesn't waste a second, stepping into the other room to explain the situation to your well-respected leader.

"Y/N," Yunho snaps you from your thoughts. "Help me get him on the floor, I need to inspect the wound, maybe I can figure out what it is he was poisoned with."

You're still stuck in a haze of the initial panic, and Yunho's words process a little slower than appropriate for the situation. It takes another firm command from him before you snap into action. "Now, Y/N!"

Yunho grabs San's ankles and at the same time you hook your arms under San's armpits and lift him. Hisses leave his lips as the two of you maneuver him out of the armchair, too rushed to worry about being even remotely gentle. "Okay, right here, ease him down and then stay there, I need you to try and keep him somewhat awake. Do you understand?"

You give a curt nod. Your legs fold as you sit down as slowly as possible, lowering San down in sync with Yunho. His limp weight makes it hard, but you manage to lay him flat without causing further injury. Yunho gets to work immediately, cutting a slit up San's shirt for access to the wound and removing the freshly done bandages, already stained a grotesque blackish red.

San's head rests limply in your lap as you sit crisscrossed on the floor. He's barely conscious, body trembling and feverish. Sweat clings to every inch of his skin, matting his hair platinum hair down to his forehead in clumps. His breaths come out as short and labored gasps, chest rising and falling sporadically. However, what scares you the most is the way his eyelids keep rapidly fluttering, dark brown irises rolling so far back in their sockets you see nothing but the white of his eyes.

You aren't sure if he's even coherent enough to process what's happening. But then he begins to panic, stretching his arms out and feeling around for something to grab hold of. It sends a pang through your heart, knowing he's cognizant enough to register the effects of the poison but not control his body's reaction.

"Keep him still!" Yunho barks harshly, tone void of any empathy or remorse. You can't exactly blame him for it, not when you've all been trained to turn off the emotional side of your brains in situations like these.

"It's okay, you're okay. I got you." You catch his arms and guide them back to his sides, trailing your fingers up to his shoulder, tracing feather-light lines into his clammy skin. The action stops him from thrashing. "Yunho's gonna help you, okay?" You can't even begin to imagine how terrifying it must be to have no choice but to sit there and leave your life in somebody else’s hands. You give his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, just to let him know you're there, then continue trailing your fingers across his skin.

Something halfway between a wheeze and your name passes through his parted lips but he's quickly cut off by an abrupt coughing fit seconds later. "Yeah, it's me, I'm here. Don't try to speak, all right?" You can't tell if he's trying to nod or if his head is just lolling to the side. Your hand comes to rest against his cheek, fingers ghosting a repetitive pattern across the skin. Your other hand works to smooth back the hair from his face, pausing every now and then to blow cool hair against his forehead. It's the most skin-to-skin contact you've had in a lifetime. Even though the consequences of discovering your soulmate were already triggered, doing so still sends a rush of anxiety through your bones.

Mingi finally appears again, saying something about Hongjoong being on his way with a couple of the guys, you aren't really listening. Yunho immediately ushers him over, instructing him to help by handing off items from his medical bag when needed. You mentally thank Yunho for taking charge and being so level-headed. Because right now it's like all your training went straight out the window and you can't do anything but dwell on the fact San may die and the last thing you said to him was that you'd never accept him as your soulmate.

Oh God, what if he dies before you ever get the chance to fix anything?

A pungent smell invades your senses, cutting your spiraling thoughts short. You hear Mingi gag and Yunho spits out a string of curses. He's successfully cut away at the bandages, revealing a sight nothing short of a scene in a horror movie. You can barely make out the stitches Yunho put in amongst the mess of blood and swollen flesh. The wound looks infected, as though it's been festering for weeks. Purply-black veins branch out from the wound and spread across his abdomen, made alarmingly visible by how much his skin has paled. Blood continues to trickle from the wound, though its color is muddled and darker to the point it no longer appears red.

"Shit." Mingi breathes out, raking his fingers through his tussled hair. "That's not good, is it?"

"Please tell me you know what to do." You plead with Yunho, but he stays silent. The last shred of hope that manifested itself in your heart deteriorates to nothing as you watch the steely expression on Yunho's face falter. He doesn't know what poison it is.

The three of you exchange a round of silent glances. You don't think you've ever seen the two boys look so defeated, especially not Yunho. He always has a fix for everything. Tears break your waterline for the second time within an hour.

"No. No! Come on. Yunho please, you have to know something that'll help." San shifts in your lap and you really hope he can't pick up on the desperation in your voice. But the color in your vision is fading more and more by the second and it's getting hard to keep a positive outlook.

He just shakes his head. "I've never seen a poison this aggressive. I— I'd need to take a sample and study it to figure out an antidote."

"Can't you just give him the general one?" Mingi tries, glancing towards the glass bottle Yunho had set aside from earlier.

"I don't know if it'll work on something like this. It could make it worse, there's too big of a risk—"

"It's better than doing nothing." You protest.

"No. We need to wait until Hongjoong gets here, maybe he'll know—"

"Yunho." His head snaps up to look at you. "Please." Yunho's eyes flicker between the bottle and syringe on the table to San's growing infection. You can see the turmoil brewing in his head. "Please."

"It's not a solution. At best it'll keep him comfortable for the time being and give us a few more minutes until Hongjoong can get here. Got it?" You nod in understanding, and Yunho continues. "But if it backfires . . ."

"Who knows how much longer it'll take Hongjoong," Mingi states, voice surprisingly calm. "He'll die anyway if we wait too long. You know San, he'd tell you to take that risk."

The entire room is tense, nearly silent aside from San's ragged breathing and occasional groans. The taller boy chews at his lip, gaze still locked on the Hail Mary sitting just inches away. "Okay," He whispers, defeated. "Okay." You release a long, pent-up breath at his answer and pray to every God known to man that this will work.

Yunho nimbly takes the glass bottle in his hand and tips it upside-down, sticking the needle in and drawing out the liquid. He taps the syringe a few times, eyeing it carefully and measuring the amount with laser-like precision. "It's gonna hurt. Bad." He warns. "The second I inject it he's gonna start to feel it, you need to make sure he stays as still as possible." Both you and Mingi nod.

"Okay, ready?" Yunho positions the needle just above the swollen and angry wound, thumb resting on the plunger.

You take a moment to lean in closer to San, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. "This is gonna hurt, but I promise you're gonna be okay. Bear with me just a little longer, yeah?" Even in his dazed and tortured state, San finds it in himself to mutter out the tiniest of confirmations. So you lift yourself back up and position your palms flat against his shoulders, pressing down firmly to restrict any movement.

"Ready." You nod at Yunho, who then looks to Mingi now positioned at San’s feet, large hands wrapped around his ankles. He gives a slight nod.

There's a split second of complete and utter silence that hangs in the air, occurring between the second Yunho lines up the syringe with San's skin to the moment he presses down on the plunger. It fools you into thinking it won't be so bad.

But then a shrill noise breaks past San's lips and his back involuntarily arches up from the floor at the sensation. He almost, almost breaks free of you and Mingi's hold, but Yunho is quick to push down on his abdomen with his free hand, effectively pinning him to the floor. Somehow, it's his pathetic whimpers that break your heart more than his screams ever could. It’s just so unlike him, you’ve truly never seen him this distraught. Tears carve dewy paths down his cheeks as unheard pleas tumble from his lips. He struggles here and there, but it's no use with three people keeping him restrained.

In total, it takes about five minutes for his cries to taper out and the medicine to stop lighting every one of his nerve endings on fire. He sucks in giant, heaving breaths, though they already sound a lot healthier compared to just minutes ago. Slowly, the three of you release your hold on his limbs and wait with bated breath for him to say or do something. Anything.

It's between those deep inhales that San finally mutters his first coherent sentence since you sprinted back into the house, half-lidded eyes fighting to stay open.

"Please tell me it's over." The words slur together and his voice is raspy and dry, nothing like the silky smooth melodic sound you're used to. But he's conscious enough to talk and that's the first real win of the day, so you don't take it for granted. There's a collective sigh from the two men in front of you, and Mingi all but collapses to the ground himself, leaning against the armchair for support.

"It's over," You reassure. "You did well."

Tired eyes stare back at you like they're analyzing every feature with apprehensive worry. It's like he can't believe you're actually there. He raises a shaky hand, reaching out until the tips of his fingers brush up against your jaw. San shudders as you take his hand in your own and press a long kiss to his palm.

"I'm here, I'm not going anywhere this time."

That seems to calm his nerves just enough for some of the tension in his shoulders to subside. His hand falls back to lay on his chest and your fingers return to smoothing over the supple skin of his cheeks, tracing simple shapes.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, I know it couldn't have been easy finding out—" You shush him, feeling the way his heart rate picks up to an abnormal rate with his anxiety-driven rambling. "You don't need to worry about that right now, okay?"

"I do." Another fit of coughs shakes his body, but he stubbornly pushes through. "Because if I don't make it . . . I can't end things how they are right now."

“I’m not angry with you, San. Everything just happened so fast and I panicked, but it wasn’t your fault.” San shivers as you stroke his jaw absentmindedly, “How about this? When all of this is over and we’re back at the base, you and I will sit down and figure all of this out.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

San hums in response and turns his attention back to studying your features, a soft expression settling over his face. Despite his sickly complexion, San looks exceptionally angelic himself and you can’t help but stare back. You’d never been close enough to drink in all the details of his face the way you can in this moment, so you take full advantage. It’s truly criminal how long you’ve overlooked the sharp peaks of his cheekbones and perfect nose. Now that you think about it, everything about him is perfect. The way his top lip turns slightly downwards in a natural pout, soft and rosy in color. The sparse freckles that decorate his cheeks and the sparkling pools of rich brown surround his pupils. The way he so effortlessly incites feelings of comfort and safety with his gentle smile.

Getting caught up in the mesmerizing sight of Choi San becomes your downfall all too quickly. Your guard completely drops the moment you lock gazes, and you flinch when he blurts out suddenly.

“I love you.” His declaration sucks the air from your lungs and your chest constricts around your heart. “I don’t expect you to say it back, but I just needed you to know because I’m not sure how much longer I—”

“Please don’t,” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. You can't even handle the cracks in his voice, much less the idea of him not making it. So you cut him off right then and there. Maybe it's selfish not letting him finish his confession, but you seriously can't listen to him talk about his death like it's inevitable any longer without feeling the need to throw up. When your eyes open again, San’s gaze is watery and full of a sorrow you wouldn’t even wish on your worst enemies. “You’re not dying, San. So stop acting like you are.”

Your denial is nothing short of naïve.

“I could.”

"San. I’m serious, that's not gonna happen—"

“You don’t know that!” He finally snaps, taking you by surprise. “Y/N, please. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but nothing feels right, and I . . .” He swallows thickly. “I’m scared.”

The broken statement mixed with the sheer hopelessness in his voice sinks your heart further down in your chest. The phrase sounds so foreign coming from him. Where was his overly cocky charm? His fiery confidence? The teasing quip to lighten up a tough situation? You weren't used to being the one to ground him. But you try for his sake.

"I know, I know, I’m sorry." You lean down and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, hovering there for a moment. "But you're okay, you just have to hold on a little longer. Hongjoong will be here soon and he'll know what to do." San looks like he believes your words about as much as he believes the tooth fairy exists. You decide to try a different tactic to ease his mind.

"I saw the sunset, you know?"

That piques his interest, eyes widening ever so slightly at the word “sunset.” He swallows dryly, "Tell me about it?"

And even though the vibrancy of the world has yet to fully return now that San was safe, you remember just enough about the vivid colors you'd seen upon first stepping outside to paint a picture for him. "It was beautiful," you brush a stray piece of hair from his eyes before continuing. "Just like all the stories describe it to be."

Mingi and Yunho have long since let their eyelids droop and their bodies slump against various pieces of furniture, finally getting some much-needed peace after the day's events. By the looks of it, San was beginning to follow suit, losing his fight with keeping his eyes open and succumbing to exhaustion. Your own eyes burn themselves, begging for even a moment of rest. But you power through for the sake of looking over everyone until help arrives.

"And the colors?" San mumbles, words slurred as he dances the fine edge of slumber. His breathing soon subsides to a slower pace, chest no longer spasming in an attempt to suck down giant gulps of air. He truly looks at peace.

"Soft. So many warm pinks and purples and oranges, I honestly lost count of how many different shades the sky could blend into as the sun dipped behind the trees. Oh! You'll love the way the golden light filters through the autumn leaves, the rays are so warm and—"

It's like some scene from a drama the way your moment of pure bliss turns into one of absolute anguish. You sit, completely frozen in place, with your heart through the floor as the last remnants of color leave your vision completely and without warning. There should be no doubt in your mind, but your brain hasn't completely caught up with the situation to process that San's chest no longer rises with each intake of air. It can't comprehend the giant hole his lack of presence leaves in the room. But he was just talking to you? He was fine. He was safe. He can't be . . .

So you grip his shoulders and give him a firm shake. Your voice sounds unfamiliar even to yourself, pitchy and trembling as you call out his name.

"San?" Another shake. "San?"

Nothing.

Your palms cup his face, fingers drumming against his skin to wake him. You don't even register the trails of salty tears that spill from your cheeks and drip onto his ghostly white face.

"SAN!"

The break in your voice is what causes Yunho and Mingi to finally bolt awake, panic driving stakes straight through their hearts. You lock eyes with Yunho, cradling San's head in your arms. "What happened? Yunho what the fuck happened? He was fine just a second ago, he— he was talking, he was awake! I don't—" you suck in a sharp gasp mixed with a sob "—I don't understand. Please help him!"

It's the look of pure horror on Yunho's face that finally makes the entire situation feel real. "It– It didn't work." He whispers like he's also having to convince himself.

You feel like you're going insane, San was just there, talking and acting fine.

"No, no no no no no no. No! He can't—" Your eyes frantically dart back and forth between him and Mingi, then back to San. "San, come on," you whine. "Come on, you're okay. Please, just open your eyes for me, yeah?" His head lolls from side to side in your grasp, his entire body hauntingly still.

In the corner of your vision, Mingi and Yunho rise to their feet. "Hongjoong will be here soon," Mingi's voice is even softer than it was on the porch. His own tears threaten to slip free from his waterline, you hate when he tries to act brave. Yunho can't even face you. How can they just accept this? "We'll give you a moment alone with him, it's best you say your goodbyes now." You can only watch as they disappear outside, just barely catching a glimpse of Yunho stumbling to his knees and Mingi gripping the porch railing right as the door slams shut.

Everything crashes down at once.

The silence and stillness of the safe house. The way his cheeks grow cold under your touch. His blood still staining the furniture and hardwood. The stained glass windchime outside still singing its funeral song as it claims yet another soul lost far too soon. All of it overwhelms your entire being at once, hammering it into your brain that he's gone for real this time.

You aren't sure how long you sit there, cradling him in your arms as you rock forward and sob into his chest. Throat ripped raw from screams that summon no one to your aid.

For what feels like hours, you sit alone in your grief. Until a slender figure crouches beside your hunched form and pets the top of your head.

You look up, expecting Mingi to finally be there, telling you it's time to take him away. You're fully prepared to use every last bit of your strength to fight him on it until you lock eyes with Park Seonghwa instead. His dark eyes stare back with a knowledge behind them that no one else on your team could ever even begin to understand. His usually hardened gaze is gentle and kind, empathic because he knows. He was the first to experience this type of heartbreak long ago.

It doesn't take much effort for Seonghwa to peel back your fingers, releasing San's face from your hold. You find yourself more willing to comply than you thought as he places a hand tenderly on your back and guides you to stand. You're not even putting up a fight, how pathetic.

"I'm sorry," he finally breaks the silence, voice stable. "I'd sincerely hoped none of you would ever have to experience this feeling."

Seonghwa has never been the most emotionally vulnerable to begin with, even less so once he lost his soulmate. To you, he was always just the intimidating second in command you never dared to show weakness in front of. But now? His presence is the only thing keeping you from descending into your darker thoughts and letting them swallow you whole. You collapse into his arms without warning and grasp at the fabric of his long trench coat, cries muffled against his chest.

He turns cranes his neck and motions to someone behind him. And when you look past his shoulder you see Hongjoong, Mingi, Jongho, and Yunho. Their stares of pity feel condescending as they hesitantly make their way to where San lies. You're starting to realize why they sent Seonghwa over first.

"Wait—" Your plea is cut short when Seonghwa tucks your head back into his chest and tightens his hold around your form. The way his hand cradles your head to his chest obscures your vision completely. You're not ready to let go of San just yet, but it seems you won't be given that choice anyways. "Please don't take him. I never told him I love him back, he needs to know, I need to—"

"Shhh, it’s okay. Trust me, he knows," Seonghwa whispers, his fingers tracing soothing circles into your back. “You’re okay.” But you know good and well those words are lies. They didn't mean shit when you whispered them to San moments before his death and they don't mean shit now.

But then he speaks again and it's like he can read your mind. "I know you won't believe me right now, so please keep these works safe until you can . . . It's not your fault, and dwelling on what you did or didn't do won't bring him back. You'll find your peace again, but first, you have to let him go."

And all you can think at that moment is that Park Seonghwa is a fucking hypocrite.

[ tags ] @nshitae @ihatemynewbangs @baguette-atiny @shley-chan @scuzmunkie @jeongintwt @jackinmyarea

(if you username is bolded you were not able to be tagged)

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leggerefiore · 9 months

Note

Since you seem to be doing a lot of villain posting, how about this: Villains of your choice with an S/O that fully supports their evil team's goals. Why S/O would feel this way is up to you, but they don't think their lover needs to change; the world does.

nssnns in a way I think I established that with Maxie's and Archie's s/os but not as strongly

cw: supporting these dudes at their worst, angst in lysandre's and cyrus's parts,

characters: Lysandre, Cyrus, Maxie, Archie

🔥Lysandre🍷

☕️ He was aware his ideals were difficult for most to comprehend. Like a strong brew of coffee, most could not bear the intensity of what he believed was best for the world. The Kalosian man simply could not allow for things to continue as they were, however. Greedy, cruel people sought to harm other people and pokemon; to take away the beauty of this world he felt so passionately about. It only made sense that with his passion you, his partner, were well aware of his plans. You were second only to him in Team Flare, even. Even Malva did not dare argue against you, lest she risk the ire of a certain giant.

☕️ The discussion of his plans was something he did without any concerns of your rejecting them. Lysandre had been with you for so long and felt certain that you would understand his ideals even if no one else could. He needed to preserve this world's beauty by committing the ultimate sacrifice. There would be no more struggling over resources, nor would those with ill intentions exist to cause further harm. It would be an unfortunate burden on him forever, however.

☕️ The manner which you came to feel this way may not have been entirely known to Lysandre, but he had heard many different reasons from his members to have an idea. There was an urge to pry into it from him, curious as to what had hurt you so deeply as your caring lover, but he resisted. Forcing one to recount painful things was not something he wished to do. Yet, knowing that something out there had caused you such grave pain spurred him deeper into his plans and ideals. For you, he would easily set the world aflame.

☕️ Admittedly, you have very little to do with the reawakening of the ancient weapon. Team Flare's scientists were the ones who tirelessly worked to bring it out. You, however, were there to comfort and console him through the ups and downs of his operations. Your unwavering support and reassurance made the burden of what he would have to do a bit lighter. It was not long until Geosenge was a mess as the ultimate weapon bloomed in its centre. His hand grasped your own as he watched from the lab. Soon, everything would change forever.

☕️ When everything failed, it felt as if the world had ended for you, but no one else. Lysandre left to unknown status in the rubble of the laboratory as you were forced to live in the world that viewed him as a madman of horrid ideals. Team Flare was remarked a horrible stain on Kalos's already troubled history, and you were left alone and waiting for the day you may see Lysandre again. Desperately, you wished to believe him alive and out in the world. Until that day came, you would continue to hold on to his ideals in his stead.

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ Nearly all of his team supports what twisting of the truths he fed to them. Claims of making a better world were eaten up eagerly and believed almost unquestionably, even from his highest of commanders. Saturn had not a clue what his intentions for this new world were, and Mars and Jupiter especially did not. You, however, did. Not that Cyrus would have you involved in Team Galactic officially, but it was well understood you had authority that was only directly surpassed by the Galactic Boss himself.

☄️ You were well aware of his true intentions. He was not lying about creating a world he believed to be superior to this one, but it was nothing for Team Galactic. It was all for himself… And, you, too, he supposed. This world held suffering and strife due to how such an incomplete thing as spirit remains. Cyrus had spoken of these things to you in complete confidence that you would understand. There was still mild surprise on his part when you expressed agreement with his plans. Truthfully, a small amount of doubt had dwelled within him. The way you had cupped his cheeks and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips told him everything he needed to know.

☄️ You were kindred souls in a way. This world was a cruel and unkind place that was drowned in petty discourse and strife that simply seemed impossible to ever settle. While Cyrus knew not the details that had brought you to the point of wishing spirit gone just as he had, he silently acknowledged the suffering and pain you must have gone through. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was the thought of you in any kind of pain. His original plans had been to keep you ignorant and unaware of his actions, truthfully.

☄️ Ultimately, it helps put him at ease knowing you would unfaltering help him towards his ultimate goal. Cyrus being able to confide in you released some of the burden on him. Plans were more accurately discussed and considered while raking over books of Sinnoh's myths. He felt certain that everything would go to plan, as you both soon had found yourselves at Spear Pillar with the Red Chain in his possession. One look at you reminder him of his certainty as he forced forth both the legendary pokemon of Sinnoh.

☄️ When the dust had settled and Cyrus vanished into the Distortion World, you felt empty. Perhaps even emptier than he claimed to be. Cynthia had spoken to you afterward, attempting to find out more about what Cyrus was doing. She had told you he had chosen to stay in the dimension. You begged her to let you join him, but she simply refused, promising to help you in any way she could. Then, to even more of your upset, one of his commanders decided to make themselves boss of Team Galactic. You quickly quit, uninterested in anything else but Cyrus and his goals. Somehow, you would find your way to him and help him finish the world you both desired.

☀️Maxie🌋

🪨 The Magma Leader had many supporters. His belief in bettering humanity by providing more land for resources was something noble. Scientists and trainers easily rallied under him as they worked tirelessly in the goal of awakening the super-ancient pokemon Groudon to do their bidding. You, as his partner, were naturally involved in his work. One of his admins, you helped him as he moved along the region to investigate possible leads. Your position was certainly high there, but not overly so as to be unfair to others.

🪨 Maxie was not at all shy about his plans. He and Archie breaking apart from how passionate and dedicated he was to them, even. You had likely heard them before most people had due to your closeness. It was hard to disagree with him. More land did seem like a reasonable way to solve numerous crises that would arise if they had not already. His confidence in his plans easily convinced you, too, alongside just wanting to support him.

🪨 His dedication and planning were something admirable in your eyes. The way he led Team Magma as a firm and capable leader was mostly what led you to support him, outside of finding his concerns about the bettering of humanity something noble. Maxie felt at ease to have your full support, especially when you voiced your utmost trust in him. He hated to consider the possibility of you turning against him and, yet it was something that crossed his mind many times before speaking with you about his plans.

🪨 It was often you aided in whatever research you could to figure out a way to awaken the legendary pokemon from its slumber. Many missions were worked with you at his side for ease of communication and improvisation where it may be required. Your unyielding support bolstered his confidence. It was not long until the Red Orb was in Team Magma's possession alongside a stolen submarine. Soon, he would depart to the seafloor to awaken the slumbering beast for his bidding. Your praises lauded him even deeper into his convictions.

🪨 With everything that followed revolving around Groudon's awakening and the endless drought it brought, you felt confused. Tabitha's subsequent demands and panic about the readings made you horrified at what you had helped bring about. Maxie himself in terror at the idea of mass extinction. When a child had to fix the horrible situation your team had done, there was more salt in your wounds. It was hard to accept all that had happened, but you were forced to. Maxie's goals subsequently shifted to something more reasonable as he changed the direction of Team Magma after it all ended. You remained at his side, still eager to nurture the better side of his ambitions.

🌧Archie🌊

💧 Archie had a lot of people on his side. His charisma and genuineness, easily attracting many to his side and believing in his plans of awakening Kyogre to solve the problem that was causing him distress. It was almost impossible for him not have you involved in Team Aqua in some way. Even if you did not have an official title, being the leader's partner held enough authority in general. You did, however, being an admin like Shelly and Matt were. There was certainly some favouritism towards you, but not enough to really warrant any bad feelings among the members. Everyone did know to be respectful to you, though.

💧 The Aqua Leader had told you about his plans before he even had a firm grasp on his end goal. His worries about the ocean growing polluted and uninhabitable for the pokemon alongside just wishing to aid the creatures was something that came from a genuinely kind place. It ended up driving apart he and Maxie, so he leaned more on to you. His plans became solidified and seemingly reasonable enough. Kyogre would turn this world back to a pure state, something obviously needed. It was hard to tell him 'no', too. His smile far too convincing.

💧 Archie was pure hearted in his intentions. You felt it entirely. He hated how humanity had become apathetic to their own effects on this planet and wished to put an end to it to protect nature and pokemon. A certain sadness in his eyes reflected out the turmoil he felt from seeing cruelty that obviously haunted him. There was belief in you that it was kindness that drove him to, what must have seemed to an outsider, such extreme measures. Archie was comforted by the fact you understood his wishes truly, that he had so much support from you and his entire team.

💧 You were by his side through the thick and thin of his missions, aiding him where and when Matt and Shelly could not. Helping with the research into Kyogre late into the nights. Archie could not believe how lucky he was to have you as his partner. The solution of the Blue Orb was soon in your hands, and plans of securing a submarine brewing in the team's plans. He squeezed you into a tight hug as he thanked you endlessly for your support through of all of this. It would not be long until Kyogre's power purified this world.

💧 When the downpour began and Shelly panicked, you knew something was horribly wrong. When Archie re-emerged and was told of the imminent world flooding. All of you felt terrified about what had been unleashed. When a child somehow came to the world's rescue, you could watch the cogs turning in the Aqua Leader's head. After the storm died down and Kyogre was calmed, you could watch as he stood firm and took accountability for his actions. You felt your own responsibility, too, having so thoughtlessly supporting him. The restructuring of Team Aqua's purpose had your full support, and Archie shifting gears for his goals. Now, you felt more aware to call him out, too.

#pokemon x reader #lysandre x reader #cyrus x reader #maxie x reader #archie x reader #pokemon lysandre x reader #pokemon cyrus x reader #pokemon maxie x reader #pokemon archie x reader #lysandre/reader #cyrus/reader #maxie/reader #archie/reader #pokemon/reader

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theteasetwrites · 1 year

Text

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 8: The Whole Truth Shall Be Seen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: angst, violence, blood, injury, some scenes may be triggering for those who are sensitive to sexual assault/abuse, so tread carefully! ❧ Word Count: 5.7k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: Captured by the Saviors, you awaken at the so-called Sanctuary, where Sir Negan greets you, though he is displeased by your grief after having witnessed the supposed death of Sir Daryl. His wrath does not spare you. Meanwhile, Alexandria has been ravaged by the Saviors and overtaken by the Dead, but the tide shifts when some unexpected visitors arrive at Alexandria's gates.

❧ A/N: Ok so huge disclaimer—Negan is pretty OOC here. I mean, he is a creep and a violent asshole in the show, but I ramped that up a few levels here. After all, this is medieval Negan we're talking about. Medieval men were assholes to women, that's just how it was, unfortunately. And also, I said that a new character would be introduced in this chapter, which is technically true, but also technically not true lol you'll see. Anyway, things are getting intense, and this chapter gets a little dark. You've been warned.

Many times in your life had you awoken from a terrible dream, only to come to the slow realization that none of it really happened.

But there’s still that sense of dread, those several moments during which your mind tries to put the pieces back together, still somewhere between reality and dream. At some point, relief would soon set in as you’d feel the warmth and comfort of your bed, and it would be clear that it was all some trick of the mind. Not long after that, your dream would become foggy, to the point that you could no longer even recall exactly what it was that had troubled you so. It became a distant memory that never really existed to begin with.

Now, though, you awoke without that relief. Now, you woke up to the realization that your nightmare wasn’t a dream after all. You were in it, and you were somewhere you did not recognize.

Beneath your curled up body was a large, plush feather bed, draped in the finest silk brocade duvet. Cushioning your head, at least three pillows of similar make. The room was dark, but for a dripping wax candle on the nearest nightstand and a roaring fireplace across the spacious room.

As your mind began to catch up with your eyes, you sat up quickly, a dizziness overcoming you. Looking down, you were above the covers, wearing the very same pink gown you recalled wearing last, though your shoes had been removed.

Despite your lack of clarity, the quickening of your shallow breaths and the jitter in your hand as you palmed at your forehead betrayed the subconscious anxiety that overcame you. What had happened? Where were you?

Questions you knew the answers to, but couldn’t bear to face. First and foremost, you’d have to act without thinking. Thinking would only make you have to process your last memories, and that would ultimately lead to a conclusion you did not have the heart nor the stomach to face. Not without him.

You did not waste another moment. Now fully awake, though still dazed, you lifted yourself from the edge of the bed, sprinting swiftly to the intricately carved wooden doors across the room. Locked, of course. Another more careful gaze around the room alerted you to a window—barred from the outside.

Dusk had stained the sky a deep, greyish purple. Out the window, you could make out a tall stone wall, not unlike the one surrounding your castle. It seemed to be an inner bailey, which meant you were somewhere inside a keep. When a flash of black and red emblazoned itself on the inside of your eyelids, you remembered just whose keep you must’ve been in.

Turning back to the door, a great anger overwhelmed you. The vile maggots who so pompously dubbed themselves the Saviors had invaded your home. They brought the plague to your kingdom, letting the Dead feast upon your people as they no doubt pillaged their homes and did God only knew what else to those poor people.

Worst of all, to you… You couldn’t even think of it, what you last remembered seeing. You did not allow the thought to come to mind, though the image was impossible to ignore. It was what so inflamed you, ravaged you.

Even if you couldn’t let yourself process it, you still knew. You could still feel that residual anger welling up inside you, the sparks from that flame scratching the back of your throat until you couldn’t keep the fire in you any longer. You raised both fists to slam them against the hard wood of the door, over and over again, as a ragged, bitter yell erupted from the pit of your stomach and expelled out your trembling lips.

“Negan!” you bellowed, voice nearly drowned out by the incessant banging of your fists. “Let me out, you… you wretched beast! I demand to be let out! I—I demand to be returned to Alexandria at once! Open this door, or so help me, I’ll… I’ll—”

A muffled laughter interrupted your tirade. It came from not far outside the door, but it did not belong to Negan. Guards. It must’ve been guards. Despite your fury, you could not bother with their laughing, you could only try to listen in, attempting to discern how many guards were stationed outside that door.

With your ear pressed to the wood, you could now make out heavy, languid footsteps, and a new laugh. A low, lazy chuckle. Negan.

You were pushed back by a sudden force from the opening door. Without hesitation, you flung yourself towards the opening, only to be caught in a pair of long, lean arms. Despite your frantic squirming, he was strong enough to keep you held against him, closing the door behind him, immediately followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock from outside. Realizing you were stuck in here again, you moved on from your attempt at escaping to the immediate opportunity that presented itself before you: Negan.

And all the hatred you had within you bubbled to the surface, stinging at the back of your throat like bile. Years of wanting to see the world, of dreaming of a place that was full of hope and kindness and love, made you believe that, somewhere, there was goodness. When you met Daryl, who came from the outside, you knew that to be true. There were good people in this world, people who embodied hope, kindness, and love. When you met Negan, you had met the antithesis of that—the representation of everything you had been told was bad about the outside world.

You knew this to be true the moment you saw him, and when he nearly murdered Elizabeth. You knew this to be true because of the way he believed he was entitled to you, and to everyone and everything. Above all else, you knew this to be true because he lied. Even corrupt men can keep their word, can abide by their own laws. This man had not even a crumb of honor to his name, and to you, there was no greater virtue than honor, especially for a knight.

He was no knight, though. You’d known a true knight. For all his lack of chivalry at times, Daryl had more loyalty, more honor, more virtue in his little finger than Negan or any of his so-called Saviors had in their whole bodies. And Daryl… Poor Daryl.

No, you could not think of that now. All you could think of was your anger, and you’d never been this angry before in your life. In fact, you’d never really been angry at all, until now.

“Let me go!” you screamed, flailing your arms in a feeble attempt to rid yourself of his grip on your wrists. He walked you backwards, upon his face a great big smirk, rippled by a slow, steady, chuckle that only enraged you more. Before he could set you down, you planted your feet with all the strength you could muster, and as his grip just barely loosened, you swung your balled fists at his chest, much to his amusement.

“Unhand me!” you cried out, hitting him as hard as you could, though even for a rather slim man, he remained sturdy, his chest puffed out and taking each of your wobbly blows. In a fit of rage, you felt hot tears begin to flow over the slopes of your cheeks, your composure completely obliterated when your blurred vision caught full view of his lips, which his tongue coated in a sheen of saliva as he watched you struggle to hurt him.

“Vile wretch!” you spat, such words having never corrupted the purity of your mild mannered tongue. A slew of other insults followed. “Wicked swine! Stinking, detestable brute! You repulsive bastard, y-you barbarous, vicious goblin! You… You ugly, motherless worm! Loutish pig! Why, you… You deceiver! You beastly, uncouth, dishonorable—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” laughed the man. “You’ve got quite the vocabulary, don’t ya, princess?”

As he slowly walked you backwards, you felt the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. With one last missed swipe at him, this time aimed at his smug, arrogant face, you fell, your back onto the feathery soft surface of the luxurious bed. But you did not intend to stay there long, leaping up in an attempt to hit him once again, but he was faster, using his own body to weigh you down as he slowly crawled over you.

Panting and crying, you took advantage of the momentary space between your bodies to bring up your knee, using it to hit him in the groin before he could fully pin you down. The motion sent him stumbling backwards with a pained groan, allowing you to seize the opportunity to lift yourself to your feet.

Now, panting and crying, you met his gaze. What could you do now? There was no getting out of here. Even if you could get the door open, there were at least four guards outside, and who knows many other Saviors just around the corner. You could not kill Negan, no matter how much the idea tempted you.

It seemed there was no end to this powerlessness, this lack of control of the things happening around you that seemed to plague you with every step you’d take. Even now, especially now, there was no escape, and all you could do was watch it all fall apart right in front of you.

“Damn,” huffed Negan, adjusting the crotch of his black wool chausses, his lack of decency disgusting you. With a bite of his bottom lip and a backwards tilt, he laughed once more. “You’re a little firecracker!”

Ignoring his quip, you narrowed your eyes in an attempt to appear threatening, though you could not keep your voice from breaking as you spoke. “Where is my father?”

There was so much you wanted to say to him, to scream at him, to beg of him, despite all your composure telling you to never, ever beg to someone who surely thrived on the submission. You could not let yourself give into his sick desires—all you could do, as a princess, was demand the answers to questions you deserved to know the answers to. You deeply feared those answers, as the odds of them being the ones you wanted were surely not in your favor, but you had to know. It was the greatest agony to not know at all. You only hoped the silver-tongued deceiver before you didn’t mistake your poise for meekness.

The several moments Negan spent eying you up and down only contributed further to your frustration. “He’s alive.”

That’s it?!

“Well, as far as I know.”

You marched towards him with several aggravated huffs fueling you. “What exactly does that mean?”

Negan only seemed to be amused by your closer presence, leaning forward to the point that you could feel his warm breath on your cheek. “We left that place for the dead bastards. Last we saw of the king, he was fighting back pretty damn good. Looked like he was winning, too. He’s tough, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Negan’s answer only worried you more. He could’ve gotten bit, he could’ve gotten overtaken, like…

“But that knight,” chuckled Negan with a shake of his head. In his voice was joviality that frightened you, as you knew the kind of thing that Sir Negan found to be amusing.

“Knight?” you repeated, coming closer to him now. “What knight? Did you see him? Is he all right? What happened to him?”

Deep in your heart, you knew, once again, the answer would not please you. Just by the gleam in his eyes, the despicable curl in his lips, the diabolical lift of his brows. He found it all to be quite funny, but when he noticed your earnestness, his look of delight faded to a seriousness that matched yours, though his was not born of concern for your knight.

“Now, why would the Crown Princess of Alexandria care so much for the wellbeing of a useless knight?”

Useless?! You had half a mind to strike him across his insufferable, repugnant face, but you couldn’t let your anger overcome you when all you wanted was to know that your love was alive. You couldn’t bear to even think otherwise, not until you had some kind of confirmation. That confirmation would be the only semblance of comfort you could cling to.

“He is not useless,” you replied. “He was trying to help me. H-he was…” It hit you then. Was.

As you lowered your gaze to squeeze your eyes shut, compelling your tears to fall in the hopes that the vile man couldn’t see them, his tongue tisked at you, as if in disappointment at your sadness.

“Oh, my sweet princess,” he lamented, to which you squeezed your eyes even harder, as your fist balled in a tight clench around nothing. You strangled the air with your trembling hands, wishing it could be Negan’s neck. “You cared about him, didn’t you? Man… He went down. It was a bloodbath. I would not have wanted to be him, I’ll tell you that.”

As your knees weakened, you sat yourself down on the edge of the bed, grief finally overcoming your abject rage. Though you could not allow yourself to break too much before Negan, the man who had indirectly caused the death of the man you loved, you also could not bear to go another moment without weeping for him, that image of him surrounded by rotten gnashing teeth and cold, lifeless bodies that closed in all around him.

As you cried, it was as if you could feel your heart breaking in two, a sensation you hadn’t experienced since your mother’s death. It was a dull, lingering pain that sharpened with each deep, heaving intake of air, as if the simple act of breathing contributed a new crack to your already shattered heart. After all, why should you breathe? What point was there, without love, without him, who embodied love?

Living now, after you had sworn you’d found the other half of your soul, seemed selfish. Daryl had died being selfless. He had fulfilled his promise to you—he died for you. Not Alexandria, not the duke, not your father, not God. He died because of his devotion to you.

That only made it worse, knowing that you, in some roundabout way, had a hand in his death. If it weren’t for you, he’d be alive. He wouldn’t have suffered, dying in the worst possible way you could imagine. Thinking of the pain he must’ve endured, the fear in his heart… Oh, my love!

“There, there… Don’t cry.” The weight of Negan sitting beside you reawakened your rage, his voice grating as you shot up from your seat and glowered at him through wide, piercing eyes.

“Deceiver!” Your shaky finger accused him as you pointed his way in a frantic motion. “You lied! You said you’d return to Alexandria in a week’s time. You bring walkers to my doorstep, you steal from my people, you destroy my property—my home, and now you tell me not to cry?! How dare you! How dare you even speak to me at all! My knight is dead because of you!”

Standing to his feet, he matched your wide-eyed gaze with his own, though in his eyes was something far more sinister—a crazed fury that made you stumble backwards, nearly tripping on your heel.

“Your knight?”

The cold hard wall pressed against your shoulder blades, while Negan’s arms outstretched to cage you between his body and the wall behind you. Still crying, heaving, panting, you began to shake in fear. The man might’ve been smarter than you’d thought, if he had caught onto your love for Daryl. Your knight.

“Th-the knight,” you replied, attempting to appear innocent despite your quivering lips and beating heart against his chest telling a different story. “You got the knight killed.”

“No.” His voice was low, and much too quiet for comfort. You were used to him practically bellowing each word, not barely speaking above a whisper. “No, you said ‘my.’ Tell me… what is that knight to you, princess? You seem awfully saddened by his untimely demise. What makes him your knight?”

Your attempt to squirm yourself away from him was made in vain, your shoulders held in the grip of his strong hands, his curled fingers digging into your flesh.

“Nothing,” you replied. “Let me go.” The last three words went unacknowledged.

“Why would you cry for him, then?” Repulsed by his face just an inch or two from yours, you tried to turn your head, but his hand was faster. Squeezing your chin and cheeks was his hand, cold and dry. Despite your shaking, he held your face still, forcing your eyes to stay glued to his. “Tell me!”

In your fear, your voice collapsed underneath itself, though you still spoke, although your words were muddied by your tears. “H-he was my friend. Please!” Now you had to beg him, just to let you go from his painful grasp, which had lowered to the junction of your neck and your jaw. Any lower, he’d begin to restrict you of air, but he wanted you to speak. He could only strangle you enough to still hear you admit to the paranoia that had suddenly overcome him. He knew that knight meant more to you than what you said. “You’re hurting me!”

But he did not care, why would he? You knew all along that Negan’s desire to have you was not born of any kind of admiration of you, though perhaps the closest sentiment he held was lust. His lust for power, though, dominated any lust for you that might’ve existed in his cold, black heart. He wanted you as a trophy, as evidence of his conquest of the once great kingdom of Alexandria. He could hurt you now with no remorse, and no consequences.

After all, you were his now, as far as he was concerned. Little did he know that you belonged to someone else.

But he was catching on, so much so that you could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tightening of his hand as he threatened to crush your jaw. You’d never felt such strength like that before. The only other touch from a man you knew of was Daryl’s, and though you’d felt his strength, how firm his touch could be, but never like this. Never threatening, never anything to be fearful of, never painful.

“Friend?” he questioned, squeezing around the top of your neck, his thumb digging into your tensed muscles. “With a knight?”

“Yes! Please!” The pain only worsened as you spoke.

Negan pushed his face closer, so close that his heaving breath defiled your cheek as he whispered, “I don’t believe you.” His voice was calm, though, not tense. You almost wished he had screamed at you, instead of this strange, serpentine hiss that escaped from his lips, as if even the sound itself was disgusted by his mouth and could not stand to be trapped in there a moment longer.

Your whimpering and panting quickened as he loosened his grip on your neck, bringing his hand up to let his thumb brush over the apple of your cheek. The feeling made you flinch, your eyes squeezing shut as more tears were forced out. “You’re real pretty when you cry, you know that, princess?”

I hate you! The words were drowned out by your weeping, the lump in your throat pushing them down until all that you could muster was a strangled whimper.

“But, pretty as you are,” he continued, and though you could not see him, your eyes closed for fear of witnessing whatever he was going to do to you next, “I know a whore when I see one.”

With hardly a moment to process his words, your eyes shot open with the feeling of his knee parting your legs, and his other hand scrambling between your bodies to find the edge of your skirt. You wriggled in his grasp, but he only used his body to further press you against the wall, this time with a great slam.

“Told you to keep your purity for me.” You grasped at his shoulders, trying to push him away, but he was too sturdy on his feet, as he began to lift your gown. “Let’s see if you did.”

You were still squirming when you felt a hard, cruel clench around your bare thigh, moving fast to slither upwards till he groped you, causing you to cry out in combined pain and fear. While his body held you in place, he used his other hand to continue trying to lift your gown. What he wanted, you knew, was to see if your maidenhead was intact, and possibly worse.

Either way, you were going to suffer. If he inspected your womanhood, he’d surely find that you’d been deflowered, and for an unmarried woman in this world, that could mean death. You did not care now, though. Death frightened you, but there were worse things. For all your innocence, you knew that. All you cared about now was preserving whatever was left of your dignity.

In your panic, you managed to wriggle your arm loose enough to flail your hand with as much strength as you could muster, striking Negan across his face so hard that he stumbled backwards, though you did not move a muscle now. You couldn’t. His stare held you hostage, brown eyes narrowed with sharp pins for pupils. You could only tuck your hands behind your back as you straightened against the wall, wishing somehow that, if you pressed yourself into it hard enough, you could dissolve into it.

With each step he took closer to you, it seemed the ground shook under his heavy feet. In his gaze now was nothing short of pure, unadulterated fury. When he was close enough to reach you, he stopped to stare you down with an assault all on its own, but it did not prepare you for the blow.

“You bitch!”

Just as you’d struck him, he struck you back, only with the back of his hand, and with more intention. Your hit was practically a reflex, an instinct to defend yourself. Even if you’d hit him with more animosity than fear, you’d have been too weak to even daze him. His hit was of greater proportions, strong enough to knock you to the floor, where the first droplet of blood dripped from your nose.

Negan did not stay long to watch you weep, curled up into yourself as he turned to the door, storming out until all that was left of his presence was the burst of air from the slam of the door. A rattling of the lock from outside, and then his voice bellowed again.

“You’re staying in there until you learn some goddamn manners, princess!” His fist banged on the door, causing you to flinch and wrap yourself tighter in your own embrace. As his ranting voice faded and his distant footsteps whittled down to a silence, you were left shaking, bleeding, wailing—utterly alone.

“He’s waking up now… Get the king.”

For several moments, that voice was nearly drowned out by the deafening beat of his heart, and the faint remnants of snarls and groans that still lingered. The memory made him flinch, jolting his body awake as he sat up, already looking around frantically as his senses were thrust back into gear.

He did not recognize his surroundings, the low ceiling of stone propped up by stone walls, with pale streams of overcast daylight flowing in through the lone window. Though at first he could not notice the persons standing immediately beside him, he caught sight of several hay-stuffed beds, upon which were injured men, some even missing limbs with bloody rags wrapped around the stumps.

Not a good sign.

But he couldn’t fret for himself, not when the very last thing he recalled was his princess being dragged away.

“Take it easy.” Richard’s voice finally sounded clear as the knight sat up with a huff. If it weren’t for the duke’s grip on his bare shoulder, he would’ve been halfway out the door by now.

“Slow down.” The king’s voice came from behind Richard as he approached. Ezekiel looked tired, his once regal clothing stained with blood. “How is he?”

He wondered that himself. Looking down, his lower half was covered by a thin wool blanket, his top half bare but for a band of gauze wrapped around his waist, stained by a red circle of blood on his side.

Before Richard could even answer, though, Daryl attempted to stand again, his mind isolated on one thing. Turning to face the duke, he simply asked, “Where is she?”

By name, not the princess. Not her highness. Not even your name. She. She, the only she who mattered to him. His she.

Richard understood, of course. He knew not of the consummation of your love, but he knew the knight well enough to know just who was on his mind at all times, and that was you.

“Negan.” The simple utterance of his name was enough to have him back on his feet, much to the frustration of Richard, who pushed him back down, urging him to rest.

And then, he had to come to terms with the reality that was right in front of him—the grim truth. Having woken up after his last several moments of consciousness were spent surrounded by walkers, the worst case scenario was all too likely.

But he did not worry for himself now, no. He worried that, if he were bit, he could not fight—he could not bring you back to your home.

“Am I… Am I bit?”

Richard shook his head. Upon closer inspection of the usually clean-cut, well-groomed man, he looked the most disheveled and exhausted he’d ever seen, with once luscious curls turned into a frizzy, blood-caked rat’s nest, and pronounced bags underscoring his eyes. If the duke and the king looked like that, Daryl was afraid to look at himself.

“No,” replied the duke. “You’re not bit. You must’ve fallen on your dagger when you were in the herd. The wound is shallow, but you should rest. You were passed out from exhaustion when we got to you.”

“Nah,” he said, this time standing up without Richard’s intervention. “I don’t need rest.” Though his wound made him flinch in pain as he walked, he crossed the room to the small window, where outside he could see twenty or so men, some nobles, some peasants, fighting off walkers, thinning out the remaining herd in the castle’s courtyard.

The earth they stood upon was blotched in red and decorated with the decaying corpses of once half-living walkers. Leaning forward, he took note of the state of the barbican, where men in tattered rags and bloodied hands worked to close off the entrance. Shattered bits of iron littered the ground, where the inner portcullis once had been. They must’ve blasted through it with cannonfire, letting in the Dead once the fortifications were destroyed.

“The Saviors did not kill,” said the king. “The Dead did… The Saviors left them to turn. The damage to Alexandria’s outer walls was too severe to repair. The Dead now roam the streets, with the remaining population of my people taking shelter in the castle, here.”

“How many?” asked Daryl, turning back towards his bed to procure a fresh white linen chemise from the nightstand. As the restless knight dressed himself, the king did not answer, only exchanged a look of confusion with the duke. “How many people are left?” repeated the increasingly impatient knight.

Piping up from behind the king was Lord Constable Aaron. “One hundred and twenty-five accounted for in the castle,” answered the man. “But most of them are civilians. We only have a trained militia of forty or so able-bodied men. The rest are either infirm, elderly, women, children, or just simple craftsmen. Not enough fighters. Not enough defense to handle another herd.”

“And the cannonfire last night,” added Richard. “That’ll bring more of them.”

“State of the armory?” Daryl asked, choosing to ignore the less than hopeful rhetoric. “Blades, artillery, gunpowder… Weapons. We need weapons.”

“Very nearly depleted,” answered Lord Chancellor Gerald. “What the men have out there is all we have left. An abundance of dull blades and weak fists.”

As he sat to lace on a pair of brown leather boots, Daryl huffed a sigh. “And cavalry. The horses…” He feared the answer. Phantom, his steed, had been more than just a faithful destrier, but a friend.

“One of the few things we were able to protect,” replied the king, much to Daryl’s momentary relief. “They’re all safe in the castle stables. In fact, it’s our only recourse. Once the tunnels are cleared, our plan is to escape through there, on horseback, then seek refuge in a neighboring kingdom.”

That wasn’t good enough.

“And the princess?” Daryl met the king’s sturdy gaze, though it quickly crumbled as he processed the knight’s question. “What’s your plan for getting the princess back?”

“Daryl—” The duke’s voice was drenched in hopelessness, which the knight quickly shot down.

“No,” he replied sternly. “That’s the priority: bringing her back, killing Negan and every damn Savior we can get our hands on.”

A silence fell over the infirmary, with the king lowering his head, as if in shame. “We do not have the manpower nor the armaments to fight a force like Negan’s,” he said. “They rival our numbers by at least four times, and their armory is unmatched. We saw only a fraction of it last night. No one wants to get my daughter away from that… serpent more than I do, but it would be a lost cause, and we’d lose more people. Innocent people, people who cannot fight. We cannot send them into battle.”

“Then what will we do?” questioned Daryl, his voice raising enough to nearly echo in the small infirmary. “Every second she’s there, she could be…” As he trailed off, he stopped himself from continuing his thought, lest the extent to which he cared for you be revealed. “There must be something.”

I’ll go in there myself if you don’t have the balls, he wanted to say, but he’d already raised his voice at the king once today, and he did not want to bend his code of chivalry more than necessary. Daryl knew that King Ezekiel was a good man, a good father, a good king. You’d told him so, and if anyone’s word meant anything to him, it was yours.

He understood the king’s hesitation to lead the remaining able-bodied population of Alexandria into battle against the Saviors. He knew that it was a long shot, that the likelihood of saving you was one in a million. He knew, above all else, that King Ezekiel was only weighing the pros and cons of his decisions, doing what was best for the survival and longevity of his kingdom, his people. The king was simply acting upon logic, but Daryl was never particularly fond of logic.

Sensing Daryl’s distress, the duke pulled him aside, his hand upon the knight’s shoulder to offer him a semblance of comfort. Leaving the king and his advisors to speak, Richard held the knight’s gaze in the corner of the infirmary. “We’ll figure something out,” he said quietly. “But we have to wait for the right time.”

“I can’t wait,” he simply said. “I can’t.”

“I know, but you’re not going to be able to save her if you get killed the minute you get to the Sanctuary, and that’s what’s gonna happen. Hell, we don’t even know where the Sanctuary is, Daryl.”

I’ll find it. I’ll find her. I’ll find him. I’ll kill him.

But he only nodded solemnly, chewing his bottom lip as he tried desperately to come up with something he could do. There was nothing.

“Just… Just can’t let him have her. Not without a fight.”

The comforting weight of Richard’s hand upon his shoulder was a welcome feeling. “You’ve already fought for her, Daryl. You’ll fight for her again, but not now. Not until—”

“Your majesty!” One of the last remaining guards had thrown open the door to the infirmary, looking panicked as he cried for the king.

Ezekiel pushed past his advisors, approaching the guard with a hurred, yet somehow dignified, step. “What is it?”

The guard could only look at the king wide-eyed for several moments, until he began to stutter, out of breath and shaking his head as he tried to put into words what he had come into the infirmary to tell the king.

“Speak, man!” demanded Ezekiel. “I have very little time for this dawdling.”

“At-at the drawbridge,” he stammered, “there’s a… there’s a… man.”

“A man?” questioned the constable. “Who?”

“Well, many men. Many, many men.”

The king’s eyes widened. “Another attack?” he asked.

“Th-they claim to be… friends. The man leading them wishes to speak to you.”

This piqued the knight’s interest as he exchanged a look with the duke. There was tension in the air, but not the kind that preceded a calamity. It was the kind of tension that only uncertainty could conceive. Even in the best of times, there was no way to tell who really was friend or foe. Now, more so than ever, Alexandria was vulnerable. A friend, if truly a friend, could mean salvation for the kingdom, but a foe could bring it down in one fell swoop.

The king, naturally, had a few more questions before he agreed to meet these so-called “friends” outside his castle. “And who is this friend?” he asked. “And what does he want?”

As if in disbelief at his own knowledge, the guard shook his head once more. “I—I… He only said he wants to speak to the king, and he calls himself…”

Now frustrated, Ezekiel took the guard’s shoulders in his hands as he shook him gently, as if to rouse him from his stupor. “Calls himself what?”

The guard huffed, almost with a tinge of a laugh to his voice.

“Jesus.”

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