🌙  Calling All Ithaqua Fans ❞

Paper Stars (Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: Posting this along with my intro since I feel bad for anyone that gets jebaited thinking I was uploading lol This was originally going to be more painful, but then I listened to Laufey's "I Wish You Love" and it got kinda better, kinda worse. Enjoy! Word count: 2.0k words Summary: You filled bottles and jars with stars of all shapes and sizes. Some were perfect, others a little wonky. Regardless of how they came out, you placed them in containers that decorate your room. No matter how long you stay in this dreadful place, these stars will remain proof of your hopes, dreams, and love. They'll remain even after you are long gone.

Even before you entered the manor, you had a habit of making paper stars. Your friends, ones you've long forgotten the names of yet remember warmly, had claimed that if you filled a jar with a thousand paper stars, you'd be granted a wish. You've long grown out of such beliefs, or so you claim, but you still make these delicate stars anyway. They give you comfort, if nothing else. However, the biggest contributor to your growing collection of stars was Ithaqua.

It wasn't that he was making too many. In fact, his claws tore the thin paper far too often for most of them to survive. The true reason was that, as foolish as it was, you had started hoping beyond all hope that, perhaps, if you made a thousand jars of a thousand paper stars, you would have a chance to be loved back by him.

Since a long time ago, since he first came to the manor, you had loved him. Your first few jars of stars could tell all about it. You'd write confessions and compliments, snippets of stories, anything and everything, onto tiny slips of paper. These would later be turned into paper stars, filling jar after jar in a mesmerizing mix of colors. In shades of pink, white, and purple, the stars grew and grew as years passed and your love stayed true.

Of course, as time tends to do, it changes you. The luster of love dulled to let you see Ithaqua as himself, and even then, you loved him. The way he'd lean on you when he was tired, the way his face scrunched up when he yawned, even the way he'd purposely annoy you by putting your favorite snacks on the tallest shelves. You loved him for his faults, and you loved him for his virtues. No matter what you learned about him, he was still perfect in your eyes.

Well, perhaps perfect isn't the right word. You know Ithaqua isn't innocent, you know he isn't completely good. He's vengeful, he's cunning, he's someone with more spite in his body than good in his soul. He is a hunter, deadly as a blade and cold as night. He laughs when he chases and he kills without mercy.

Even so, when Ithaqua holds you gently, brushing his thumb over your cheek as he wraps your wounds, murmuring apologies like prayers, you can't see him as a monster.

He isn't perfect, but he is Ithaqua. That is enough for you.

More time slips by like sand through your fingers, decades going by with seemingly no end. Your stars are not pink, white, and purple anymore, but red, orange, and green. Your love has grown a startling amount, resulting in a growing pile of star filled bottles and jars. They clutter your closet floor, taking up almost all the space inside. You think you may have made around six hundred or so, most likely more. Even so, you know there will be more, this time filled with daydreams and flustered hopes.

Your relationship with Ithaqua is closer than ever. He is your other half, your shadow, always there and ready to talk. You know him better than anyone else, just as he knows you. At this point, the whole manor is convinced you're dating each other in every way but in name. You flush whenever they say so, quickly saying you two are only friends.

"For now." They say.

'For now.' You think.

With how many years have passed, you'd think you would've gained the courage to confess to Ithaqua. Sadly, the heart is as cowardly as it is powerful. Your chest feels like it'll burst whenever you try to confess, lungs begging for air even without restrictions. Every time you try, anxiety rips the words away from you, causing you to fumble like an idiot in front of him.

It might have been a blessing that the words never had a chance to form. 

Later, when you were coming to visit him on the hunter side, you heard him talking to someone. You weren't one to eavesdrop, respectful of others' privacy, but you couldn't help but listen when you heard your name come up.

"It's painfully obvious they love you. Why don't you just confess already?"

"I can't do that. Confessing to someone I can't love is not right."

At that moment, you felt your heart shatter.

That day, you stayed in your room. You wanted to cry, scream, break something, do anything, but as always, you could only do nothing. You were curled up on your bed, incapable of doing much other than wonder why. Why can't he love you? Why won't he love you? Why, why, why, why, why?

You had gotten overconfident, you guessed. With how Ithaqua treated you so differently from the rest, so lovingly, you had assumed he'd felt the same as you did. At the very least, you had hoped he'd have some romantic interest in you. Was it presumptuous? Was it arrogant? Was it wrong for you to have hoped that he would love you back after all these years? Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't. Regardless, the truth lay bare before your eyes now, and there was nothing you could do but accept it.

It took you a week to get out of your slump, leaving many worried. You couldn't bother to care, trying to reassure everyone quickly that you were fine despite having been broken not long ago. You had picked up the fragments of who you were and built yourself anew. Fragile, yet stronger than ever. You could only be glad the manor had been kind enough not to give you any matches during this time.

Time marches on, unrelenting as the push and pull of the waves. Your stars turned blue, black, and yellow, filled with wishful thinking and occasional pleads. Nine hundred and ninety-nine bottles and jars gathered within your room, filling your closet, shelves, and even the bottom of your bed. Even though you knew it was useless, that your love was unrequited and that Ithaqua would never love you, the heart is a cruel, stubborn little thing.

Your heart never gave up on Ithaqua, even though your mind had long acknowledged he'd never be yours.

You were fine with that. Ithaqua had no obligation to you, and it was wrong of you to believe he would love you. It was completely fine for you to love him, but it wasn't okay for you to expect him to love you in the same way. Such thoughts would only hurt you when hit with reality. You'd suffered through it once, you didn't need to do so again.

You continued being friends with him, acting completely normal. Nothing changed, but that was fine with you. Keeping what you had now was more than enough. You kept trying to convince yourself that was true, but it felt like thorns were wrapping around your heart, flowers blooming painfully between your ribs.

"You love him!" Your heart cries.

"But he doesn't love me." You whisper back.

Distance would be the only way to heal you, and the best opportunity for it drops right onto your desk. A letter, stamped and sealed just like the one that invited you to the manor. It tells you that you may leave, that your reward for participating in the game would be given and that you were free.

You rush out of your room to find your fellow survivors cheering, crying, hugging, and laughing. After so many years stuck in the manor, you were finally able to leave. You were finally getting your rewards. 

It felt like a dream.

Happy beyond all reason, you run to the hunter's manor, finding that no celebrations were occurring. It quickly dawns on you that most of these people will not leave- couldn't. Most were dead, others were immortal, while some were people who simply couldn't be returned to society. Regardless, it seemed most of the hunters would never leave the manor, or would quietly fade away into the afterlife.

Ithaqua notices you from his corner of the room. He beckons you closer, so you walk towards him. Sitting yourself comfortably next to him, you explain the situation. He listens, humming occasionally as you show him the letter. Finally, he smiles.

"I'm happy for you."

It's simple, but sweet. You know he means it, but you kind of wish he didn't. After all, this had been your last hope, the last chance for him to show that he felt anything for you. 

You set yourself up for disappointment once more, hoping for love that he would never give.

So, you smile, nod, and say you'll be packing your things. You ignore the tears that blur your vision, the looks of pity Mary and Joseph give you, running away with a smile on your face as if truly excited to leave.

You had hoped he'd ask you to stay.

You had hoped he'd at least say that you were important to him, even as just a friend.

Perhaps even that was too much to expect.

Your love is like the moon, brilliant, beautiful, and powerful. However, in the face of almost complete apathy, of the unending night that shrouds you, what could you do?

Luggage isn't too much of an issue for you, especially considering you never brought much to the manor and never bought much either. The only things left were your paper stars.

You held the last jar, the thousandth one. You had finally completed your goal. However, there was no wish you could think of for yourself. You gained your freedom, your reward from the manor, and now, gave up completely on Ithaqua. There was nothing you desired.

Turning to face your closet, your grip on the jar tightens. You see the thousands, millions of stars staring back at you, a galaxy of color, filled with so much love and joy. It's almost painful to see it all, the proof of your existence within this manor, the proof of your love, shoved in a closet and never to be seen again.

You turn to your desk, glancing at the other jars that decorate it. You can see the imperfections on some of the stars, one crinkled far too much, another far too big. You remember all the time and effort that went into them, the words you had written, the feelings that went through you as you made them. It washes over you like a wave, and you let it.

Then, finally, you smile.

"I wish him love."

He deserves it. He deserves to be loved selflessly, in a way you probably couldn't offer him. He deserves to be held when it's cold, tenderly cared for when sick, shared jokes with sincerity, and above all else, happy.

So, carrying your luggage bag and a smile, you meet Ithaqua at the hunters manor. You place the jar of paper stars in his hands, eyes full of adoration as you let him go in your heart.

"Farewell, Ithaqua. I'm glad to have met you. Thank you for letting me get to know you and love you. I will never forget you."

You squeeze his hands around the jar, the pain in your chest bittersweet. You let go, pulling back and waving as you leave. He watches for a long time, even after you've long left.

Eventually, he lets his legs give out from under him. He lets his heart ache as he opens the jar to let the stars fall into his hands. Ithaqua cradles them like they're the most precious things in the world, an irreplaceable treasure that was worth more than his life.

He lets his shoulders shake, curling in on himself as he sobs. Tears fall from his eyes as his heart rips itself apart, only getting worse as he sees writing on a star. He unravels it slowly, carefully, as if it'll tear with even the slightest bit of pressure. His efforts are for naught, as in the end, his tears wet the paper and destroy the writing, ink smudging as his efforts to return it to normal shred the thin paper. Still, he remembers vividly the words written on it. He'll feel it forever seared into his heart and soul.

Sweetest Thing (Royal!Anne×Baker!Reader)

AN: This started as a Xiao fluff fic, then an angst one after a friend said I couldn't be evil, but somehow ended up turning into an Anne fluff fic. It was also only supposed to be 1.5k words at most though, that didn't happen either. Writing really is an experience. Also sorry about your divorce omw to fight Vin/hj Word count: 2.3k words Summary: Princess Anne tries to bake you cookies after seeing you feeling down. It doesn't go well.

Anne awkwardly looks at the pile of ominous mush in the pan. It smells faintly of charcoal, smoke, and regrets. It honestly smelled better than it looked, considering it looked like an abomination of nature and a war crime to all of Oletus Kingdom.

'Perhaps... I'm not suited for things like baking.' Anne thought, letting an embarrassed smile form upon her lips. She put down the tray and took off the oven mitts. Although she wasn't surprised, she couldn't help but be disappointed nonetheless.

For the longest time, the bakers of the Lester Royal Family were your ancestors. Raised to serve the country's sovereign, you were well known throughout the entire kingdom and beyond for your baking skills. You were called a genius, a prodigy, practically born to be a Royal Baker, which wouldn't necessarily be incorrect.

However, Anne could never accept that. Before you could be properly trained to become a Royal Baker, you were her playmate. While her parents wanted her to hang out with nobility, Anne had found herself drawn to you. Perhaps it was the ever lingering scent of baked goods on you, or the fact that you'd sneak her treats when she wasn't supposed to have any.

Regardless, she saw you as a friend first and foremost. You weren't the Royal Baker, her servant, or anything else like that. Anne would never let those titles define who you are as a person, not when she had gotten to know who you are before those titles were stuck upon you. Even now, when you two are older, when things are more complicated than they were before, she can't see you as anything less than, well, you.

She had seen you looking rather upset; so as any good friend would do, she tried to cheer you up. Anne's plan was simple: make you cookies. It would be especially meaningful if she made it herself, so she shooed off the worried servants from the extra kitchen and got ready.

It couldn't be that hard, right? She wasn't expecting them to be perfect or anything, just decent, or at least edible. With a cookbook and some of the best ingredients in the kingdom, it was basically impossible for Anne to fail!

She was severely mistaken.

Baking was far harder than the princess had anticipated. It required precision, practice, time management, multitasking, and so much more. It was honestly overwhelming. There was seemingly so much time to do this and that, but then, in the blink of an eye, something was burning.

Sulking a bit, Anne glanced sullenly at the flour dusted pages of the cookbook. It sat there innocently, as if it hadn't misled her. The picture of the perfect finished product taunted her in all its glory, looking scrumptious.

Her stomach growled, to which she let out a groan immediately afterward. It had been a rough few hours, and she hadn't gotten around to eating. She'd strictly informed the servants not to enter until she came out. Respecting her orders, they didn't come in at all, even just to inform her that it was lunchtime. Perhaps they had said it outside the door, but she just hadn't heard.

Either way, Anne was hungry, tired, and a bit let down. Thus, she sluggishly started to clean up the mess she had made, carefully tossing dirty bowls and spatulas into the sink. She quickly wiped the counter with a wet rag before washing her hands, humming faintly.

Turning around, she faced her little atrocities. She honestly didn't know what to do with them. It felt like a waste to throw away, but these were most definitely anything but edible. It could probably be used as a poison, if you can even convince someone to try it.

Anne prepared to throw away the results of her hours of effort, a bruised ego her only other prize, when the door opened. Surprised, she set down the tray immediately to see who it was.

There you stood, looking vaguely concerned as you stepped into the kitchen. The door clicked shut behind you like the final strike of a clock, declaring the end of her life.

'Oh God why.'

Her face flushed red as she fully turned around to hide the tray behind her body. Anne knew very well you'd likely have seen it coming in, but she still tried to conceal her humiliating attempt at cookies.

Trying to seem calm, she plastered a strained smile to her face and observed you. You weren't in your work clothes, dressed more for an outing, if anything. It reminded her that she had invited you to come try her cookies around this time since it was your day off.

Anne of the past had believed she would've made good cookies by now.

Ha. Haha.

Past Anne was dreadfully wrong, and she couldn't curse herself enough for her arrogance.

"Anne? Are you alright? I came as you asked but uh... you seem busy." You slowly walk towards her, watching as immediately her smile drops and she panics. You pause as she rips a tray off the counter and tries to shove the entire thing in a trash can. She fails, as instead of dumping it in sideways, she threw it down flat.

The tray clangs loudly against the rim of the trash can, echoing in the kitchen. The charred... whatever it is, jumps up and down a few times, adding a few crispy crackles and wet splats to the odd symphony of noise.

If Anne's face could turn any redder, it would.

You stare at Anne, bewildered. The usually sweet and composed princess was no more, reduced to nothing but a bumbling mess. She looked like she would want nothing more than for the Earth to swallow her whole.

"...are you alright?" You ask again, genuinely worried that Anne was going half catatonic on you. She had stopped floundering by now, elegantly folding her hands in front of her. She stared at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"...yes. I'm perfectly fine." Her voice cracked, but she pretended that didn't happen. In fact, Anne was trying to forget everything that had happened in the past few minutes. She didn't want to think about it.

You squint your eyes at her before turning to get a better look at the tray she so desperately wanted to keep away from you. Initially, Anne tries to hide it, but after carefully moving her aside, you see it all.

The burnt, dry, yet somehow also wet mush on the tray is somewhat of a familiar sight to you. It reminds you of when you were younger, when you were just an apprentice baker, if you could even be called that. Many failed attempts were made those days, but it was necessary for you to become the baker you are today. It felt nostalgic.

Turning to the cookbook nearby, you read the description. Your brows raise in surprise before you face Anne once more. She looks ready to sprint out the room, noble etiquette be damned.

Seeing her flustered like this was rare and precious, but you knew you shouldn't tease. From the few clues around the kitchen, as well as the fact that you'd been invited at this time, you could piece together what had happened.

Silently, you pull out a sandwich from the picnic basket you'd been lugging with you. You pass it to Anne, watching her stare at you in confusion. She quickly gives up on finding answers, preferring to eat first rather than asking questions.

Gently placing the picnic basket on the counter, you continue to take out the packed dishes and drinks. You pour a glass of lemonade before sending it Anne's way, watching as she quickly takes it with a curt "thank you." You could understand now why the servants had seemed so relieved to see you.

The kitchen servants had asked you to bring food to the princess while you were visiting, worried beyond belief but unable to defy her orders. Her command that no one could enter the kitchen lest she exit was a bit unreasonable, but they didn't dare disobey her. They could only await her exit anxiously before you came, concerned for her health.

"...I was trying to make cookies for you." She starts, having finished her meal. You hum in response, taking a sip of your drink. "It didn't turn out well, as you can see."

It certainly didn't.

You glance at the dirty dishes in the sink, then remember how her attempt had looked. It was... evidently not her specialty, making sweets, but that was no fault of hers. Anne had never baked in her life.

Most people didn't realize how much effort it took, and didn't bother trying, daunted by the idea of doing something new. Yet, Anne tried. She was brave enough to try regardless of the likelihood of failure. That was still something to be proud of.

"I noticed you'd been feeling a bit down these days, so I wanted to cheer you up. Your cookies always cheer me up, so I thought I could make my own to do the same for you." She rattled on, pouting slightly. She was truly hoping to impress you, or at least be able to give you something so that you would smile.

You stare at her in surprise. It wasn't every day that someone tried to make you baked treats, much less a literal princess. People typically thought that since you were a baker, you could just make stuff for yourself and wouldn't care about receiving them. They aren't wrong. You can always make your own goods, but it'd still be nice to receive some. However, you understood that at the same time, you'd have to have a lot of courage to give a Royal Baker baked treats.

"Well, do you want to make cookies together, then?" You ask, smiling gently at Anne. She looks at you in surprise, then joy. Her face lights up as she enthusiastically shouts, "Yes!"

So, after chatting a bit more, the two of you clean up the counter to get ready to bake. You pull flour, sugar, and other ingredients from the shelves, flitting from place to place. Anne watches, having set the washed bowls, whisks, and spatulas on the counter.

As you instruct her to mix together ingredients while you preheat the oven, she can't help but admire you. You quickly preheat the oven, set a timer, and then start chopping chocolate bars on a cutting board in a single rotation. Your movements are quick and efficient, elegant in their own right.

"Your cookies were rather, er, wet but burnt at the same time. I'm guessing you probably used too much butter and sugar." You noted, swiftly sliding the chopped chocolate off the cutting board and into a bowl. Anne hums a confirmation, starting to pull the dough out of its bowl and kneading it on the counter.

"It was really dry, so I thought I should add some butter since they said to be careful with the amount of milk we used. I added more sugar since I thought that it'd taste better if it's sweeter. After all, there's a lot of dark chocolate in here." You look at the cookbook, realizing she's right. Although she went about it incorrectly, Anne's line of thought was perfectly reasonable.

"If you want it to be sweeter, we can substitute some of the dark chocolate for milk chocolate. As for the dryness, that's temporary. It might seem like nothing is changing, but just keep kneading." You never explicitly say that the way she did things was wrong, only offering the correct solution. She appreciated that you didn't scold her or say aloud her mistakes.

You were always conscientious, making sure to be firm but not harsh, respectful, but not distant. Despite the fact that you were well aware she was a princess, you always treated her as a friend when alone.

Anne didn't want to lose you due to things like birth rights and the like. To be perfectly honest, her role as a princess was more a chain that held her back than a key that unlocked opportunities for her.

If there was one thing she wished for more than anything, it would be to have you by her side forever. Her title wouldn't help her with that, only getting in the way if anything.

Still, she was willing to fight for the chance to be with you, to see you smile, to see you laugh, to see you sneakily offer her another treat that you knew she wasn't allowed to have.

She would do everything in her power to be with you, because to Anne, you were sweeter than any treat you could make.

"And... done."

You wipe the sweat off your forehead, turning to look at Anne. You're both dusted in flour and a bit disheveled. Yet, you don't think you've ever felt as happy as you have at this moment.

"We're done!" She cheers, looking at the finished cookies with pride. With your teamwork, the two of you managed to make them perfectly, a few adjustments made to suit your preferences. They were cooled and dusted in sea salt, the rich scent of chocolate filling the room.

Your gaze softens at how Anne jumps up and down in exhilaration. It had been a bit difficult, but it was fun working with her to bake cookies. It was silly, it was loose, and it was just you two being you.

Carefully, you place the cookies onto a plate, watching Anne place two cups of milk on the counter. You take one cup to your side as you place the plate between you two, glancing up at her with a smile.

As the setting sun caresses your skin and embraces Anne, the two of you eat your cookies. The undertones of coffee and dark chocolate are a bit bitter, but the sweetness of the milk chocolate matches it perfectly. Just as such, through the bitterness of failure, the sweetness of your smile made Anne feel as if this day was a success. She hopes you'll bake with her again.

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Tag List

@xiaosmary

Apricity (Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: My first post on this site and of course it's for friends. Regardless, I hope whoever reads this, enjoys it! This is also my first time using Tumblr and posting so if it looks bad, I'm sorry. Word count: 1.7k words Summary: Ithaqua loves you. He loves you more than he can ever express, so he sets you free. That's what you need, right?

If he had to describe you, it'd be with only a single word. Ithaqua didn't think anything else could quite explain the deep seeded feelings that blossomed in his heart. The warmth that filled him to the brim, the natural softening of his gaze, or the way he'd snap to attention at the sound of your voice, all of it, everything, those reactions, it all culminated into one word.

"Apricity."

When you smiled, when you laughed, when you listened, and when you talked, it all soothed his soul. It was the feeling of sunlight touching frigid skin in winter, that warmth like salvation upon him. 

You were the Sun and he was the Earth. The Earth that could never survive without the warmth of the Sun, that bathed in its light every day and circled it for eternity. You two shared a bond stronger than that rooted in words, which dragged you together like gravity, that set him alight in shades of blues and greens. 

However.

He knew he didn't deserve to feel like this. 

He knew he didn't deserve you. 

Your kindness and understanding even when he yelled, when he reacted in ways that made him hate himself, made Ithaqua wish he'd never met you at all. You're just too compassionate, too willing to embrace his flaws, to love him when he isn't worthy of even just looking at you.

That feeling curled in his gut, whispered in his head, sunk its teeth into his heart, and devoured him alive with guilt. For really, what else could he do? Live without you? Death would be kinder.

Even with that guilt lingering in the back of his head like the bitter taste of gal upon one's tongue, he stayed by you. Nothing could make Ithaqua willingly separate from you for longer than a few hours. Well, other than your boundaries.

As he thought this, basking in the rays of the sun all the while, you stood by his side. You smiled at him as you ran in the snow, kicking up the fluttering white frost and laughing all the while. You twirled and hummed, dragging your hand along the porch, scooping snow into your hands and packing it together into a ball.

When you turned to him, he thought you'd launch the snowball at him. Instead, you rushed towards him and presented it to him, eyes sparkling the whole time. It resulted in him staring at you in confusion, though Ithaqua hesitantly took the snowball from your palms.

Once Ithaqua accepted the snowball, you ran back to snatch more snow, turning it into a smaller ball. Then, once more, you offered the snowball to him, which Ithaqua once again accepted with confusion. This repeated a few more times before you were seemingly satisfied, smiling as you made him hold out his hands with the snowballs.

You stuck your tongue out as you focused on the snowballs, grumbling below your breath. Ithaqua watched, smiling softly as you continued to do this. The way your brows were drawn together in concentration was adorable, leaving him content to let you do as you pleased regardless of how odd it was.

After a few minutes of rearranging, you pulled away with a grin. Clapping your hands together in glee, you look up at him. Ithaqua feels the familiar sensation of his heart squeezing, though he ignores it in order to give you his full attention.

"Look! I made us as snowmen! Er- snowpeople??? Snowpeople!" You say it with a child-like joy, taking one of the snowmen- snowpeople from his hands. Belatedly, Ithaqua realizes this one vaguely looks like him.

You cradle the imitation of him like it's the most precious thing to exist. In turn, he holds the imitation of you as if he'd protect it with his life. You laugh as he does, making him laugh in return. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, the sun giving you a halo that makes you glow. You're lit up in shades of gold, making you look like everything he'd ever desire and more.

You look good like this, Ithaqua thinks. You look good when you're happy.

Perhaps that was what made him do it, what made him kill himself. That part of him that loved you so much it could be called nothing less but obsession, slayed and buried by his own hand. He shoved it into a corner of his heart that would never be reached again, locked behind walls he started to build around himself once more.

Ithaqua stopped talking to you, he started to avoid you. He stayed in his room as much as possible, or hid in the darkest parts of the woods surrounding the manor. Even when you had matches with him, he'd show neither hide nor hair of himself before you.

It was as though he'd all but disappeared from your life, giving you whiplash. Did you do something wrong? Did you push his boundaries? Did you accidentally offend him?

Even as you had this emotional crisis, Ithaqua stubbornly refused to face you. Even as his heart broke seeing you cry, asking the other hunters if they knew why he was acting this way, he hid away. No, perhaps it was more accurate to say he ran away.

It was better this way for the both of you, he thought. You could shine your light upon those who deserved it instead of someone like him. He doesn't regret anything. It doesn't hurt.

Even to him, his words all sounded like empty lies.

Still, he'd hold true to this plan. Even as his temper grew worse, making him snap at fellow hunters or unfortunate survivors, he continued. Ithaqua refused to meet you in any way, shape or form. He knew if he did, he'd never be able to let you go again.

Oh, but he should have known. Just as he is stubborn, you are too. Perhaps more than him, even. It was natural for someone who was willing to try and help him, who was kind enough to do so.

When Ithaqua found himself in a random match on Leo's Memory with no recollection of going there, he simply thought it was a punishment from the baron. He'd been losing quite a few matches and hurting many survivors severely, after all. Any matches with you in it, he'd simply not participate in, running away whenever he got tinnitus. In any other match, however, he hunted like never before. So, perhaps this was retribution. Perhaps, it was his turn to be hunted.

And hunted he was.

Ithaqua ran, heart pounding in his chest, though not because of fear. Even as his legs felt as though they'd give out on him, he pushed through, forcing himself to go beyond his limits. If he didn't, it'd all be over.

His blood pumped almost painfully through his veins, his stilts slipping on ice as he continued to try and gain distance. It wasn't working all too well, but he'd be damned if all his efforts went to waste.

However, it was all for naught. In a single moment, he was pushed onto the ground, body colliding with snow. Ithaqua would have struggled if not for the fear of hurting you.

You loomed above him, pinning him down as you desperately gasped for air. Tears were pooling in your eyes as he could only look away in guilt. 

'This is what you do to them.' The voices whispered. 'They've only just seen you again and they're hurt. You can never protect what you love no matter how hard you try. Truly, they'd be better off without yo-'

"Stop."

Your voice cut through his thoughts as you brought your hand up to cradle his face. Tears fell like shooting stars from your eyes, dripping onto his face as though they were his own. Truthfully, he felt like crying, too.

"You always look like that when you're thinking something self-deprecating." You whisper the words like you don't want them to be heard, don't want them to exist, but he hears them anyway. His heart clenches, both in deep sorrow and in shameful love. You knew him too well.

"I don't know why you've been avoiding me, but if it's because of something I've done, I'm sorry. Please tell me what I did, I won't do it again- I'll- I'll make sure I don't over step, or hurt you, or, or-" You cut yourself off, hiccuping as you roughly wipe your eyes. Your tears continue to fall no matter how many times you rub them away, never-ending.

Ithaqua sighs quietly as he lets go of the last of his self control. With his plans laid completely to waste and your quaking form before him, he can't do anything but surrender himself to you. It was a complete and utter loss.

"It's not your fault." He says gently, tenderly wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb. You look at him with a certain kind of softness as he does so, allowing him to shift around so he can cradle you.

Even now, with tears rolling down your cheeks, eyes reddened, and sniffling in his arms, you were lovely to him. 

"I don't deserve you. You're simply too pure- too good for someone like me. I'm not someone kind or patient, I'm cruel and temperamental. You deserve someone who isn't broken, someone whole. It shouldn't be your job to help me, you shouldn't have to deal with my outbursts. I knew you'd never abandon me yourself, so... I left on my own."

He buries himself in your shoulder, unwilling to look at your face. In hindsight, this plan was a horrible idea. It'd obviously hurt both you and him, and solve nothing at all. Yet, for whatever reason, it made perfect sense to Ithaqua, even now.

"Whether you are worthy of me or not is up to me." You force him to look you in the eye, hands holding his face firmly. "You do not get to make that decision for me. And in my eyes? You have always been worthy."

Ah. 

He feels tears that he'd forced himself to push down, finally gather in his eyes and fall. You smile kindly at him as you wipe them away, as tenderly as he had for you. 

Ithaqua bares his soul to you as the morning sun starts to rise, painting you both gold. The pain, the grief, the joy, the relief, everything that his heart had hid, laid before your eyes to see.

You truly were the sunlight that touched his frigid skin in winter.

You were apricity.

You were salvation.

.

.

.

Tag List

@ithaquakisser, @xiaosmary

(Man why is this platform so hard to use smh)

From Winter to Spring

AN: This fic is actually pretty different from my other ones since this is intended to be more like a letter. I listened to a song called "Magic Lily," which inspired me to write something in the perspective of Ithaqua's mother. The song is meant to be romantic, but I interpreted it as a mother waiting for their son to come back from war. Naturally, with themes of winter and suffering, I think Ithaqua, so here we are. Word count: 1.6 words Summary: A carefully written letter, multiple pages long, is stuffed inside an envelope. It doesn't seem like it was ever meant to meet its recipient, yet it resides within his hands. The delicate papers seems to weigh heavy with the love of a mother.

My dearest dove, 

It has been a long time since I've last seen your face. It's like it was just yesterday that we went to forage together. You had looked at me with such pride in your eyes, having picked two whole baskets of barberries. We had planned to turn them into jam with honey, a small luxury. You had smiled so brilliantly, so happily at that. To be able to make you happy like that made me feel whole, complete. The fondness I felt overwhelmed me, it almost made me want to cry.

I had never understood when other women spoke fondly of their children. They sacrificed their bodies, health, mind, their everything for them. Yet, children will never completely understand that sacrifice. Oftentimes, they take it for granted. They forget it. But you? You made me understand.

It's odd to think of loving someone more than yourself, but that is exactly how I feel. The stars could disappear from the sky, the heavens and earth could collide, and yet, I think I would not mind for as long as you were alive.

So, tell me why, why would you do this to me? Why have you left me like this?

Once we came back, setting aside our foraged goods, I felt an impending sense of doom. My throat tightened, heart racing as I felt unadulterated fear roll through me. Perhaps it was an instinctual thing, like how many of life's creations can sense death. I could tell my demise was near, be it in one way or another.

You had looked at me with worried eyes, asking me what was wrong. You have always been a sweet child, caring and attentive and so, so very smart. No matter how much I tried to hide my feelings, you always seemed to know when something was wrong. I sometimes wish you weren't such an intelligent boy, but that would be cruel of me. I love you for who you are- to remove any part of you would mean taking away who you are now. I could never do that.

I had forced a smile to my face as I told you I forgot something in my room, something important. You didn't believe me, but you did not pry. Thank you for trusting me, even when you knew I was lying. I know it's horrible to lie to you, but I had to do what I did.

I had ran to my room, throwing aside a cloth to reveal a crystal ball. Divination is not my specialty; it was the specialty of my mother. However, I am still above the rest when it comes to reading fate. What I saw was exactly what I had anticipated, something I hadn't feared before. Now, however, I was. I was beyond scared- I was downright terrified.

Before, I had nothing. My mother had been killed in a witch hunt, my home had been razed, and my friends and fellow villagers had turned their backs on me. I was consumed by rage, sorrow, and despair. I had nothing to lose but my life, I had no one to love but myself. 

Still, I could not hate people. I was human as the rest, but I was shunned. I was hated for my hair, for being a woman, for existing. Still, I could only hope, I could only live. To die would be to give into their hate, to throw away my mother's sacrifice for me to live.

Thus, I lived. Out of spite, out of grief. I lived because of love, because my mother would want me to. And, on my travels, I found God. I found peace. Life seemed less like a punishment than it had before.

Then, I found you.

At one point, I had wished my mother hadn't sacrificed herself for me, I wished she had lived instead of me. However, I understand now. I understand why she did what she did. As a mother, you are willing to do anything for your child. Even if it means becoming a monster, even if it means killing someone, you would do whatever it takes to protect your child.

In that moment, watching the future in which not just I would die, but you as well, I made up my mind. 

I cannot lie and say I did not want to live. I wanted to watch you continue to grow, to become a lovely young gentleman. I wanted to watch you become an adult, to love, to live. I didn't want to miss any moment of your growth, of you becoming your own person. However, I was willing to give up everything if it meant you'd live.

I got a glimpse of my fate and I couldn't help but shutter. Tortured till my mind broke, till I was no longer human, till I was no longer me. That was my fate should I sacrifice myself. But, was it worse than if you were to be tortured with me? Killed with me?

No, nothing could be worse than that.

So, knowing what kind of fate awaited me, I stood tall and put on a brave face. We didn't have much time, after all.

I asked you to hide in the closet, the men already knocking on our door. They banged against the wood as though it owed them money. The sound was like the call of death, a scythe hovering over my neck. But what can a mother do? I could only smile through the thundering of my heartbeat, through the tears that were rising in my eyes, the tight compression of my chest.

I was scared.

For me? Maybe. Mostly, it was for you. If they found you, I don't know what I would do.

The door swings open and I meet a painfully familiar face, as well as many armored ones. His arrogance is unlike your humility, the way he smiles is so different from your own. It's like a bearing of fangs, like a predator that had found its prey. It's horrible, terrible, what he does with your face. Your brother he may be, if only in blood, but he could never compare to you.

His words are laced with malice and self-importance, his finger pointed at me. I had braced myself for when the armored men would drag me away, manhandle me as though I were a fugitive and not just a lady, a mother.

Then, you came out of hiding.

Looking at your back, so small yet wide, I truly wanted to fall to my knees and weep. Your arms spread out, shielding me, you had stood. 

Ah, is love meant to hurt like this? Be difficult like this? Or, perhaps, is it just me?

I couldn't believe my ears when I heard you bargain with them, begging them to take you instead of me, to leave me alone. Words were clogged in my throat as you spoke, everything you said hurting more than any wound I'd ever had.

He had a contemplative look, that child. Then, like a cruel judge, he gave his ruling. He gave into your will, even going so far as to promise he'd place me somewhere I'd never be hunted again.

I had wanted to cry. I had wanted to scream. However, when you had turned to me with a smile so kind, so sweet, so sad and knowing, not a single sound could escape my lips.

You promised to come back to me in spring, like the flowers that withered in fall. You held my hands even as tears fell from your eyes, even as I tried to hold you back with all my might.

Yet, it was not enough.

You were taken from me.

Why? Why did this have to happen? Why did we have to suffer like this? Was this retribution? Punishment? For not having followed God sooner? For living? For existing?

My anger towards that boy, towards God, and towards the world, none of it could compare to the anger I feel towards myself.

This arduous path which I had to take, covered in thorns and decorated with hate, why did you have to take it too?

Ultimately, I believe it is because of me.

(There's darkened circles upon the paper, some smearing the last few words.)

It's been 5 years since then. Every time the snow melts, ushering in the coming of spring, I wait with anticipation. I wait for the sound of footsteps, for the sounds of life.

I wait for you.

It has been 5 years of fluttering frost, blossoming flowers, sunny fields, and bountiful harvests. I've seen the seasons come and go, the birds leaving for winter before returning home. Yet, the most important bird of all, my dearest dove, has yet to return.

There's a special kind of sadness that comes with spring. It starts with joy, which turns to immeasurable sorrow. I always wait, yet you never come.

Are you alive? Are you well? I've been taken to a place where no one despises me, where everyone accepts me, yet I'd rather be pelted with stones than part from your side. I would give up everything if I could just see your face once more.

Is it just me? This spring feels a bit worse than the last. I hope without hope, though I know you won't come. Not knowing if you're alive or well, it drives me mad. My divination has failed me, not allowing me to see anything beyond the veil of reality.

But, I want to believe. I have to believe. You always keep your promises, so I must believe it, believe that you will come back to me. I must weather the seasons, the storms, the sun, the snow, all for the day you return.

Yet, I grow tired of waiting. My heart is heavy, and my soul is weary. My eyes are always full of tears, constantly worried about you to this day.

How many more springs must I wait?

My dear child.

My beloved son.

*****.

Please.

Please.

Come home.

Of Vices and Virtues (Morningstar!Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: In which I go insane and finally succumb to the urge to write an unhealthy relationship instead of a nice, safe, and sane one. Also, to the people who were waiting for this fic, I am so sorry for the wait. I kept on forgetting it existed and also kept doubting myself since this is pretty different from what I usually do. Hope you enjoy it, even if it isn't the best! Word count: 2.7k words TW: Blood, violence, general insanity, and unhealthy relationships. Summary: You've always seen things others couldn't. When you met him, you were enamored by his unique nature. Perhaps you should have taken it as a warning. Perhaps, you should have ran. Instead, you drew closer.

It all started years ago when things were simpler. You were a child, and so was he. He was someone who bore the face of the future king, the Lord of Babel, the sun of the kingdom. You? You were just a simple peasant. No one noteworthy, not in appearance, personality, or skill. How could you be? You were a child.

Yet, when your paths crossed, it immediately changed you two. Your futures, your destinies which never should have merged, crashed together. The moment your eyes met his, it was over. You could never be normal again. After all, how could a mortal stay sane in the presence of a God?

He was your beginning, and surely he would be your end.

-

The lady who lived in the forest was odd, but kind. She would give you and your family medicine, never asking for anything in return. You didn't think that was very fair, so you gave her flowers. The prettiest ones you could find in the wild, hidden within the crevices of gnarled roots and heavy bushes.

You liked her quite well, which your parents found surprising. You never seemed to like most adults. They all brushed it off as shyness, laughing heartily as you scampered away.

It wasn't quite that, though.

The way you gazed at people with distrust was never on unfounded grounds. Children, for however random and silly adults believe them to be, are far too perceptive for their own goods.

You've always seen things others couldn't see. You knew not to tell, especially when the curling shadows at those peoples feet hissed and snarled silently. It was a warning, seething quietly around the liars with masks. You learned quickly that they were not people to be trusted.

The problem was, most adults held such secrets with them. Their perfect disguises of the kind neighbor and good samaritan were nothing before your eyes. Their performances of being righteous and pure sickened you. It churned your guts and set alight a blaze of fury inside you that you didn't understand.

You couldn't stand it, so you chose to run.

Thankfully, with her, it was never like that. She had the aura of what you think angels would have. It was warm, gentle, and bright, like a bonfire on a cold winter night. It made you feel comfortable, it made you feel safe. Honestly, you sometimes wished she were your mother so you could bask in her presence forever.

Of course, that is not the case, and you like your parents well. They had no roaring shadows, just a light brush of soothing sunlight. It was sweet and inoffensive, just a whisper of heat and kind words. That, too, you appreciated.

It was why you listened to them well, doing your best to be a good child for them. When they asked you for help, you were always up to the challenge. You'd smile brightly, determination glistening within your eyes and your heart set on fulfilling your mission.

Today was one such day, leading you to a cottage in the woods. Your parents requested that you gave the lady of the forest a package. The task felt more like a blessing than a burden. You got to help your parents and see one of your favorite people in the world! How could you not be happy?

Standing before the worn alder door, you carefully shift your bag as you knock. You rock back and forth, humming cheerfully as you wait for her to answer. The sounds of shuffling footsteps can be heard behind the door, making you smile.

When it opens, your smile slips as you stare blankly. Before your eyes stands not your favorite person in the world, but a child. He has wispy, light blond hair, so light it's white. His eyes are like charcoal, both dark and burning as he stares holes into you. It's half a glare and half a stare, more of a glare, really.

For a few moments, you're stunned. Not really at the fact that the lady had a child you never knew, but at the darkness and light that surround him in equal parts.

Children never had such prominent representations of good or evil on them, having been born with a neutral conscience. They were surrounded by barely flickering echoes of right and wrong, never quite lasting.

Yet, here he was, a child with both virtue and vice wrapped tightly around him. It intrigues you, beckoning you forward like a siren's call.

Before you know it, you've taken his face in your hands and tilted it to look closer. At what, you're not quite sure. All you do is drink in his features like a man starved, staring at him with such intensity you'd feel embarrassed if you were clear headed.

You expect him to fight back once you realize what you've done, but all he does is stare back with equal intensity, challenging you. It makes you smile, an odd feeling of pride and a desire to crush that will of his coming from the depths of your heart. It makes you pause in surprise, letting go of his face and stepping back.

"I'm sorry." You say, fiddling with the straps of your bag as you look away. It was rather unlike you to act this way, or to have such a violent thought. You shook your head to clear them of such things.

"Why are you here?" He asks harshly, ignoring your apology. You accept that considering you were quite rude to him.

"I'm here to deliver a package to the nice lady. Is she home?" You look over his shoulder for any hint of her. He blocks your view, his glare intensifying. He looks like he's about to say no when a familiar voice cuts him off.

"Ah! You shouldn't be here!"

You can't tell if she's referring to you or him. In a few minutes, she's taken you inside the house and given you snacks. The boy pouts as the lady of the forest scolds him, warning him not to open the door to strangers.

You chew on a cookie as you continue to stare at the warped shapes of his soul shift around him. It's warmer now, brighter. It's sentient and alive, happily glowing in the presence of the nice lady. You can't blame him, you like her a lot too.

At the same time, you can't help but wonder what it'll take for his shadows to devour the light.

You calmly give the lady the package and thank her for the snacks, brushing crumbs off your hands. She pats you, causing you to smile as you relish in the gentle touch. She tells you to come again, to play with her son. You don't think he'd like to, but you're willing to try.

With a wave and a smile, you're off. You ignore the no longer hostile stare that follows you out.

-

Seeing as you're no liar, you meet him again. You keep your promise to visit, and thus a tender friendship begins. The boy is surprisingly nice at times. He's simultaneously so ordinary, yet unusual.

He smiles when you trip, but he always helps you up. He hides your things, but always ends up telling you where they are. He says rather mean things, but his actions never match his words.

He's weird, but you like him. Unlike the others your age, he's quite interesting. The shared soft spot you both have for his mother certainly helps, and before you know it, you're friends.

"Why don't you ever leave the forest?" You ask one day, pulling weeds out of the garden. His mother's garden was in need of some help, so you decided to work on it with the boy. He diligently works, even though he hates the sunlight.

"Mother says I shouldn't be seen by others. You're okay, though." You accept the answer easily. You figured that was the case, anyway.

After the official debut of the future king, a prince around your age, you realized a lot more things than you thought you would. You're sure his mother knows you know, but neither of you mention it. For you, it's none of your business. For her, it's a secret she must take to her grave.

You're quite good at keeping secrets. You're sure she knows that, too. You also know her secrets will one day consume her whole, however. They always do.

You wonder how he'll react that day.

-

Ever since you met the lady of the forest, red became your favorite color. It's the color of her hair, of the ladybugs in her garden, and of the tiles on your house's roof. It's a sweet color, one of pure and good memories.

That changes the day you turn of age.

You watch in horror as she's brought before a cheering crowd, a spectacle for people to watch. He's next to you, his face covered and a cloak hiding his hair. His eyes shake as he stares at the cruel stage, the start of a scene he'd never want to see showing right before his eyes.

Her chains jingle like cruel church bells, hair a tangled mess as she's dragged across the crude boards of the stage. Splinters stab at her feet, fresh wounds and old ones bleeding red as she's roughly slammed into a wooden contraption. She gasps in pain as they lock it in place, the final Wham! of the wood marking the end of her judgment.

You both look on in stunned shock as the blade whistles down at the call of a man- a man who shares the same face as him. Time seems to slow as her eyes meet yours, silently, desperately, asking for help. Help you cannot give. Help you wish you could give.

Your heart screams as it is forced to face how powerless you are. It squeezes and squeezes as if someone were clutching it in their hand, hoping to inflict as much pain on you as possible while you are hopelessly, miserably left alive despite it.

The man's shadow laughs as the guillotine cuts off her life, destroying the warmth of her soul and putting it out. Like a lit candle in the wind, she's extinguished. She's gone.

The once comforting red of her hair is tainted by the ruthless sight of her blood painting the stage.

You vaguely think you hear something shatter, perhaps something inside of you or somewhere around you. You turn to look at him, your hands trembling, when you see it.

It seems to destroy light itself, yet hold it all the same. A black hole that displaces the refraction of light, like darkness that shines bright, it breaks free from the chains of what is perhaps the last of his humanity.

Perhaps it's the last of his sanity.

Glancing down at your own shadow, you laugh quietly as tears slip down your face. It's carried away by the cheers of the crowd and the deafening applause, going unheard. An unnatural smile stretches your face as you turn your head up to the sky.

If his darkness has light, your light holds darkness. With it, you'd both destroy everything that dared make you this way.

-

"I'll kill them, I'll kill them, I'll kill them." He's trembling in your arms, his body barely able to contain all his emotions. His rage, his sorrow, his pain, his tears, everything, it seems to pour out of him. You can only rub your hand comfortingly in circles on his back, eyes blank as you stare lifelessly at the wall.

He was suppressing himself as his feelings lashed out. You, however, were eerily empty.

You felt nothing, yet everything. It was like all your emotions had been tossed away, as though they'd never been there before. In its place, a cold, cruel rationality took over your mind. It plotted, it schemed, and it had only one goal.

To destroy.

"You will." You tell him. "We will."

It's a promise, and you don't break promises.

-

The sound of rumbling stones greets you in a familiar cacophony of noise. You revel in it, watching the statue's face fall and crumble. He stands before you now, so different from the sweet boy he was back then. That's partially your fault, admittedly.

You held him that day, when the world had fallen apart. You'd promised him justice, you promised him peace. You promised him the world and everything in it, because that was what he deserved. He deserved it so he could ruin it, since really, did anything matter anymore? When she was gone, she died, you'd never see her alive, you couldn't understand why-

You sighed, shivering as a cold breeze blew through the area. It doesn't matter now. You'd found your peace. You'd gotten your revenge.

Turning your gaze to the figure before the desecrated statue, you smile widely. He does the same, spreading out his arms as he laughs maniacally. He, too, had gained his vengeance.

"The tower shall fall, and new lies will be treated as the word of god. The morning star is the true king!" He sweeps the air in front of him, hand outstretched to you. You step forward, placing a hand in his. His grin seems to grow wider at that, his grip becoming more firm as he pulls you into his arms.

"And you, my evening dawn, will stand by my side. We'll rule the greedy, the disloyal, and the unworthy. The dogs in crowns will remain at our feet, and it will not matter who stands before us." He laughs as he bites your neck, hard enough to draw blood. You only laugh in return, the pain as sweet as the taste of power.

His hair, now pure white like the feathers on a dove, glows in the brilliant light of the sun. His eyes, once a beautifully deep onyx, are like translucent opal. The red you once grew to hate, tainted by blood, is made again your favorite color. It drapes him from head to toe in majesty, deeming him a true god amongst men.

He pulls you up into a kiss, his lips tasting of your blood and dust. The taste of your own blood upon your tongue makes you laugh. Anything is sweet when it comes from him, from his lips, even the underlying tastes of iron and danger, the possessive curling of his claws.

When you finally draw away from each other, your faces are flushed. You both pant lightly, giggling like school children as you hold each other close. His hold speaks of love, of desire, of a feeling so encapsulating, so damning, he'd rather kill you than let you leave his side.

His shadow says so much more.

It curls around your own, protecting it, stealing it, tugging and holding it like it wants to merge with yours. The darkness tries to devour your light, but it's only a pointless cycle where one cannot destroy the other. They're two sides of the same coin, cultivated into a writhing mass of what you're sure anyone else would claim to be insanity.

You hum in joy, resting your forehead against his chest. He needs you as desperately as you need him. He'll never leave you, and you could never leave him. No one could ever take you away from each other.

"You're all I have." He tenderly murmurs, dragging a claw down your spine. You shiver as you look up at him, smiling. "And I am all you have."

"I love you. Only two things will ever have me, and it'll be you and death." You respond, meaning every word. He knows as well as you do that you mean it, and he rewards you with another kiss. It's sweeter than the last, an addicting pull that makes you yearn for more. More and more and more, until you suffocate.

You'll treasure him for the rest of your life. He's your precious partner, isn't he? You should hold him close and treat him right. Isn't that what they taught you?

You smile, something akin to a nightmare, as you turn. He stands by your side as you saunter over to the gilded cage, the traitors shaking within.

"What do you think, mother, father?"

He was your beginning, and he will be your end.

.

.

.

Tag List

@ithaquakisser, @xiaosmary

Do NOT Let Him Cook (Morningstar!Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: Happy White Day! I'm probably not posting more than this and the other fic I was supposed to post Valentine's Day (which, as you can see, I failed in doing) for March. I will, however, be posting a little more in April cause that is my birthday month! Expect a few indulgent fics. This fic is honestly just crack, so if you need something silly and sweet, here we are! Genuinely, do not let this man cook. Word count: 2.2k words Summary: It's White Day, a day of reciprocated love. Of course, Helel has to give you something in return for your wonderful Valentine's gift. Now, if only he could figure out how he turned a tart into a fruity croissant...

There were very few things Helel feared. The first, of course, was you. He held your heart in his hands as you did too, yes, but no one could get him to obey them quite like you could. It was loyalty, it was devotion, one reciprocated through blood and love. To possess such power over him is somewhat of a marvel, something to fear, even just a little.

The second was your death, the thought of you leaving his side forever. He'd tear apart the world, commit sacrilege in the holiest places, and declare war upon the gods before he'd let someone take you from him. Still, he cannot control plagues, time, or the hostility within the hearts of humans. Life is delicate, even Helel cannot deny that.

The third thing he feared, Helel learned, was baking.

It seems simple enough, really. Chuck a few ingredients in, mix it, then toss it in an oven. Easy, right? Looking around him now, with smoke billowing off the charred tray (and wow, he didn't know metal could burn like that), Helel was completely at a loss.

"Ah, these don't seem quite right." He muttered, scratching his cheek. All Helel wanted was to give you something in return for your Valentine's gift, something special. He had consulted many people, even asking some of the prisoners, as odd as that sounded.

Most didn't give any good responses, only saying "please let me go" or "you're going to pay for this." Terrible advice, really. Not even on topic, either, but it could be worse, he supposed. So, he went to ask his favorite person to bother.

"For the love of- just make them cookies or something!" Nebuchadnezzar had exclaimed, absolutely done with Helel's ramblings. He looked about ready to chew his tongue off so he could finally know peace again. At least death wouldn't ramble about their lover for 15 hours straight.

It had been a decent suggestion, so Helel had taken it. Perhaps he shouldn't have, considering the disaster that was most of his creations.

The counters were covered in flour, the fine powder dusting the area like snow. Splatters of batter, egg, and butter painted some places like abstract art. The worst place of all, funnily enough, was the table. It was completely clean, presenting only a few delectable looking treats.

Sadly, they were not exactly what they were made to be. Somehow, Helel had managed to make bread instead of cake, a croissant instead of a tart, and now small bricks instead of cookies. He carefully tapped one against the counter, wincing as the wood chipped under the force. The cookie, however, was fine.

'I... can't give them this.'

Helel smiled awkwardly, wanting nothing but to slam his face against a wall. He had thought "it couldn't be that hard!" and look at him now. It was pathetic, to the point he genuinely considered just asking a servant to make something instead. However, that's literally something he could do any other day. It didn't carry the significance he'd want it to.

You had given him the head of the rebellion's leader, which most would find horrifying but he found terribly romantic. The best Valentine's gift, truly. Sure, he couldn't give you something of equal value, but he could try and match the sentiment. Helel knew you loved effort and thought, so he would do his best to give you something of that in equal measure.

So, he couldn't give up. Helel once again turned to a different page in the cook book, praying to himself that he didn't fuck up this time. He couldn't possibly mess up sugar cookies, right? They were simple, so surely no matter what they'd be fine.

He was cursing himself wasn't he?

He poured the ingredients, carefully measuring them as he went through the motions. It went smoother this time since he just made cookies (if he could really call them that). With practice under his belt, Helel managed to make a tray of cookies.

"Now I roll them in sugar before baking... where's the sugar?" He looked around, grabbing at the jars in front of him.

"That's flour... that's baking powder... or is it baking soda?... that's powdered milk... wait why do we have powdered milk? Oh!" Helel smiled as he finally found what he was looking for. He didn't know how the chefs managed to get anything done with nothing labeled, but that was the beauty of not being a chef. He didn't have to know, and perhaps he never would.

So, he popped open the glass jar, pouring in the crystalline fragments into a bowl. They glimmered innocently in the light, small gems that melted upon one's tongue.

Helel quickly tossed each cookie ball into the bowl, placing them back onto the tray afterward. Making sure they weren't too close together, he arranged them one last time. Finally, he placed them in the oven. The timer would let him know when they were ready.

The man sighed, moving quickly to wash the dirty dishes. He knew he could leave it to the servants, but at this point, he just wanted to get rid of the evidence of his failures. Sure, most of his baked treats looked... fine, but the first few looked as though it had gone through someone's digestive system already.

After all was said and done, Helel felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. If this was what the chefs dealt with on the daily, he was going to have to give them a raise. All this for some desserts? Really? They deserved to be paid more for this misery.

Checking the timer, he nodded to himself. 10 minutes was enough time to snack on something. Helel let himself drop into a seat, groaning as his weary legs finally got to rest. He grabbed the cake-turned-bread, cutting off a small slice. The cookies were a definite no, and he had his suspicions about the croissant, but the bread seemed fine.

'If I get poisoned from this, they're never going to let me live it down.'

You would absolutely make fun of him. Morningstar, the King of Babel, dying from his own creation. It sounded like a story Shakespeare wrote, really. Helel hoped more for his pride rather than his life that he wasn't that bad at baking.

Taking a few bites, he found that he wasn't dying yet. Which was relieving, of course, but to his surprise, the bread also tasted not bad. Sweeter than most breads, but nothing unbearable. It was probably going to be one of the few things he could actually share with you.

At the chime of the timer, Helel took the cookies out of the oven, letting them cool. That would give him another few minutes to start packing things up. Should he use red ribbon or white? It's a White Day gift, yes, but you told him red reminded you of him.

Humming, the young king started slicing the bread, gently placing the slices in a nice container. Perhaps he should pack some jam in the basket too- it would go well with it.

Helel glanced at the first batch of cookies, opting to dump them in the trash after a brief moment of contemplation. Could they be used as projectiles? Honestly, yes. Was he going to let anyone know he failed that badly? Never.

Finally, he took a bite of one of the croissants. It was fine as well, just odd. The fruit fillings and cream were distributed well throughout the pastry. If it weren't for the fact that it was supposed to be a tart, Helel might have been proud.

Packing those up as well, he placed the 2 containers in a basket, grabbing a few jars of jam and a butter knife. By then, the cookies were sufficiently cooled. Though, after taking another look at them, Helel wondered what he had done wrong this time.

Unlike the first batch, these cookies were puffy. They weren't like cream puffs, but they were certainly not cookies. Had he mixed up which of the powders he was using? He really wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

The other pastries he had packed weren't made to be what they ended up as, but tasted fine anyway. Maybe, these would be the same.

So, shrugging his shoulders, Helel tossed one of the "cookies" in his mouth. 

And instantly he regretted it.

It was salty. Not salty in the pleasantly seasoned way, but salty as in if he had drank salt water it would taste better than this.

Spitting out the abomination, Helel glared at one of the jars. Of course he mixed up the sugar and salt, of course. Still, he at least had something other than this. He'd just have to dispose of these.

If you didn't find him.

The door clicks open, and Helel can't decide whether he wants to scream or jump right out the window. In the doorway, as he expects, is you. You're always welcome in his eyes, his wonderful, perfect significant other. However, at this particular moment, he really wishes you weren't here.

"Helel? What are you doing here?"

Though you ask, you already seem to at least know he was baking. Not a very hard assumption to make, all things considered, but that just makes things harder for him.

"I was... baking." He says, giving a strained smile as he slowly grabs the tray of cookies. Hopefully, if he's quick enough, you won't even notice him toss the entire thing in the trash.

'Please do not ask about these, please don't notice-'

"Is that a scone dusted in salt???" 

Helel was going to throw himself off a cliff.

"...I was trying to make sugar cookies."

The look you give him simply reaffirms his decision.

"I... see. What's the occasion?" You draw closer to him, staring curiously at the basket. He's thankful he managed to add a blanket on top beforehand, though it would've been nice if he had tied a ribbon around the handle, too.

"It's White Day, so I wanted to give you something special." Helel responded, dropping the tray with a sigh. It was too late to hide it, so why bother?

You hum softly, lips curling into a smile. You grab one of the scones, taking a bite before he can warn you. Yet, instead of spitting it out like he expected, you chewed as though nothing were wrong with it.

"Are- are you okay?" He can't help but ask. He had tried one right before you came- he knew they didn't taste good. So, how was it that you ate the entire scone without even cringing in the slightest?

"Yep, I'm fine. I'm sure you already know, but these are salty." You laugh, quickly grabbing a glass of water and chugging it. Despite the concern he feels, Helel can't help the way his chest warms. 

"Well, yeah, I was going to warn you about that. Can't believe you ate it all- I spat it out immediately. Why did you eat it anyway?" He can't help but ask. You weren't one to shy away from being honest. The fact you looked him in the eye and told him it was salty was proof enough. You weren't scared of him, so why would you put yourself through that?

You give him a smile, tilting your head towards the window. The sun is high in the sky, letting all know that it was sometime in the afternoon.

"You've been here for... I'm guessing at least 5 hours. I don't know how you haven't collapsed yet, but that's not the point right now. The point is," You take his hands into yours, kissing each of his knuckles. "I see your effort, and I don't want to let it go to waste."

Helel, for all his cruelty, his hatred, his grief- cannot be anything but in love for you. To love is to be seen, to be known, and it seems that for all his life, that's exactly what you've done. Seen him, known him, but most of all, loved him.

So, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing kisses from your palm down to your wrist. He lingers there, letting you cradle his face as he closes his eyes.

It wasn't perfect by all means, but he thinks that this small moment is worth more than anything he could've ever orchestrated. Helel doesn't need endless praise, gifts, or overwhelming acts. All he needed was a bit of acknowledgement, a bit of love.

"Happy White Day, my sun.”

-

ALTERNATE STORY:

Helel did not realize he was that bad at baking. He completely blames Nebuchadnezzar for everything.

"HELEL, HOW THE FUCK DID YOU MANAGE TO MAKE A MONSTER!?"

"HIS NAME IS FREDERICK KREIBURG AND HE'S SORRY TO SAY THAT HE'S FRENCH!"

"WE AREN'T EVEN IN FRANCE! WHAT DID YOU ADD TO THOSE COOKIES? THE CREMATED REMAINS OF YOUR DAD!?"

"...that explains why the sugar was so dusty."

"...Helel Morningstar Babel-"

"Ahaha... ha..."

Yeah, Helel was going to kill his brother if you didn't end up killing him first.

norton, naib, or fredrick waking up to their s/o not in bed but s/o is up cooking? they've been doing this for a few days now and it helps soothe their nerves when they have an upcoming match, sometimes other members of the manor are up so they normally have whatever they made when they arent hungry or they make enough portions for anyone who might be up and hungry,,,generally tooth-rotting fluff, bonus if the characters are a little clingy ???

tysm <33

AN: Qjgpjwvphvsvksj thank you for this soft request! I was surprised to see a request for someone who isn't Ithaqua, but I'm extremely grateful for that. I love Ithaqua, but if I keep on writing him and him alone I'm going to lose my mind. By the way, sorry for the long wait. I didn't forget this request, I just had to deal with school lol. I was also conflicted on who to choose and how to go about it. In the end, I've chosen Naib. I must apologize, though, since I wrote him much softer than most would expect of him. Still, I hope you enjoy! Word count: 1.4k words Summary: Waking up next to you is the best part of the day. To get to see your peaceful face first thing in the morning is a blessing. It makes Naib look forward to waking up early, no matter how much his body protests. Sadly, this has become a rather rare occurrence lately. Won't you indulge him a bit?

The mornings in the manor are always quiet and serene, a stark contrast to the afternoon when matches are in full swing. The faint chirping of birds, the leaking sunlight through the blinds, and the wafting scent of breakfast come together to create a sleepy wake up call. Getting to bask in the dazed ambiance of the rising dawn is one of Naib's favorite things in the world.

Usually, he would get to enjoy this all with you. Well, kind of. You tended to sleep in more often than not, though he wasn't about to complain. You looked adorable while you slept, so completely at peace. Nowadays, he can't even see your face until it's halfway through the afternoon or, if he's lucky, in the kitchen during breakfast. 

Today marks the fifth day in a row that Naib has woken up without you. The sight of the empty bed leaves him feeling cold despite the blankets pulled over him. It's a bit bitter, too, since today was a more relaxed day where Naib didn't have as many matches. Lazing around with you would've been perfect.

With a sigh, he gets ready to start the day, though more specifically, to see you. His footsteps are light as he descends from the stairs, gloved palms dragging along the lacquered wood of the railing. Taking a deep breath, Naib scowls as he marches towards the kitchen. The few survivors who are awake, namely Emma and Victor, move away from his path once they catch sight of his expression. He'd apologize to them later, but for now, he was a man with a mission.

The mercenary quickly arrives at the kitchen, the sound of light humming reaching his ears. The wordless song is enough to put him at ease, his lungs filling with air as he lets himself breathe. His face softens, the tension in his jaw loosening and his shoulders relaxing as Naib carefully opens the door a bit more. Leaning against the doorframe, his lips curl into a gentle smile, his eyes crinkling as he watches you do this and that.

Eggs crackle and pop with oil within a cast iron pan, the scent of freshly toasted bread drifting in the air as you prepare plates. Your smile is a balm to his aching heart, soothing him as he quietly watches you place food on trays. The breeze ruffles your hair like the gentle hand of a mother, messing up your already rather disheveled appearance.

Taking a better look at you, Naib can't help but snort in amusement. Flour paints your left cheek a powdery white, jam covers your apron in splotches of jewel like reds and purples, and butter is somehow smeared across your forehead. How you hadn't noticed, he doesn't know. Still, even looking as though you had just fought a pastry chef and won, you looked so, so lovely to him.

You look up at Naib, confusion written across your face. The moment you meet his eyes, it all washes away to reveal a smile. He's tempted to raise a hand and shield himself from the brightness of your gaze. He doesn't, of course- looking away from you feels like a cardinal sin.

"Naib! I didn't expect to see you here. Or, awake at all- it's 7 AM, you should be in bed." You scold him lightly, though your cheery look negates everything you say. In the first place, he wouldn't be up if it weren't for you. But alas, his love refused to be the sleepy head he knew them to be.

"How about you stay in bed from now on so I can stay in bed too?" It's said more so as a request than a question. Naib walks up to you, fondness whispered in his every touch as he wipes away a bit of flour from your cheek. It doesn't do much, really, just leaves a streak of slightly less floured skin.

You smile apologetically, leaning into his hand and kissing his palm. Though Naib makes no reaction externally, his heart bursts in his chest, warmth blotting out the cold emptiness from before. He supposes that makes up for the disappointment of waking up without you this morning.

"I'm sorry Naib, I've just been really anxious lately. I've been getting a lot more matches than usual, and it's been making me rather nervous. I'm sorry if I've been disturbing your sleep." Your soft words, coupled with your genuinely worried eyes, causes tenderness to flood his chest again. Naib found it hard to tell you honestly how he felt, so in moments like these where you didn't hesitate to express yourself, he couldn't help but be reminded of what made him fall in love with you. Your desire to be transparent, to be sincere and communicate, made him love you all the more. It was a strength he didn't have before, yet now, telling the truth came easy when it came to you.

"You haven't been disturbing my sleep, I just miss lazing in bed with you." Naib wraps his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. He doesn't care about how his clothes are probably dirty now, thinking more about how he could help you ease your nerves. Would waking up and cooking with you be better? Naib didn't mind the idea of waking up earlier just to spend more time with you.

He's dragged out of his musings as you yawn, tearing up a bit as you pull away from his embrace. You blink your watery eyes, stretching your weary limbs. Naib winces a bit at the following cracks and pops of your joints, staring at you with considerable amounts of concern.

"When is your earliest match?" He asks suddenly, watching as you tilt your head in confusion.

"Hm? It should be around 3 PM. There aren't as many matches for me today, and not as early, either. Why?"

One could practically see the gears turning in Naib's head as he smiles, untying your apron and lifting it off of you. He places it on a hook before he starts pulling you away from the kitchen. You dig your feet into the ground, frowning.

"Hey! I still need to make breakfast for the others, you can't just- WHA-"

Naib gives you a cheeky grin, continuing to walk away from the kitchen and up the stairs as he bridal carries you. His arms don't falter no matter how much you complain or tug at him. His hold is steady and unyielding, keeping you captive till you're finally back in your shared room.

"They can make their own breakfast. You haven't slept properly for a while, and I've missed out on a lot of quality naps with you. I think you can indulge me just this once, can't you?" He tilts his face down to look at you, his nose barely grazing your own. Naib watches with satisfaction as you can only grumble a quiet "fine," a light flush covering your face.

Naib was weak to you, but you were just as weak to him. You would never say no to his requests, not when it took so much courage for him to ask. And if it were something you wanted too? How could you ever resist?

When the both of you lie down once again, donning your pajamas with no regards to the risen sun, Naib feels that everything in the world is right again. You're already passed out, sleep taking you the moment your head rested against his chest and the blankets covered the two of you.

With you in his arms, he can smell the scent of buttered toast and eggs that lingers on you. He wonders if you can hear his heartbeat, pressed so close to him. Naib hopes it isn't too loud. He can't help how enamored he is, how stupidly fond he is of you. 

He can't help how in love he is with you. 

So, forgive him if he holds you a bit too tightly, as though he never wants to let you go. Please forgive him for playing with your hair, till there's one strand that permanently curls out. Won't you forgive him when he almost makes you late, sleepily dragging you back into his arms?

Naib loves you in all his quiet yet loud, straightforward yet hidden, contradictory ways. So, won't you love him too? Won't you rest in his arms lazily even as the dawn comes and goes?

New Beginnings (Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: Honestly not the proudest of this one, but I'm happy enough with it that I deem it as good as done. This is part of a collaboration of sorts with a few people from the Ithaqua discord server with a prompt focusing on a modern AU where Ithaqua has a healthy family relationship and takes you to prom. Hope you enjoy my take on this! On another note, I think I should probably try to make an introduction post and a masterlist. Problem is, I am simply too lazy and probably won't do it until like,,, 5 months later. Someone send help. Word count: 4.0k words Summary: Anxiety consumes him alive, to the point he's paralyzed in fear. Ithaqua doesn't want to lose you, but it seems no matter what he does, he will. Unbeknownst to him, you feel much the same. Senior year really does smack people in the face, doesn't it?

The Norwell twins are odd, though not in a way that is truly unusual for most siblings. The two are complete opposites, constantly bickering, yet also very close. Since they were separated at birth, many expected that there would be a rift between them. That didn't end up the case, for better or for worse.

Nathaniel was the heir to the notorious Norwell Conglomerate, treated like a prince since birth. Ithaqua was their long lost brother, raised by a kind woman in a rural area. No matter how anyone looked at it, Nathaniel would either have a sense of superiority or feel threatened by his brother returning. Ithaqua, in turn, would feel inferior to his brother who had been perfectly raised to be a leader.

Yet, none of those speculations and expectations became a reality.

Ithaqua quite literally denounced his right to be heir the moment he met his birth parents. He claimed he was perfectly content living life as he was, and didn't need anything the Norwell family may feel inclined to give him. While it was a bit blunt, it was honest. It put many people at ease, including his brother. Nathaniel immediately took a liking to his twin after that, which no one could really understand. When asked, he simply shrugged and said "I like straightforward people who know what they want."

Nathaniel is all sly words and cunning, charming in a way that is alluring like the gentle call of the depths of a ravine. He's used to the deceptive nature of business and people of the upper class. Honestly, he's so used to it that it sickens him. To finally meet the brother he'd always wanted to get to know, and find that he is everything that he'd ever want him to be? Well, Nathaniel couldn't be any more pleased.

Ithaqua is blunt and straightforward, but not unkind. He's someone who does what is right and is considerate of people, even if he doesn't seem like it. With a loving adoptive mother who taught him well, it was impossible for him to ever lust for more than he needed. All Ithaqua wants is a nice job and a house big enough for him, his mom, and maybe a caretaker for his mom when he isn't able to take care of her.

With how pure he is morally, it's expected that Ithaqua didn't particularly like his brother, or his whole biological family really, at first. Still, he gave them the benefit of the doubt and found that they weren't nearly as bad as he had thought they'd be. They were rather normal for a family, just... rich. He could ignore that if he squinted enough.

Not as much changed as he'd anticipated. It was merely requested that Ithaqua and his adoptive mother moved into the Norwell mansion, and that Ithaqua went to the same high school as his brother. It wasn't strictly required, and the Norwell's claimed that regardless of their choice, they'd respect it and send the two money to take care of themselves. 

They agreed to live with the Norwell's in the end.

Two years had passed since then, and it was shocking to see how the twins acted now. Nathaniel would lightly poke fun at Ithaqua, and he in turn would poke back. The two had their differences, but ultimately ended up quite good friends. It was almost surreal to some students to watch the proud, arrogant heir suddenly become a teasing older brother of sorts. It made him feel less unreachable, more human. 

With senior year rapidly coming to an end, many were either panicking or celebrating. Soon, they'd be going to college, trade school, or the like, becoming "real adults" and having more freedom than they'd know what to do with. It was nerve-wracking, it was exhilarating. 

With the desire to have no regrets, many asked Nathaniel to prom. He rejected everyone, practically the whole school, while clinging to Ithaqua and claiming he wouldn't go with anyone in fear that his poor little brother would be lonely. 

If Ithaqua's deadpan expression didn't show how much of a lie that was, Nathaniel's shit eating grin sure did.

The truth of the matter was, Nathaniel couldn't go with anyone in fear of either tainting their family reputation or giving someone false hope of a relationship he had no interest in. Even if he was sly, cunning, or as other people put it, a bastard, he still had his morals. Needlessly breaking hearts or hurting his family was not something he wanted to do. Ithaqua knew this, which was why he let his brother use him as an excuse. Not a good excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. 

"Ah, I wish someone would go with my poor, unfortunate brother. So lonely, with zero friends and a personality that repels literally everyone! I sincerely wish my brother could have a partner, but alas, he has no rizz." Nathaniel dramatically proclaimed, draping himself over his twin. Ithaqua looked like he had half the mind to push him off, and after a moment of thought, he did. The older teen yelped, barely stabilizing himself before he could fall. "Hey! That was mean."

While the childish actions of his brother were mildly annoying, Ithaqua was too preoccupied to truly get mad at him. After all, he had more important matters to attend to. Specifically, thinking about how to ask you out to prom.

You were Ithaqua's first friend when he transferred into Oletus High School. With most either trying to butter him up or ignoring him, he thought he wouldn't be able to make a friend at all. Then you came, in all your fumbling glory.

You were in all of his classes, sometimes sitting right besides him. The class he first really noticed you in was drama. Ithaqua can't help but laugh remembering how you completely butchered your role as Mercutio. 

Everyone was given a role from Romeo and Juliet at random, Ithaqua being Romeo and you being Mercutio. Technically, you could say anything as the whole purpose of this project was to modernize the script. It was entertaining, to say the least, to give teenagers complete free reign over a play that was pretty much made with the memes of the time in mind.

"Romeo, my guy, you were in love with Rosaline literally a day ago. Now, you're saying you love this- this Juliet you just met. I know we're hormonal teenagers but really?"

"She's attractive though."

"Yeah, well you're attractive too and you don't see me simping over you all the time."

"You simp over me half the time?"

"..."

"Mercurio?"

"Bye."

Honestly, most of the improved scenes were pure gold, but Ithaqua only remembered the ones with you. After all, to him, those were the funniest ones. It was what got him to reach out and interact with you.

He was pleasantly surprised to see you had no clue who the Norwell's were. Ithaqua expected you to know who he was, or who Nathaniel was at least, but you did not know and did not care. It was a miracle considering the Norwell Conglomerate was in charge of a lot of major brands, but he wasn't going to complain.

You treated him normally, making lighthearted jabs at him, casually joking with him, and offering him comfort when school and life became too much. In a new environment where most didn't want to interact with him for good reasons, you were like a shining beacon of light.

Being able to be himself without any judgment was nice. It was why he treasured your friendship more than anything else. Sure, many can claim his life is overall better than before, but you were the one who truly made it that way. Without you, Ithaqua is sure he would've grown to hate it all.

It's why he hesitated asking you to prom at all. It's not necessarily all that suggestive, perhaps, but prom is a place many go to with their romantic interests. There's an inherent sense of intimacy in asking someone to go with you. So, for Ithaqua to ask you to prom, it'd be tantamount to confessing his feelings without really doing so.

He couldn't bring himself to do that considering he didn't know if you returned his feelings. What if you didn't like him back? What if you stopped being friends with him? Would your friendship become more and more strained until your bond became nothing more than a fleeting memory?

Ithaqua, for all his honesty and straightforward nature, was truly not all that bold. But he could at least admit one thing.

He was scared.

He was scared of losing you.

Perhaps he's being a bit dramatic- asking someone to prom isn't always something romantic. But when it concerns you, Ithaqua's brain simply stops working. He can't help but fret over everything, drowning in a lake of anxiety that he created.

"Just ask them. Worst case scenario, they realize you like them, but your feelings aren't returned. After that, you'll be heartbroken, but at the very least you won't experience the awkwardness of being around your crush who doesn't reciprocate your feelings. We'll be graduating in a few weeks, so is there really anything to lose? Do you have any time for regrets?"

Sometimes, Ithaqua wanted to throw his brother out the window. He's being completely logical, yes, but matters of the heart aren't so simple. Ithaqua has been swallowing his feelings for so long because he didn't want you to leave his life. Sure, you guys may never meet again after high school, or maybe you will, but he wanted the last of his memories with you to be happy regardless. Ones he will yearn for, smile over, laugh with melancholy at, not cry and despair over. 

Nathaniel shook his head as he watched his younger brother scowl at him, still deep in thought. It was painfully obvious to him that you returned Ithaqua's feelings, but neither of you were willing to try and confess. At this point, he should just do it for you guys!

...or so he feels, but he knows this is something for Ithaqua to deal with. Nathaniel wants to protect Ithaqua and make sure he's happy, but he can't do that for his whole life. A helicopter parent (brother?) is not what Ithaqua needs, so he remains silent.

Above all else, Ithaqua's feelings on this matter, along with yours, matter the most. Whether he gains the courage to ask you or not is up to him, not Nathaniel. It was honestly torturous to watch, but this is not something he should overly involve himself in. Nathaniel knew better than anyone else what it felt like to have your privacy violated, and he'd never want to subject either of you through such a thing.

Nathaniel can only pray that whatever happens, he gets a chance to shove Ithaqua into you so you'll finally kiss and stop going around each other in circles.

-

Days turned into weeks, each moment passing by faster and faster until finally, it was the day for prom. Ithaqua failed to muster up the courage to ask you to go with him.

It wasn't that big a deal, sure, since you were planning on going with him and his brother anyway. You three were a trio, a close-knit friend group, so it wasn't weird by any means. Still, he'd at least wanted to try. It was pathetic that he'd simply given up before he even could.

Regardless, what's done was done. Ithaqua had done nothing, so he'd face the consequences that came with that. At the least, he could be glad he'd be going with you.

...and his brother.

Pulling up to the venue, Ithaqua maintained a frosty exterior. He picked at the smooth fabric of his vest, muttering complaints as he threw his suit jacket over his shoulder. Nathaniel smiled brightly as he whistled, dragging his brother into the building.

Ithaqua was dressed in a white dress shirt, black vest, and blue trousers. Though his jacket was supposed to be worn and matching with his pants, he'd all but hissed at Nathaniel that he'd rather die than wear it properly. It wasn't like he hated the jacket, but it was too stuffy and thick considering the weather. Even with his hair pulled into a ponytail, his neck was getting sweaty just standing in the sun.

Nathaniel didn't seem to have that problem, wearing a crimson red suit in its entirety and not seeming bothered in the least. Ithaqua wondered if it was because he'd lived in the city for so long, or was just used to wearing stuffy clothes for business meetings. Probably both.

"C'mon Itha, you should wear the jacket once we get inside! They have air conditioning so it won't be that bad." Nathaniel whined, pressing the button to the 5th floor in the elevator. Ithaqua huffed, rolling his eyes as he scrolled through his phone quickly.

"I'd really rather not. Besides, you shouldn't worry about how I look considering the fact that you look like a red envelope given during Chinese New Year." Ithaqua responded, shoving his phone into his pocket as the elevator doors opened.

"Hey! I do not! I'm not wearing gold!" Nathaniel exclaimed, pouting as he followed Ithaqua. He was pretty much ignored, however, as Ithaqua was too busy checking in with the staff before entering the ballroom.

The ballroom was considerably large, enough for the hundred or so teens that were bound to show up. With the theme of "new beginnings," Ithaqua had expected weird decorations or the sort. (Seriously, why did the school choose such a vague theme?) Regardless, the venue was rather nicely decorated with butterflies and flowers.

"Well, I guess that works." Ithaqua muttered before turning around. He sighed, watching as his brother completely ditched him for his other friends. Unsurprised, yet nonetheless disappointed, he shook his head. Looking around, Ithaqua chose to sit at the table farthest from the dance floor. Being close to the overwhelming music and mass of bodies that would follow it later on would be undesirable.

In the next few minutes, the room filled quite quickly. The chatter of friends and constant movement was followed by colorful fabrics and extravagant outfits, the wearers sometimes needing assistance walking due to that. Although his eyes continuously scored over the crowd, Ithaqua couldn't find you.

Frustrated, he stood up to search for you. Pushing past people while apologizing the whole time, Ithaqua nearly tripped as he tried to step over Vera's dress. Stumbling, he bumped into someone. He quickly grasped their shoulders to prevent either of them from falling, stabilizing both of them.

"Ah! Sorry!"

He blinked in surprise as he finally saw who he bumped into. There, with the lights of the hallway framing their figure like dew hugging the petals of a flower, was you. With the dim lights of the ballroom, you seemingly glowed. His hold on your shoulders tightened as his breath hitched, face flushing as his heart beat out of his chest.

You looked like what love would be if it became a person. The incarnation of perfection, everything he could want and more, yet something he could only have in a dream. Ithaqua could only wonder if this is what Persephone felt like when she first saw pomegranates. A temptation like no other, beckoning with a siren's call to ensnare one's heart and mind. Divine, yet the sure reason for the descent of an angel into hell. 

Well, he was never an angel in the first place, Ithaqua thought. But if he was, and it was for you, he'd gladly scrape his knees falling from grace. 

You weren't just attractive, no, in this moment, you looked absolutely ethereal.

"Ithaqua? Are you alright?" You asked, concern clear upon your face. He cleared his throat awkwardly, removing his hands from your shoulders and stepping back. Quickly recovering, he nodded. Still, his eyes were stuck to you, completely enamored.

"Yeah, perfectly fine. Just, er, surprised. You look, you look good." He stuttered. You looked like you were going to ask questions, so Ithaqua dragged you to the table he'd claimed for the three of you. He pulled out a seat for you before sitting in his own, desperately trying to prevent himself from looking at you.

It was completely and utterly unfair that you, who already was the definition of perfection, just became even more... well, perfect. He was left to scramble for composure while you didn't even look vaguely affected by his appearance. To be fair, he was just wearing a plain old suit, but still.

Ithaqua didn't know if he'd be able to survive the night, and he couldn't decide if this was heaven or hell with how things were going.

-

You didn't understand why Ithaqua was avoiding looking at you, but it stung quite a bit. Admittedly, you'd hoped dressing up would, you know, do the opposite, but that didn't seem to be the case. Maybe he didn't like the colors? Or maybe he thought you looked ugly but didn't want to say it?

Regardless, your mood was worse than before, though you tried to remain cheerful. No matter what, today had to be the day. You had to confess your feelings to Ithaqua once and for all, or else you'd never do it.

Truth be told, you had originally intended to ask him to prom before, but you chickened out. You felt like you were going to die every time you tried, so you ran away each time with the excuse of doing something else. 

You're positive Nathaniel laughed at you every time, that traitor.

With senior year coming to an end, you were left with a sense of dread as the future came rushing at you. Jobs, taxes, education, whatever, you were honestly terrified to face it all. Sure, you'd have people to help you when you stumble, but it's so hard to ask for it. In the first place, this fear isn't necessarily the fear of the future, but the fear of the unknown.

You didn't want to face anything, but you knew you had to. Still, you tried to ignore it.

However, one thing you had to acknowledge was that with the end of your high school year, you'd probably not be able to meet Ithaqua quite as much. You wouldn't be able to go to the arcade with him, laugh as he failed to get the plushie he wanted for the millionth time, or walk in the park while eating ice cream with him.

It left you feeling hollow and cold, the thought of losing him to time and distance devastating. He'd surely be able to make friends with his new classmates, live a good life, and even get a partner. He wouldn't need you.

The thought of him forgetting you made you want to cry. 

You know he isn't the sort to abandon people, and surely he'd never do that to you, but time changes people. It brings new winds, ending things and creating new beginnings. You couldn't help but feel like you'd be left behind as his past, just that one friend he had in high school.

You didn't want this friendship of yours to end, or at the very least, for you to have never admitted you'd felt more for him than that.

He held you when you cried, laughed at you when you fell, picked you up when you needed help, and remained a constant comfort by your side. It was impossible not to fall in love with him.

You never confessed since you always felt like your love would never be returned. Like Mercutio who loved his best friend, who went as far as to die for him, yet would never be able to be with him, a tragic romance of his own.

At the least, you wanted to confess your feelings instead of leaving them unsaid forever. If fate decided to bring him to you, it'll be Ithaqua himself who will decide if he'll bend destiny to his will to stay by your side.

So, when you heard the gentle notes of a slow song start, you took Ithaqua to the dance floor. He seemed surprised, but allowed it as you held his hands. With careful steps, the two of you moved along with the crowd, swaying to the music.

He held you close so you didn't get pulled away, firm yet gentle in his touch. You wanted to tell him now, but with how quiet things were, excluding the music playing in the background, it felt awkward to do so. Another problem was that with Ithaqua so close, you could barely think straight.

By the end of the song, you hadn't accomplished your goal, though you felt considerably better than before. Nervous and shaky, yes, but happier.

You clasped your hands together to try and get them to stop shaking, though it didn't work too well. You purse your lips in displeasure, a frown quickly forming.

"Let's go out to the balcony. It's too stuffy here."

You stared at Ithaqua for a moment before immediately taking his outstretched hand. It was, as one would expect, getting quite stifling with so many people in one room. It didn't help that the floor shook whenever the DJ played a popular song as the crowd jumped up and down. Which was basically 95% of the time.

Stepping out onto the balcony, you take a deep breath. The calm evening wind cools you off considerably, bringing you back to life. Ithaqua seems more at ease, too. You can't help but smile softly as you lean on the ledge, staring at him. 

Ithaqua's eyes are closed as he faces the sky, embracing the fresh air and the freedom of the outdoors. The moon seems to shine on him especially, making him look ethereal. His smile seems gentler, as though he were truly at peace now.

Your heart hammers against your chest as you take another deep breath in, closing your eyes as you try to gather all the courage you can. It all goes down the drain, however, when he opens his eyes.

With him smiling softly, his eyes half-lidded and illuminated by the moonlight, Ithaqua is unfairly attractive, stealing the breath you'd only just taken. You're sure that if anyone were to show you what you looked like right now, you'd look completely love struck.

"I love you."

You can't tell who said it first, but both of you said it for sure. It has your eyes widening in surprise, watching as he does the same. At that moment, it hits you that this whole time, the two of you have been pining for the other.

No wonder Nathaniel was laughing at you.

Regardless, as you stare at each other, finally understanding the other completely, the two of you draw closer. Softly, sweetly, your lips meet, and you know, then and there, that everything will be alright. Even if the inescapable future is marching towards you, you'll have Ithaqua by your side.

That's all you need.

So, you kiss goodbye what feels like the last of your youth, ready to greet the new beginnings of another chapter of your life. After all, it can't be that bad when it also is the start of your new relationship.

-

BONUS SCENE:

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the new voice, whipping around to see Nathaniel with a smug smile. Ithaqua glares at him, a look of pure exasperation and annoyance upon his face. However, the two of you could see the underlying notes of embarrassment as well, his ears tinged a light pink.

“Did you really come out here to tell the equivalent of “I told you so,” Nathaniel?”

“No, actually. I came here to say I am sooooo telling mom and dad.”

“...”

“...so what flowers should I bring to his grave?”

“Don’t even bother, I’m dumping his body into the river.”

“Oh come on I wasn’t being seriou- ITHA WHA- STOP- I’M SORRY! OW!”

“GET BACK HERE NATHANIEL BABEL NORWELL!”

“Ah good old brotherly love!”

“HELP ME!”

Welcome to my Garden of Regrets, how may I serve you?

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Intro

Hello, I'm Rin! I am a writer and artist who just creates things for fun. Some things I'll most certainly come to regret creating later, but that's a problem for another time. I hope my silly little creations can bring you a little bit of joy.

___________________♧___________________

Rules

Along with my own prompts, I am willing to take requests. You can check when they're open by looking at my profile.

I do:

Self-inserts

Short fics

Long fics

Headcannons

AU's

Fluff

Angst

Mild gore

I don't do:

Problematic ships

Heavy gore

Anything with real people

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Fandoms

I am willing to write for a variety of fandoms, but primarily I will focus on:

Identity V

Twisted Wonderland

Genshin Impact

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Thank you for staying till the end! I hope you enjoyed your walk.

The Red Means I Love You (Edgar×Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentine's Day. However, as you can see from the word count, that was a fool's errand. I wanted to delve more into yanderes since I find them fascinating in writing, and now, here we are. Staining White Day red, I present to you the most generic title for an Edgar fic you will ever see. (Btw, I apologize to Edgar fans- I might've massacred your boy but I swear I tried my best.) Word count: 4.9k words TW: Blood, violence, murder, yandere themes, and blackmailing. Summary: Accepting the invitation of a dubious letter sounds just about as bad as it actually was. Oletus manor is not a name spoken without notoriety, after all. Was that where it all began? Was this your first mistake? No, it was further down the line, wasn't it? Yes, perhaps it was when you became the muse of an artist with no inspiration.

Reality has disappointed you time and time again. The expectations of a life of peace was crushed easily under the hands of society. So, you fled. You fled inside your head, transporting yourself into worlds of fiction. Romance, mystery, fantasy, and the likes kept you alive. It was the only thing you could really call safe.

Among many genres, you favored one above the others. 

Horror.

There’s a certain comfort that comes from these fictional tales. You know they aren’t real, that the killer can’t find you, that these psychopaths don’t exist. Are there people similar to them? Sure, but they aren’t in your life. Thus, they merely stay as silly little people within a book.

But, it’s not quite enough. The thrill of words upon a page cannot compete with the real deal. While you weren’t stupid enough to seek out murderers or the like, you were still dumb enough for Baron DeRoss, apparently.

The envelope is white as a dove, a blood red stamp sealing it shut. It whispers promises and praise, false hope and rewards. It’s an enticing offer, truly. Would you let it guide you astray?

Well, you were never one to turn away from the call of the abyss.

-

“I really don’t get it. I know it’s game changing, but it’s not helpful for anyone else but me! Why do they want me to team up with them?” You huffed, resting your face on your palms. Edgar merely rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist. Focused on the canvas in front of him, he let the brush streak red through white.

“You said it yourself, your abilities are game changing. We don’t even know the full extent of your abilities– who knows? Maybe you could completely uproot the current meta. Besides,” He smirked, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “The hunters are terrified of you.”

You paused, letting your arms fall flat against the table.

“Scared? Of me? I’m just another survivor– what do they have to be afraid of?”

Edgar hummed, tapping the handle end of his paint brush against his lips. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t quite fancy being stabbed.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

Most survivors didn’t possess the ability to fight the hunter, not really, yet here you were. When Jack had first chased you, he had the reckoning of his life. You wince at the phantom feeling of stabbing steel into flesh and bone. That was, admittedly, not what you had expected to be your special skill.

You pouted, cheek against the cool wood of Edgar’s table as you glanced around. His room was an odd combination of an art exhibition hall and an actual bedroom. It was big and extravagant, but you wouldn’t expect any less from him. 

Well, kind of.

Edgar confused you. Intriguing, even among the sea of other unique characters within the manor. You suppose that’s why he’s your favorite comrade and closest friend, if you could call him that. He’s never kicked you out of his room or flat out yelled at you, so safe to say he didn’t hate you, at least. 

He’s neutral on all matters within the manor, composed regardless of what he faced. All he cared about was his art, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps that was how he was unaffected by everything.

You suppose that’s natural for an artist. You can’t claim to understand it perfectly, but in a way, you truly understood.

“It’s like… you’re a moth drawn to a flame, right? Art is something you’re willing to give your life to, dedicate your whole body and soul to. Even if you have to sacrifice your time, energy, or health, for the perfect outcome, you’d do it.” You had said it off handedly, not thinking much of it then. In some respects, wasn’t his passion for art just like your obsession with thrill?

But then he had grabbed your hands, looking into your eyes with such fervor. His gaze burned, a certain desperation flickering within it. What was he seeking so fiercely? What was making Edgar, apathetic, snide Edgar, act like he had found an oasis in the desert?

“You get it?” He whispered, almost pleading. 

“Maybe,” You responded.

That had been enough for him. 

Since then, you and Edgar had become an odd pair. Not quite friends, but too close to be acquaintances. You gravitated towards him, as he did to you. More often than not, you’d ask him if he’d like to team up for matches. More often than not, he’d say yes.

You suppose that’s another reason why other survivors regard you with care.

Edgar isn’t the most difficult person to work with, but definitely not the easiest. He’s all too much and too little: haughty and snide, distant and cold. He’s a reliable teammate, not a likable one. 

Still, the playful sparkle in his eyes as he led the hunter straight to you made you beg to differ. You’d curse him out as you ran, glaring at him after the match was over, before begrudgingly thanking him for supporting you with a painting or two.

However odd it was, you wouldn’t trade your friendship for the world.

-

There’s a letter in your mailbox. 

That isn’t especially weird, considering that’s what a mailbox is for. Letters, mail, packages, whatever. Still, you can’t help but pause as you stare at it. A white envelope with a lovely red seal, the stamp itself in the shape of a camellia. The embossed flower is outlined in gold, shimmering softly in the low light of your room.

Gently, you pry open the seal, careful not to damage it or the envelope. Once you’ve successfully extracted the letter without destroying everything, you stare at it with uncertainty. 

It seemed like this was a love letter from the presentation alone, yet you couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled. You couldn’t understand why, however. It was beautiful, but simple. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor alarming. So why, from the depths of your heart, was your subconscious screaming at you to run? As though you were about to open Pandora’s box?

You unfold the letter and read.

-

Edgar gives you the nastiest side eye you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you deserve it after the stunt you pulled. Then again, what else were you supposed to do? He was going to be sent back to the manor if you hadn’t let yourself go down.

In the end, thanks to your sacrifice, the potential tie had turned into a win. Sure, you were the one sent back to the manor instead, but a win was a win! Though, Edgar seemed to disagree.

“You’re an idiot.”

You would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that he was wrapping your wounds. The tender touches were barely there, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He was being careful, making sure you didn’t feel even an ounce of unnecessary pain. The concentration he was putting into taking care of you was something you had only seen when Edgar was painting. 

The subtle quirk of his lips, eyes barely narrowed, and relaxed shoulders expressed more to you than any words ever could. The guilt that pooled into his chest, made evident by the quiet sighs he’d let out, seemed to manifest itself as kindness and gentle care.

It made you really want to tease him.

“Ow!” You hiss, flinching slightly away from the man. Edgar freezes, staring at you with concern.

“Shit– sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The sincere remorse in his voice immediately makes you regret your decision.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, I– gah, sorry. I was just messing with you.”

The painter’s formerly soft expression faded into a scowl, a glare sent your way even as he finished wrapping you up. Edgar immediately stands up, leaving you scrambling to do the same as he leaves the infirmary.

“Ahhhh, wait, I’m sorry! Wait, Edgar, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do that again! C’mon, don’t leave me like this! I–” You trip on something, stumbling as you lose balance. You fully expect to kiss the ground, what with one of your arms in a cast, when lithe arms catch you.

You glance up at Edgar with a sheepish smile, gazing upon the apathetic look upon his face. Apathetic, to anyone else but you. You can see the little curl of his lips, the faint swirl of amusement in his eyes.

He helps you reorient yourself, hands on your shoulders. Once you’re safely standing, Edgar turns and continues down the hallway. His steps are slower than usual. It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an invitation.

You grin, chasing after him once more.

“So does this mean you forgive me?”

“No.”

-

“How do you manage to stay sane, painting the same thing over and over again?” You ask, half dangling off a couch. Edgar’s room is still as grand as ever, but you can see the changes. It seems more lived in, more homey. There’s a table that isn’t covered in paint, brushes, or other art supplies. There’s shelves with books instead of art supplies. Then, those cabinets have, wait for it, something other than art supplies.

It seems like a small shift to others, though that’s probably because they don’t visit Edgar half as often as you do. The first time you saw the couch, you thought you were hallucinating. 

The Edgar Valden, using something other than a stool? Incredible, revolutionary, absolutely groundbreaking.

He did not appreciate your dramatics, or so he claimed, but you knew he was covering his mouth to hide his smile.

“I’m not painting the same thing, and I am, in fact, going insane.” Edgar responds, frown deepening as he mixes a few colors together. You hum, peeking at the canvas as much as you can from your position. From the sketch, you could tell it was a portrait. A rare occurrence, considering Edgar preferred landscapes.

“Why the sudden interest in portraits?” You ask, sitting more comfortably on the couch. Glancing at the shelves, you skim through the books. Edgar wouldn’t mind if you read one of them, right?

The man pauses, his expression almost bashful. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but raise a brow. Edgar has never been afraid to draw attention to himself. He’s no pushover, willing to fight for what he wants while still remaining relatively neutral. To see him like that, a dust of what can only be blush upon his cheeks, twists something in your heart.

Before you can untangle what exactly you were feeling, the painter coughs.

“Well, I tried talking with Victor about expressing oneself. He suggested letters, or other mediums I’m comfortable with. So…” Edgar stares at his canvas, his smile more so a grimace. “I’m trying out his suggestion, I suppose.”

You tilt your head, humming to yourself as you nod. Sliding off the couch, you grab one of the books on Edgar’s shelf. “Well, then I wish you the best of luck.”

His eyes linger on you, closing softly as his expression relaxes. When he opens them again, he starts creating new hues with more focus.

-

“I’ve been getting letters recently.” You mention, flipping another page in your book. Edgar paused, turning to look at you.

“And?”

You closed your eyes, contemplating. This really wasn’t something you had to tell him. But, well, nothing too interesting has been happening lately. The matches have finally grown duller, the thrill fading as you stayed longer. You were running out of things to ramble about, so why not?

“They’re love letters. Nicely decorated, with neat handwriting. If I had to guess, someone born into privilege.” You think Edgar flinches at that.

“It’s really sweet, honestly. A shame they’re anonymous.” You skim over the words on the page, brows knitting themselves tight. The main character was oblivious to the danger so close to them. How frustrating. 

“A shame, really.” Edgar echoes back, delicately brushing shadows along the red camellias. His painting seemed nearly finished, if you only stared at the beautiful flowers. The rest of the canvas was rather barren, a figure still not yet painted whole.

“C’mon, theorize with me! Who could it be? I put my bets on Jack.” You sighed dramatically, head thrown back with your hand on your forehead. 

You received no response, however.

“Hear me out! He called me darling, dear, and tried to kill me. Obviously, he fell for my sick kiting skills and great looks. I rest my case.” Still, nothing.

You were getting really worried with how unresponsive Edgar was being. Usually, when you started overexaggerating like that, he’d make a snarky remark. Something like “please, you get terror shocked at 5 ciphers” or “you make amphibians look appealing.” 

The silence was really getting to you.

“I mean, he’s got confidence in spades so it probably isn’t him. Still, I kinda hope it is, he’s rather attrac–” SNAP!

Your head snaps up from your book, turning to Edgar so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. There, in his hands, are the remains of a broken paint brush. Blood oozes from his tightly clenched hands, slowly trickling down his palm and under the cuff of his shirt. That was reason for concern as is, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes.

Blue, like the sky. Blue, like the sea. Blue, like the wings of a morpho butterfly.

Blue, like the swirling vortex of the night sky.

You rush over, grabbing the first aid kit you know he keeps for you, before standing next to him. You’ve never seen him like this, eyes so dark and blank. It’s honestly scaring you a little, but that means nothing when he’s hurt.

So, you kneel, pulling out tweezers, disinfectants, and bandages. Gently prying his hand open, you discard the larger pieces of the brush. With the tweezers, you pick out splinters of wood embedded in his skin. You whisper apologies as you do, knowing this definitely hurts, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

By the time you finally disinfect his hand and wrap it, Edgar seems a lot more like himself than before. He gazes at you with quiet consideration, blinking slowly. Languid, calm, almost cat-like.

“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his hand. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him react like that. The kinder side of you hopes it’ll never happen again, if only so he won’t needlessly hurt himself like that. The morbid side of you wants to see him like that again, what you can distinguish as cold, searing rage threatening to consume him whole.

Edgar leans his head forward and onto your shoulder. The scent of citrus, chamomile, and something chemical tickles your nose, brushing against you as the painter sighs. He seems… tired.

“Let me rest my head, just for a bit.”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

-

The next few letters you get are… odd. Passionate as always, but far more obsessive. The first few had been sweeter, more tender. This was escalating in a weird direction, and as much as you loved yourself a good horror story, romance and horror never mix well. They were starting to threaten you, saying they’d hurt the people around you, and that was where you drew the line.

So, you start ignoring them. It sounds foolish, especially for a connoisseur of all things freaky, but life is more mundane than fiction. If this person doesn’t have the guts to confess to you, does it make sense that they’d have the guts to actually go through with their threats? Logically, no. 

Besides, even if they did, the people of the manor are strong. They can hold their own. Even if they can't, that person will get outcasted for hurting a survivor, regardless of if they’re a hunter. “No violence outside of matches,” that was the first rule both factions set.

So, it was safe to assume you had nothing to worry about. You have more important things to deal with, anyway, especially with a new survivor arriving. His name was Orpheus, a novelist. You were thrilled, especially since he was the author of some of your favorite series.

You were busy with preparations, practically skipping with joy. The other survivors poked fun at you, both for your enthusiasm and the lack of a certain painter at your side.

Edgar was concentrating on his art, as per usual, and you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed a little lonely, though, so you tried to convince a few people to talk to him. They all just looked at you as if you grew another head. 

“Are we… looking at the same person?” Mike asks, smile strained. You frown, turning away from the banners you were fixing. 

“Yes! Edgar Valden, our resident painter, our sassy rich boy, our lovely old friend. I say he is lonely, and I think you should talk to him. I mean, you’re easy-going, fun, and silly. Who wouldn’t like you?” Even if half of it was an act. Still, Mike was one of the people Edgar tolerated better than most. Perhaps it’s because he’s another form of an artist?

“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him yourself? You guys get along just fine.” Mike looks away, fiddling with his hands. You narrow your eyes at the sight.

Mike Morton, local funny man, someone with dedication and deceit running through his veins, nervous? It’s not faked, the sweat rolling down his neck and the faster breathing all indicating he was genuinely nervous. Maybe even scared.

“Edgar, I really do love him, but he needs more friends. I think the only people who talk to him on a regular basis are Luca and I. Adding a few more people to that list would be nice, so…” You bring your hands in front of you, clasped tight as if you’re about to pray. “Could you please talk to him?”

Mike deflates, sighing as he nods. You smile brightly in response, promising to make it up to him.

-

“Hey bestie! You excited for the new survivor?” Demi croons, grinning as she tosses an arm around your shoulder. You laugh in response, leaning into her.

“That’s about the dumbest thing you could ask me. Of course I am! He’s written so many good books. God, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around him. He’s made some stories that have basically shaped who I am now!” You sigh, smiling so widely your face hurts.

“Well, don’t forget your boyfriend in all the excitement! I can see he’s basically seething with envy.” 

You pause, turning to look at Demi.

“Who?”

Now, it’s Demi’s turn to look confused.

“Uh, you know, Edgar? Are– are you guys not together?” She asks, genuinely shocked. You feel your face heat up, your hands itching to cover your blush. 

“Wh– no! We are not! Why would anyone ever think that?”

Demi gives you a deadpan expression in response.

“You two are basically glued to each other’s side, go into every match together, hang out almost every day– Hell, you’re the only one Edgar has allowed in his room without it being necessary!” 

Well, that’s news to you.

You furrow your brows, blinking in shock. Sure, you two hung out a lot, but it wasn’t like you guys were friends exclusively with each other. You had Demi, Mike, Melly, and even Violetta while Edgar had Luca, Victor, Andrew, and Galatea. It wasn’t like you… hung out… every… day…

“Oh fuck, we really do look like a couple.” You mutter, having half a mind to smack Demi as she laughs. She’s completely unapologetic about it, struggling to breathe as slowly calms down and giggles.

“So, you two aren’t dating?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows. You huff, fighting back a smile.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Then in that case, I’m allowed to flirt with you as much as I want!” Demi cheers. She spins you around, causing a laugh to bubble up from your throat. The two of your twirl around in a silly dance, the faint sound of Frederick playing the piano the only background music.

At the end, she dips you down, smile upon her lips. She leans close to your ear as your smile is wiped away.

“Be wary of him.”

-

With Edgar, it’s like you’re taking three steps forward, then five steps back. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he throws a curveball at you.

That desperation he had in his eyes the day you became his friend, flickering like a brilliant flame, you understand it now. However much he claimed he didn’t need people to understand him, how he didn’t need to understand others, it didn’t mean much. He still craved it, to be understood. To not have to be questioned, to not be approached with dishonesty, with intentions that lied beyond just him being him.

You suppose that’s exactly why you got along. You wanted to understand him, and he wanted to be understood. A match made in Heaven, you suppose.

It’s why it miffed you a bit that you really can’t understand Edgar at the moment.

He hates drawing portraits, yet he draws a figure, the same exact one, in every one of his new pieces. They look familiar, a lot like you, but you’re pretty confident Edgar would rather die than paint you. You’d tease him to Hell and back, all while he complains and swears up and down he’s never being nice to you again.

The landscapes, adorned in reds of all shades, always have that figure in each one without fail. Is he in love with someone? That would explain why he’s so weird lately.

Edgar’s odd behavior was already messing with you, but on top of that, the letters were getting worse. Instead of being slid into your mailbox, they were flat out in your room now.

Normal people would think someone just slipped it under the door. Reasonable assumption. However, unless that person has not only a very thin arm, but a long one, you don’t know how they’d manage to get it all the way to your desk.

You stare at the white envelope, stamped shut with a red seal in the shape of a camellia. The outline of the flower is in gold, though the beauty of the letter and the seal means nothing. Not when it got into your room. Not when it clearly has a splotch of dark red glaring at you.

Your hands are shaky as you open the envelope, a familiar curl of thrill fighting with your new found protective instincts. The letter is white as a dove, the red tainting it made all the more stark.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you read.

‘I didn’t imagine love would be like this. Wonderfully warm, like the rays of the sun in winter, and unbearably painful, like a knife in my heart. Do you just like hurting me? No, I know that isn’t true. After all, you always look at me with concern when I’m injured. Still, it’s hard to believe you’re this dense.

These past few weeks have been driving me mad. Your attention has been solely on the arrival of the new survivor. You’ve been ignoring me so much I can barely stand it. Can’t you spare even a moment for me? Is that novelist really that important? Seeing you look at him with stars in your eyes… it makes me want to rip his head off his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve your attention, nor your admiration, not like I do. I’ve known you longer, loved you for longer. He doesn’t deserve anything from you, yet he gets everything I could ever want and more.

Did you know? When you’re excited, your smile turns bigger, more genuine, till dimples show. Your eyes crinkle just a little, your hands moving to curl in front of your chest. You stand taller, you shine brighter.

It’s such a beautiful sight, I hate that I have to share it. Sometimes, I wish I could just put you in a cage and never let you go. Then, you wouldn’t look at anyone else but me. You wouldn’t think about anyone else but me. But, that’s not how you should live. You deserve to be free and happy. So, I’ve decided to get rid of anyone that doesn’t deserve to be around you.

I think I’ll start with that novelist.’

Your blood runs cold.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Just who is this? Who are they and just why are they so obsessed with you? Get rid of those who don’t deserve you? Who gave them the right to decide that!?

You take a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves. Your heart is racing, and for the first time, the thrill in your heart turns into true fear.

You’ve never minded being the one hunted. In fact, you practically adore it, the addicting rush of adrenaline pumping through you. It’s why you came to the manor. But your friends? They’re not the same, and you wouldn’t want them to be. You want them safe and happy, not hunted down by some freak who thinks they “aren’t worthy of you” for whatever sick reason.

“Fuck, fuck… Orpheus, I need to find– no, it’s probably too late for him, there’s blood on the letter. Okay, okay, stay calm, stay fucking calm. Who would be the next victim? Mike? Melly? No, it’s probably Ed–” You pause.

Almost comically, everything clicks in place.

Camellias.

Red.

Ignoring them.

Edgar.

You bolt out of your room.

-

Normally, you’d knock. You know Edgar hates it when people barge into his room. However, considering the circumstances, you think that’s the least of your concerns.

You can’t help but pray in your mind. To whom? You don’t know. You don’t think anyone can truly help in this situation. It couldn’t be anyone else but Edgar, but still, you prayed. You hoped against all hope that your conclusion was wrong. 

Edgar would scold you for barging in, sigh, before smiling and asking if you were really that desperate to see him. Everything would be fine. It would all be just a cruel joke.

But just as life is more mundane than fantasy, reality is far cruller than fiction.

The large windows to Edgar’s room let in the light of the falling sun, casting the room in many shades of gold and orange. In the middle of the room, in all his glory, is Edgar. His back is to you, paint brush in hand. You’re hit first by relief, then with the heavy scent of iron.

You shake, hands covering your mouth as you finally process what's around Edgar. Orpheus, drained of blood, head sat on a chair, body left haphazardly on the ground. Jack, ghastly white and face twisted, his horror eternally memorialized in death. Demi, eyes closed and serene, seemingly asleep if not for the purple veins that roam along her arms.

You fall to your knees, the shock hitting you so strong you can’t stand up any longer. He was your secret admirer. The one who kept sending letters. The one who went into your room just to place them on your desk. The one who threatened to kill your friends. The one who did kill your friends.

Edgar, finally, turns around. His cheek has splotches of blood on it, his hands no better. It’s startling just how much of it is on him, but worse yet, you know not all of it is on him. There’s a lot of blood in a human body, much more in two, so where was it?

When he smiles, it’s just as sweet as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Was this really your friend, or a demon in disguise?

His smile, ever so sweet, only serves to unsettles you, looking more like a nightmare.

“Ah, you’re here! Come, I need to show you my newest masterpiece.” Edgar steps closer to you, dragging you by the hand to a canvas you hadn’t noticed before. He was standing in front of it, so it was only natural.

You numbly follow, heart in your throat. You’re grateful, distantly, that the “masterpiece” is not the corpses of your friends. You think you’re going to throw up, eyes trying to look at anything but them.

So, you gladly look at his so-called masterpiece.

You really wish you didn’t.

There, on the canvas, is a portrait. This time, it’s so painfully obvious it’s you that you can’t even deny it. Surrounded by red camellias, hands curled in front of their chest, with a smile so genuine, dimples showed. Eyes crinkled, back straight, and God, did it have to be so accurate?

The red of the camellias are familiar, as is the red of your blush, the colors of your clothes, your hair. 

It’s all been painted using your friend’s blood.

Edgar comes behind you, his arms circling your waist. A content sigh leaves him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hold is gentle, but firm, possessive in a way you never thought him capable of. His lips brush against your neck, a kiss much like a collar pressed into your skin. You can feel them curl into a smile.

“What do you think, my muse? The red means I love you.”