#Chapter: [Unseen Whispers]

[cameronsbabydoll]

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER EIGHT

WARNINGS — terminal illness, death, grief, blood, miscarriage, emotional abandonment, it’s very very sad!! also probably one of the best fics i’ve written

you wake with a lightness you haven’t felt in months, like your body’s decided to let go of the weight it’s carried—the blood, the pain, the ache of being unseen. the morning’s soft, sunlight spilling through the glass walls, warm and golden, like it’s promising something you can’t name. your breath’s shallow, a quiet sip of air, and your hands tremble, coral nails chipped to nothing, the color rafe loved when you were his to notice. you don’t mind the shaking anymore. it’s part of you now, like the cough, like the blood, like the love you gave to a man who’s only just learning your name.

you sit up, slow, the bed creaking under you, and catch your reflection in the mirror across the room. you’re pale, hollowed out, but there’s a calm in your eyes, like you’ve made peace with the fading. rafe’s asleep in the chair by the bed, his head tilted back, his hands loose, a book of poems open on his lap. he’s been there all night, like he has for days, bringing tea you can’t drink, reading words you barely hear, trying to love you now that you’re slipping away. you don’t wake him. you don’t have the heart to see his eyes, red and raw, begging for time you can’t give.

you stand, your legs unsteady, like they’re learning to walk again, and move to the closet. the silk robe’s there, folded neat, its tag dangling like a reminder of all the times you wore it for him, hoping he’d look. you slip it on, the fabric cool against your skin, soft as a whisper, and tie it loose, the tag brushing your wrist. it’s not for him today. it’s for you, for the garden, for the last day you’ll feel the sun. you don’t cough, not yet, but you feel it waiting, a shadow in your chest, patient, like it knows you’re almost done.

you walk downstairs, your bare feet quiet on the marble, the mansion too big, too empty, its glass walls reflecting a life you don’t fit in anymore. the swan-shaped perfume bottles sit on the hall table, dusty, their glass necks catching the light. you don’t touch them. you think of the letters, locked in the safe, the ones you wrote for rafe, for lily, for the woman who might come after. you think of the baby shoes, hidden in the box labeled winter coats, blue as the forget-me-nots you planted when you still believed in tomorrows. you think of henry, the chauffeur, his voice soft: you carry too much alone. you smile, faint, because you’re not alone today, not with the garden waiting, not with the sun calling you home.

the garden’s outside, tucked against the glass, a small rebellion against the mansion’s cold lines. the lilies are gone, their stems brittle, but a few forget-me-nots cling to life, their blue petals trembling in the breeze. you kneel, the dirt soft under your knees, the robe pooling around you like water. you’ve brought a single flower, a lily bulb you saved from last spring, when you lost her, when you named her lily and buried your grief in a box. you dig with your hands, the soil cool, forgiving, and plant it deep, patting the earth like you’re tucking it in. “grow,” you whisper, your voice barely there, “even if i’m not here to see.”

you sit back, your breath short, and feel the sun on your face, warm, like a hand you’ve missed. you cough, soft, into the robe’s sleeve, and see the blood, a faint smear, like a petal crushed. you don’t hide it. you let it stay, a mark of the life you’ve lived, the pain you’ve carried. you think of rafe, upstairs, reading poems he thinks you love, trying to remember the woman he didn’t see. you think of the voicemail, stage four, the moment his world stopped, when yours had already crumbled. you think of lily, the flutter you felt, the shoes you hid, the secret you kept because he wasn’t there.

you pull a small notebook from the robe’s pocket, a pen tucked inside, and write one last letter, your hand shaky, the ink smudging where your fingers falter. you forget words sometimes, but not today, not now, when the sun’s warm and the garden’s quiet.

rafe,

this is the last one. i’m in the garden, with the lilies and the forget-me-nots, and the sun’s on my face, and i’m not scared anymore. i wish i could’ve told you sooner, about the blood, about lily, about the way i loved you even when you didn’t look. i don’t blame you. you were chasing something, and i was trying to be enough. i wasn’t. that’s okay. i planted a lily today, for her, for me, for the us we might’ve been. it’s in the garden, by the bench. water it sometimes, if you can. the robe’s on me now, the one you bought, and it’s soft, like i always wanted to be for you. don’t be sad too long. find someone who makes you laugh, who wears the swan perfume, who fills the house with noise. i loved you, rafe, through the blood, through the silence, through the end. i’m sorry i didn’t say goodbye. it would’ve hurt too much.

yours, me

you tear the page out, fold it small, and tuck it into the robe’s pocket, with a pressed forget-me-not from the garden, its petals fragile but whole. you’ll leave it for him, somewhere he’ll find it, maybe on the bench, maybe in the safe with the others. you don’t know if he’ll read it, if he’ll cry, if he’ll plant the lily like you asked. you hope he will, but you’re too tired to hope for long.

you lie down, the grass cool beneath you, the sun warm above, and stretch out, the robe spread like wings. the earth’s soft, like it’s holding you, and you close your eyes, your breath slow, like a tide going out. you think of the apartment, years ago, when rafe kissed your mouth, when love was a song you both knew. you think of lily, the shoes, the box, the name you gave her in the dark. you think of the letters, the safe, the future wife you wrote to, the one who might make him see. you think of henry, his words, you carry too much alone, and feel lighter, like you’ve set it down, like the garden’s carrying it now.

you don’t say goodbye. you don’t call for rafe, don’t wake him, don’t leave a note by the bed. it would hurt too much, to see his eyes, to hear his voice break, to know he’s finally looking when you’re already gone. you let the sun wrap you, the breeze sing you soft, the earth hold you close. you cough, once, faint, and feel the blood, warm on your lips, but you don’t wipe it away. it’s part of you, like the robe, like the lily, like the love you gave.

you drift, your heart a quiet hum, your breath a whisper. you see the garden in your mind, blooming, lilies and forget-me-nots bright under a sky you can’t reach. you see rafe, reading your letter, planting the flower, learning to live with your absence. you see lily, a flicker of light, waiting somewhere you’re going. you smile, real, not the one you practiced, and let go, the sun warm, the earth soft, the world fading like a dream. you fall asleep, for the last time, and don’t wake up.

rafe finds you later, when the sun’s lower, when the garden’s quiet. he calls your name, soft, then louder, his voice breaking when he sees you, still, the robe bright, the blood on your lips. he kneels, his hands shaking, and touches your face, cold now, like the glass walls he built. he finds the letter, the flower, and reads it, his tears falling on the page, smudging the ink you left. he sits there, holding you, until the stars come out, and the garden holds you both, one last time.

[puppy-eyyes]

The Chosen (Jungkook x Reader)

Preview:

A village in the woods. Creatures made of shadows. An unwilling contract. She always felt his presence—the weight of his gaze—but never tried to escape. He watched, waited... and finally tricked her into giving what he needed to claim her.

Pairing: Yandere Jungkook x Reader

Word count: 4k.

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Obsession, Manipulation, Forced Relationship, Kidnapping, Mention of sacrifices, Fear, light smut, will add more for next chapter.

Author's note: Hi there. This is my first fic. I TRIED! It was supposed to be a one shot, but decided to split in two or three chapters. We'll see. The supernatural beings were inspired by Wildwood Dancing and Heir to Sevenwaters by the incredible Juliet Marillier.

PART I

Bloodbark, 15th Century.

The village sat like a forgotten relic, nestled between the blackened trees of the endless forest. Its cobbled streets were uneven, worn down by centuries of footsteps and wagon wheels, and the air always carried the thick scent of burned wood, damp moss, and iron. 

The houses were old, their timber frames warped by time, their roofs sagging under layers of thatch and moss. The narrow alleyways between the buildings were cloaked in shadows, places where light seemed to hesitate, and where villagers hurried past without daring to look too long.

In the market square, merchants sold rough bread, dried meats, and bitter herbs beneath weathered canvas stalls, their voices hushed, their eyes flicking toward the towering Old Tree at the village’s center.

The Old Tree.

It stood twisted and massive, its bark blackened and scarred with deep, unnatural grooves—marks that no villager dared explain. No fruits, no leaves, no life. Just a skeletal thing, looming over the square, casting long, claw-like shadows that stretched across the cobblestones.

Long ago, when the land was still young, the massive tree gave enough fruits to feed the village. But on one moonless night, a mark, black as ink, thick as oil, appeared on its trunk. The fruits became rotten, and the villagers felt eyes on them at every single moment. They thought it was a prank of the troublemakers of a neighboring village and paid no mind to the mark.

By morning, the first child was gone, and a message was left behind. The black mark would return during the new moon, a warning that the Night People would need to be fed again. 

The Night People are not like any creatures they know. They are shadows made flesh, with eyes that see through walls and voices that only the wind can carry. Some say they were once men, and others that they are the very embodiment of darkness.

The villagers do not fight. They do not resist. They leave their offerings at the tree, whispering prayers to gods who do not answer. 

One mark meant they needed a man. Two marks meant they required a woman.

And if there was a third mark, smeared across the door or window of a villager’s home?

It meant the Night People had already chosen.

The villagers would do what was necessary, the only solution is to send a sacrifice into the woods. They resorted to kidnapping outsiders and kept them as possible offerings as a way to preserve the inhabitants.

It was better to give the sacrifice willingly than to risk the creatures taking more.

But once the mark was placed on a home, the family had no choice. No one dares to trick them, for the Night People always know, they are always watching.

Park family home, a day before the new moon.

The farm sat on the village’s outskirts, where the land bled into the forest’s edge. The house was old, but spacious enough for a family of four. It was the worst option the Park family could find.

Y/N knelt near the chicken coop, scattering feed to those little feathered monsters. The birds pecked greedily, while the girl was impatient to return to her room. She hated being outside.

There it was again.

That feeling.

The weight of unseen eyes pressing against her skin, sinking into her bones like a sickness.

Her fingers twitched around the bag of grain. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t lift her gaze toward the forest that loomed beyond the crooked fence, where the trees grew too close together and the shadows stretched.

It had been this way since she came to Bloodbark.

A year ago, the flood had taken everything—her family’s farm, their animals, the land they had lived for generations. When they arrived in Bloodbark, the villagers welcomed them with wary eyes and whispered warnings, but no one turned them away. Her parents looking defeated, the young woman carrying her little brother in her arms. 

They could have had the same fate as the people locked in the main barn: the sacrifices, but her father was a strong man and her mother had a way with words. They would become what they call as The Hunters: people who attacks and snatch outsiders.

The villagers gave them land, a place to rebuild. 

The first time she felt observed was on her second day, while assisting on settling in. Surely, the villagers probably were observing the newcomers as a freak attraction. No one was in sight.

At first, Y/N thought the unease would pass, but every once in a while she felt that feeling again, sometimes accompanied by a scent - something cold, sharp, and sweet all at once. Like the breath of the forest before a storm.

At this point, she doesn’t even look around anymore. She knows the rules. The Night People never come out during the day.

“Y/N! Hurry up! Dinner is almost ready!” she hears her mother yelling from the window. “Bring eggs if you can find any!”

She laughed. A normal family in such an abnormal place.

Y/N focused on gathering the eggs in her apron and walked back to her house.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich scent of stew and fresh bread, but it did little to shake the cold that clung to Y/N’s skin. She set the eggs on the wooden counter, rubbing her arms as she watched her mother move about, ladling thick broth into bowls.

Her father sat at the head of the table, looking out of the window, his brows drawn in quiet focus. Her little brother, Sunwoo, kicked his feet beneath the table, swinging his legs too short to reach the ground. He was humming, oblivious to the unspoken dread hanging in the air.

They all knew what night it was. Hopefully, it would be another month without a demand

Her mother finally sat, smoothing her apron before folding her hands together. “Some stew to keep us warm,” she said, voice light.

The stew tasted good—her mother’s cooking was always heavenly. Their family laughed, ate, and bickered like always—just another evening, just another meal.

If she focused on the familiar rhythm of it all, she could almost forget the iron bolts on the doors, the salt dusting the windowsills.

Sunwoo, swinging his legs beneath the table, slurped his soup obnoxiously.

“Eat properly,” their father muttered without looking up, splitting bread in his hands.

Sunwoo grinned. “I eat properly.” The three-year-old already had a feisty personality.

Y/N snorted. “You sound like the neighbor’s horse.”

Their mother shot them both a look, though her lips twitched. “Sunwoo, don’t play with your food. Y/N, be nice.”

“Why?” Sunwoo asked, still grinning. “Horse eats well.”

Their father sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, but Y/N caught the slight shake of his shoulders—he was holding back a laugh.

For a moment, the heaviness in the room lifted. The stew filled their stomachs, the warmth of the fire softened the night’s chill, and the walls of their home felt safe.

Beyond the glow of their home, where the forest swallowed the last light of day, he watched. A tall figure stood at the treeline, leaning against the bark of a tree, arms folded, his posture deceptively relaxed. Patient. Certain. His dark eyes never strayed from the young woman at the table, her laughter slipping through the cracks in the walls, wrapping around him like a whisper.

She looked so at ease. So unaware.

Jungkook exhaled slowly. He had waited a year, observed her every move, every emotion, and invaded almost every dream.

He had waited long enough.

The dream had become familiar, like a secret she had visited many times before.

She stood near the edge of a dark, still lake. The water stretched out before her, reflecting the faint outline of the waning crescent moon, barely visible, a thin sliver of silver light cutting through the sky. The forest behind her stretched on in shadow, its towering trees reaching out like twisted fingers, enclosing her in a world that felt both familiar and terrifyingly unknown.

A house loomed nearby, she already knew the place— an intriguing structure, yet strangely inviting. Dark glass windows reflected the faint moonlight, glimmering with an eerie, almost unnatural glow. It was a place meant for creatures like him, where the line between what was real and what was not blurred.

The scent of wet earth lingered in the air as she took a hesitant step towards it. And then, it was there—the weight of a hand on her waist, slow and deliberate, as though testing the very limits of her space. Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t move. She never did. Not here.

A figure emerged, tall, cloaked in darkness. His form was made of shadows, of smoke, shifting in ways that defied the world she knew. His eyes—though she could never see them clearly—felt like they pierced right through her. His very essence seemed to demand her attention, to pull her closer, even as she fought it.

“Did you miss me?” His voice slid through the air like silk, smooth and dangerous.

She didn’t answer at first, she knew exactly what would come next… and how she enjoyed it everytime. With her silence, the creature pulled her into him. His body, or whatever part of him was tangible, pressed against her. He was warm and cold all at once, like the night itself was alive. She shivered, but not from the chill.

“You ignored me today once again,” his voice murmured, low and dark against the curve of her neck. The touch of his lips there sent a tingle down her spine, a shudder that made her breath catch. His touch was intoxicating She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t want this, but she did. His hands slid down her side, claiming her without words.

He pulled her closer, his lips ghosting over her skin. “It’s time for us to be together,” he whispered in her ear, his breath so cold it raised goosebumps on her skin. “Give me your name, and we can end this waiting.”

Y/n felt his fingers trace around her breast, teasing her nipples even with her nightgown separating them. For the past year he has been teasing her body, touching her in places she never thought someone would make her feel good. Always edging, but never completely giving what she needed.

His other hand traced the path of her lower back and moved forward, fingers going straight to her core and teasing her entrance. “Give me what is mine and I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

She gasped, the words dancing on the edge of her tongue. Y/n felt the wetness pooling in the fabric separating his fingers from her core.

His lips were so warm against her skin, making the straps of the nightgown fall down her arms. She wanted to touch him, tangle her fingers into his hair while she delights in the feeling of his mouth in her breast. He made it hard to think, hard to pull away. He felt… real in ways she didn’t understand.

“Your name. It’s the only thing you need to give to me and I’ll give you what you seek” she heard his silky voice, her mind lost in pleasure. 

“Y/N…”The name slipped from her lips before she could stop it. The moment it left her mouth, her breath hitched, her chest tightening in horror, as if the very air around her had turned to ice.

His smile—if it could be called as such —spread, and she felt it deep within her, like a seed planted in the dark soil of her soul.

“No…” She stumbled backward, her heart racing in panic, fumbling with her flimsy clothing. The weight of her mistake hit her like a crashing wave. “No, no, no…”

With a sudden force, she pushed him away and turned, running for the house. Her bare feet slapped against the cold earth as she fled, the sound of his footsteps following her, like a silent shadow. She reached the door of the house, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the old wood, throwing it open and slamming it shut behind her.

Y/N shut her eyes closed, trying to disappear if she could. But then, the air grew still. Silent. The shadows no longer moved.

A loud sound woke her up. The clatter of metal—pots, pans. Her mother’s voice called out softly in the house. Y/N blinked, her eyes snapping open. She was back in her room, in her bed, safe. The faint sound of her mother moving about the kitchen lingered in her ears.

It was just a dream…

The Night People don’t come inside.

They never come inside.

But for the first time, Y/N wasn’t so sure.

Y/N’s footsteps echoed softly on the cobbled streets as she made her way to the market. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a rare amber glow over the somber village, but the warmth felt distant. The air was thick with a mix of fear and anticipation, as though the village itself was holding its breath, waiting for something inevitable.

When she arrived at the square, her gaze immediately found the towering Old Tree.

Her heart sank, but only for a moment. Two black marks marred its ancient bark. No one spoke of it directly, but they didn’t need to. The marks were a demand. The Night People requested a woman—any woman.

The offering would be one of The Herd—or, as Y/N had always thought of them, the “people from the barn.” Outsiders, kept in captivity for this very purpose. It was cruel, but the village had long since made their peace with it. It kept them alive.

For a fleeting second, Y/N felt a bitter taste in her stomach. She would have expected more… discomfort, maybe guilt. But that feeling was quickly suppressed, buried beneath something more practical. With the new marks, the village wouldn’t have to sacrifice one of their own. She allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible exhale.

It was sick, but it was survival.

The others had already lost so much. First Soojin, then Minju, and finally Jeonghan. None of them had deserved it. But the world didn’t care. They had all been given, or taken, as the Night People demanded. It was just the way it worked.

"Y/N!" Wonhee’s voice sliced through the haze of her thoughts.

Y/N turned to see her friend walking toward her, her face taut, a mixture of exhaustion and relief. She spared a glance at the Old Tree, and Y/N watched her eyes flicker with something like dread before she looked away.

“Did you see?” Wonhee asked, her voice low, almost incredulous. “Two marks this time.”

Y/N nodded, almost absently, her gaze flicking back to the tree. 

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, her voice emotionless. "I saw."

Wonhee exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she came to stand beside Y/N. Her eyes were wide with something like disbelief, but there was no surprise in Y/N’s gaze. She had seen this before. "I never thought it would come to this," Wonhee continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N glanced around at the villagers, noting their unease. They were avoiding eye contact, the quiet whispers of their guilt hanging in the air like a fog. They knew what this meant.

“The Herd... They’re people, too,” Wonhee murmured, as if trying to justify the suffering.

Y/N didn’t flinch. It wasn’t her problem. Not really. "It’s better this way," she said, her tone flat, almost clinical. "At least it’s not one of us."

Wonhee shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It doesn’t make it any less cruel. The village can’t keep using them like that,” she whispered, her gaze drifting toward the barn. “They’re not just cattle, Y/N."

Y/N didn’t look at the barn. Her mind was already far ahead. She couldn’t afford to feel anything for them. It wasn’t just her survival—it was the village’s survival. And if the price was cruelty, so be it.

“I know,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow in her mouth. "But... they’re not the ones we have to protect."

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, but Y/N barely noticed. Her thoughts were already elsewhere, moving through the motions of the day.

Wonhee broke the silence. “We kept hearing Jeonghan’s mother every night after he was sent into the woods. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget her wails… Her second son in two years," she said quietly, her voice thick with sorrow.

Y/N felt a flicker of something, but it was too fleeting. She had learned not to let herself be affected. There was nothing to be done, after all. “I’m sorry,” she said, not really meaning it. She didn’t know what else to say.

The conversation stilled, and no more words were needed. They both knew the truth. The Night People demanded their sacrifices. The village would give them what was required. And that was all there was to it.

"I need to go back to the farm," Y/N said, her voice breaking the stillness. "I have to get back to work and take care of Sunwoo."

Wonhee nodded, her eyes lingering on the tree one last time. "Take care of yourself, Y/N."

Y/N gave her a tight smile, but her mind was already elsewhere as she turned and walked away, heading toward the path leading back to the farm.

The day wore on, the sunlight beginning to dip below the horizon as Y/N worked tirelessly in the fields. The soil beneath her fingers was familiar, as was the rhythmic motion of plucking weeds from the ground. In the small breaks she allowed herself, she would sit on the grass, her younger brother Sunwoo tucked beside her, his small hands picking at the blades of grass as she brushed the sweat from her brow. She would laugh and joke with him, trying to create a normal environment for him.

But it was when the sun began to sink low, casting an amber glow across the land, that the sense of foreboding returned. The air grew cooler, and the shadows of the trees seemed to stretch longer, like the fingers of something waiting.

"Sunwoo?" she called out, scanning the field, her heart giving a quick, erratic thump in her chest when she didn’t see him nearby. “Sunwoo!” she called again, louder this time, panic rising in her throat.

"Y/N... Y/N, come here!"  She heard his voice, too clear and too familiar, carried through the air, but there was no sight of her brother. The urgent call of her name drifting from the edge of the woods, where the trees thickened into darkness.

Her heart skipped a beat, unease crawling up her spine. She looked toward the shadowed line of the forest, but the trees remained still, offering no hint of movement.

It wasn’t like him to wander off, not this far. Her feet moved of their own accord, urgency propelling her forward. She didn’t think, not once, as she ran toward the woods, the trees swaying gently in the evening breeze. The stillness felt… unnatural. The shadows, longer now, seemed to press closer around her, as though they were alive, watching, waiting.

Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t feel Sunwoo, not anymore. Actually, there was no sound at all. The space ahead of her had become vast, dark, lifeless.

And then, she heard it.

A soft chuckle. A voice, smooth like velvet, but so dark it sent a chill through her. “You’re finally here,” it said, low and reverberating.

Y/N froze, the blood in her veins running cold. She recognized the voice, the scent in the air—the smoky, intoxicating fragrance that clung to him, a heady mix of something dangerous. It was him.

She whirled around, her breath catching in her throat. And there he stood, a tall man, face sculpted like an expensive art piece. His dark, penetrating doe eyes—seemingly innocent but filled with an unsettling darkness—locked onto hers. His figure was fluid, like smoke that had taken shape, his presence suffocating, as though the very forest itself bent to his will.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it. “You…” she whispered, her legs trembling beneath her. The shadow man. The one from her dreams. He was real.

"I’m Jungkook, my dear," the man said, a smile curling at the edges of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I told you it was time to be fully mine.”

The words echoed in her mind, and before she could comprehend the full meaning, her body reacted on instinct. She turned, heart hammering, and ran. She pushed through the trees, branches scraping at her skin, her breath ragged in her throat. But no matter how fast she ran, the woods seemed to stretch endlessly. Every direction led to the same place—a deepening darkness.

“Y/N...” His voice rang out again, closer now, as if he had always been right behind her, waiting. She could feel the weight of his presence, the pull of it.

Suddenly, she stumbled, avoiding falling to the ground. Her chest rose and fell in quick, panicked breaths as she looked around, her eyes wild, searching for some way out. But there was nothing. The shadows had thickened. The forest had turned into a maze that swallowed her at every turn.

Then, she felt him. His presence so close, just a breath away. His hand brushed lightly over her shoulder, the touch like ice. A shiver shot through her body as his voice echoed in her mind.

“I’ll take you to our home, Y/N,” he murmured, his breath cool against her ear. “You already know the place, been there hundreds of times in the past year.”

“No,” she gasped, trying to twist away from him. “There was no mark on my home, on my window! You can’t take me, I’m not a chosen one” she desperately tried to win her case.

Jungkook’s fingers dug into her wrist, holding her in place with a force she couldn’t break. He chuckled darkly, low and slow. “It doesn’t matter whether a mark was left in your family home, Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth and almost tender. “With or without a mark, you willingly gave me your name. You willingly gave yourself away.”

Her breath hitched as realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron, unyielding.

“No...” she whispered again, the truth settling like a heavy stone in her chest. “I didn’t mean to... I didn’t mean to…”

“You gave me your name, Y/N,” he murmured, his breath cool against her ear. “You belong to me now.”

Jungkook stepped closer, his smile widening, revealing just how much he relished this moment, like he was savoring being able to finally claim her. The prize he’d been waiting for. His lips parted slightly, a twisted, almost gleeful expression crossing his face as he leaned in, his breath cool against her skin.

“You can try to escape, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerously sweet, like a predator toying with its prey. “But there’s no way out. You’re mine. You always were.”

The dark gleam in his eyes grew, something feral awakening in the depths of them. He leaned in closer, until his breath was a whisper against her ear. “Your name… it was the last thing you had to give. And now you’ll stay with me forever.”

Her legs trembled beneath her, her body betraying her as she felt a pull toward him, like gravity, an inevitability that made her want to fight even harder. But she knew now. She was bound, marked—not by a visible symbol, but by the act of her own surrender.

to be continued…

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter V)

A short chapter I wanted to post pretty much right after ch.4, but sadly real life got in the way *sigh*

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, violence, blood, possession, degradation, caracalla is a deranged little freak, geta is mean too

word count: ~1k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ☼ ⋆

She waits for someone to summon her. Waits as if for death—though even that would be kinder. There is no life in her, no flicker of the hope she once held. Her husband is most likely dead. She is disgraced.

In a final desperate gesture, Cassandra clasps her cold, trembling hands together in prayer, pleading with the gods. Let them show mercy. Let them grant her freedom, release. Let them protect her family. She forces herself not to think of her father and sisters—dwelling on them would only push her deeper into despair.

But the Gods do not hear her. No. Not this time. Not ever.

The Praetorians seize her by the arms, leading her through the dark, empty halls of the palace. A flicker of shameful relief stirs in her chest—at least, for now, there is no one to witness her disgrace. But she quickly scolds herself. Her trial will be public. The doors will be thrown open for all to see. Anyone who wishes may come and witness the spectacle.

And of one thing, she is certain—Emperor Caracalla will make sure it’s a grand one.

"Caesar," a Praetorian reports curtly, shoving her forward before stepping away.

She knows where she is. These are the emperor’s private quarters—only they could have halls like these. Gold gleams from every surface. Silk, fine fabrics, statues, endless bowls and vases clutter the space. Once, she might have been awed. Now, it means nothing.

Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.

"Expected my brother?"

His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.

He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.

"My dear, you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And he…"

Geta paused meaningfully.

"…and he is dead, little bird."

A hand—someone else’s—lands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.

So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.

Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hot—hotter than usual.

Then she felt the moisture.

Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.

And then she screamed.

His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.

Red.

Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.

"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. You’re a widow now—congratulations."

His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.

"I promise, this night won’t count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.

She doesn’t want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.

"And oh, that’s not all!"

He releases her, and yet she remains still.

"A gift!"

He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesn’t want to know what’s inside.

But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.

In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.

Caracalla is pleased.

Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But it’s not.

A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.

She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husband’s hand.

To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.

"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."

"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.

As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husband’s—the ring wouldn’t fit any other finger.

Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.

How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ring—her husband’s ring—the one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.

Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ring—the one her husband had given her—only to remember. It is gone.

Geta took it.

Caracalla’s gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brother’s ring.

"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Geta’s hand.

"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." He’s clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirk—but his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. He’s wary of his brother’s reaction, she realizes.

In the short time Cassandra has known them, she’s learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this too—though he holds far more privileges, he doesn’t dare to gloat too openly.

A shiver runs down her spine.

A bet? They were betting? On her?

Caracalla’s expression darkens.

"You’re always like this! You must have cheated, didn’t you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesn’t approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.

"And you… One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"

"Yours…" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.

"No, this time you won’t get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "You’ll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"

"I didn’t…" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.

He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?

Geta watches with interest, tilting his head—just like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.

Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.

"Don’t kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"

"I don’t need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didn’t you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"

The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apart—but it isn’t lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.

What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?

Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.

"Hold her."

And Geta does.

Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.

Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleading—

But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.

Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.

Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.

When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.

"I’ll reward you, brand you with your emperor’s name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you won’t forget."

She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.

He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.

"Up—now," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.

The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, he’d found yet another way to break her.

Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didn’t look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.

"When’s the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.

"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.

"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husband’s blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours… yours starts now."

There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.

⋆ ☼ ⋆

Hey friends, we’re almost at the finish line—the next chapter’s gonna be the last one, and it’s kinda massive! Thanks so much for all your support, I really appreciate it! 🙂‍↕️

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 2

Hii! Here is the second chapter. I will post the chapters when the next one is either 50% or 90-100% ready, based on how long it has been. Hope you enjoy!

previous<< Chapter 2 >>next

Breakfast became awkward as soon as you shyly walked in, hunger beating the desire to stay hidden in your room- in hindsight, maybe you should have. They were chatting so eagerly, laughing. You wanted that too but as soon as you peeked through the door the noise stopped. It was like the first day of kindergarten. Lonely, your palms were sweating with anxiety, and- and you missed your mom.

You tried introducing yourself to Richard, but you were met with a hum and one singular glance, no interest from the older boy, your supposed brother. Bruce- you’d rather him not look at you at all. It was like he was trying to read your mind and dissect it.

By the time you had it in you to speak again, to try and create some bonds, it seemed like they couldn’t get away fast enough. They both looked so tired. You’d think they would have taken their time. Your eyes meet Alfred’s icy blues once the room is empty.

“Do they hate me?... Did I do something wrong?” Alfred’s whole body flinched at the question, unseen by the untrained eye. The old man felt pity, a bit of guilt for the way he, himself, acted. But the mask of indifference he’s been trained for years to keep took its place once more.

With a gentle hand, he did his best to soothe her worries. Bruce could never hate a kid, Alfred was sure… He hoped he was. Alfred shook his head- no, he shouldn’t doubt his child- Master Bruce. He shouldn’t doubt Master Bruce like that. He knows better. The old man cleared his throat. “Here, young miss. Master Bruce wanted you to have this. Just like Master Dick has.” His explanation of what and how to use the little black card and the modern phone came just as quickly as his try at making connections between the two kids.

“Giving a kid unsupervised access to so much money and the internet sounds like a bad idea.” Your mumbling made Alfred’s lip twitch. It was and he said as much, but it was what Master Bruce wanted, and what he wanted he got… usually.

And with that, Alfred left too. You understood why he left; he seemed to be the only employee. Taking care of such a big house all on your own must take all day, and to have to cook as well… Poor man, Bruce mustn’t like him very much either. He was old, ancient to your five-year-old self, maybe you could help with something.

After finishing your meal, you take the dishes and carefully put them in the sink. You wanted to wash them but sadly, the counter was taller than you. Instead, you focused on cleaning the table and pushing the chairs back into their place.

Bruce must have gone to work, and Richard to school. Your brows furrowed and your lips stuck out in a pout. You were supposed to go to kindergarten. Neither of the adults seemed worried about that, and you didn’t know how to get there either, so it must be a deliberate choice. Maybe it was closed. Or maybe they forgot.

Your feet carried you across the manor, from the withered garden to the many floors of the cold house, relying on the whispers from the shadows to know what door you can open, and which way you should go. They were leading you in a specific direction, you knew, but what else could you do but listen? Not like you had anything else to do or anywhere to be.

You stopped as soon as the shadows stopped whispering. The overlapping murmuring going silent made the room feel colder, and yet your amazement at the object before your eyes filled you with the warmth and hope you needed to survive another day. It was a simple thing, a painting.

A couple, a woman sitting on a chair and a man standing tall beside her. The position on any other would seem imposing, controlling even, but the hand on her shoulder wasn’t gripping her. It was a tender caress of care that reflected in the man’s face as a gentle smile and his eyes fixated on the woman, his wife. The painter did a great job of portraying the love and softness the man held for his beloved, as they did for the warmth in her smile and mischievously happy gleam in her eyes.

She was beautiful, full of life. Her dress was silky white. Must have been painted on the day of their wedding. She was the perfect picture of elegance as beautiful, shining pearls adorned her neck and the bottom of her dress, and yet… Her eyes seemed as sad as they were happy. She probably missed her mami too. You couldn’t imagine marrying someone and leaving your mom, but then again, you’re young and idealistic, dreaming of things that cannot be anymore.

You sat there for what felt like hours, taking in every little detail you could. You wanted to do this, to paint, to draw, to have your art hung for generations to see. Maybe you could fix the garden as well. Make it a beautiful background for your art, and a little something to make you feel useful. Now… how do you get back to your room?

The shadows seemed to giggle at how your demeanor soured once you realized how lost you actually were. Nevertheless, once they had their fun, they led you back to where you needed to be, gently nudging your tired little self back into the walls of your room. All that walking exhausted you so much, a nap was long overdue- you were sure they’d wake you up for lunch or dinner.

They never did. You woke up at one in the morning, more tired than when you went to sleep, and ten times hungrier and colder. Maybe they didn’t have dinner? The trash in the bin and half-chopped veggies in the fridge told a different story. It seems you’ll have to fend for yourself once more.

Tag List: @bat1212

[youngsadlesbian]

THREADS OF FATE | chapter 01

chapter summary: you move to north carolina at a young age, growing up with healing powers and parents who believe in fate and soulmates. as you graduate high school, you decide to pursue your dreams in new york city.

a/n: hope you like it!

word count: 2,1k

warnings: none.

The first memories you have are painted in golden light.

Sun-drenched afternoons in the rolling fields of Mexico, where the wind carried the scent of wildflowers and the earth was warm beneath your bare feet. You remember chasing butterflies with Daniela, your small hands outstretched, giggling as the tiny creatures danced just out of reach. You remember your mother’s laughter, the sound rich and melodic, as she called you both inside for dinner, her long skirts swaying as she moved. You remember your father humming a song while he carved delicate patterns into a wooden flute, pausing only to tap your nose with sawdust-covered fingers.

Life was simple then. Happy.

Your parents were not like other parents. They saw the world differently—not just in shades of black and white, but in the swirling colors of fate, destiny, and unseen forces guiding every moment. Your mother would sit with you and Daniela under the shade of the big ceiba tree in your grandmother’s backyard, weaving stories with her words as effortlessly as she wove the colorful threads of her embroidery.

"The universe speaks to us," she would say, her fingers dancing over the fabric, pulling threads through with careful precision. "Everything that happens, happens for a reason. We are all connected, you know? Like these threads. Some of us are meant to meet, to change each other’s lives. Some are meant to love, to suffer, to grow."

"Like soulmates?" Daniela would ask, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.

Your mother would smile then, nodding as if she knew some great cosmic secret. "Sí, exactly. Almas gemelas. Some people are tied together long before they ever meet. You will feel it when it happens—like something pulling you toward them, even if you don’t understand why."

You loved those stories. They made the world feel magical, full of possibility. You and Daniela would whisper about them at night, lying under thin cotton sheets, the air still heavy with the heat of the day.

"What if we already met our soulmates and just don’t know it?" you mused once, staring up at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster with your eyes.

Daniela laughed. "That would be funny. Maybe it’s Mamá and Papá. Maybe soulmates aren’t just for love, but for family too."

"Maybe."

It was a comforting thought. That no matter what happened, you and Daniela were meant to be together, bound by something stronger than time.

But fate had other plans.

When you were three years old, your father received an opportunity—one he couldn’t refuse. A new job, a new life, far away from the only home you had ever known. Just like that, the golden fields and the ceiba tree and your grandmother’s house became memories, locked away in the corners of your mind.

North Carolina was different. The air smelled of pine trees instead of sun-warmed earth. The sky stretched wide, but it lacked the endless vibrancy of the Mexican sunsets you had grown up with. And the language—sharp and foreign—felt strange on your tongue.

At first, you didn’t understand why you had to leave. You cried when the plane took off, gripping Daniela’s hand so tightly that your fingers ached. But your parents, ever the dreamers, promised that this was part of the plan.

"The universe is guiding us," your mother said, her voice gentle as she stroked your hair. "We have to trust it, mi amor."

So you tried. You learned English, watching cartoons and mimicking the voices until the words didn’t feel so foreign anymore. You made friends at school, though you still clung to Spanish like a lifeline, whispering secrets to Daniela in the language that felt most like home. You adjusted.

But part of you always wondered if fate had made a mistake.

The summer you turned seven, something happened that changed everything.

It was a hot afternoon, the kind where the air felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer. You and Daniela had spent most of the day outside, running through the grass, daring each other to climb the old oak tree in your backyard. It was the tallest tree you had ever seen, its thick branches stretching toward the sky like something out of a fairytale.

"Bet you can’t climb higher than me," Daniela teased, already scrambling up the rough bark.

"Watch me!" you shot back, gripping the trunk and pulling yourself up after her.

The two of you had always been fearless together, a team. If Daniela could do something, you could too. It was an unspoken rule between you.

But that day, the rule broke.

One moment, Daniela was laughing, perched on a thick branch, the wind rustling her dark hair. The next, she was slipping—her foot catching on a loose bit of bark, her arms flailing as she tumbled downward.

You screamed.

The world slowed.

She hit the ground with a sickening thud, her knee scraping against the dirt, blood welling up instantly. She gasped, eyes wide, as she clutched her leg.

"Ay, mierda, that hurts," she hissed through clenched teeth.

Panic bloomed in your chest. You dropped down beside her, hands hovering over the wound, unsure of what to do. The sight of blood made your stomach twist.

"Daniela—"

She waved you off. "It’s fine. It’s just—"

You reached out before she could finish.

And then, something impossible happened.

Warmth spread from your fingertips, a tingling sensation that sent a shiver down your spine. The cut—deep and jagged just moments before—began to close. The blood disappeared, as if rewinding time itself. Within seconds, the wound was gone.

Daniela stared at you.

You stared at your hands.

"That was so cool!" she exclaimed, her shock morphing into excitement. "Do it again!"

But you couldn’t move. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your breath shallow. What had you just done?

Your parents found out that night.

Daniela, never one to keep secrets, had rushed into the house the moment your mother called for dinner, blurting out everything before you could stop her.

Your father went still. Your mother’s hands trembled as she took yours, turning them over as if searching for some hidden mark.

"El destino," she whispered, awe and fear warring in her expression. "You were meant for something greater than you know."

After that, everything changed.

You learned to hide your powers, to keep them a secret from the world. Your parents made sure of it—explaining, in hushed voices, that people wouldn’t understand. That they would be afraid.

"The world is not always kind to those who are different," your father said one night, his voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite name.

Daniela, of course, had other ideas.

"You could be a superhero!" she whispered excitedly under the covers. "Like in the comic books! Imagine how many people you could help!"

"No one can know," you reminded her. "Papá said—"

"I know, I know." She sighed, rolling onto her back. Then, after a pause, she turned her head to look at you. "But I promise I’ll always protect you. No matter what."

You smiled, linking your pinky with hers.

"We take care of each other," you said, repeating the words that had become your shared mantra. "Always."

And for a long time, that was enough.

Until, years later, it wasn’t.

Because fate had a way of changing everything when you least expected it.

Leaving home was never easy, even when you had been preparing for it your whole life.

Growing up, your parents had always encouraged you and Daniela to dream beyond the horizon, to chase whatever destiny called to you. Education was important to them, not just as a means to a better life, but as a way to truly understand the world.

"Knowledge is the one thing no one can take from you," your father would say, tapping the side of his head with a knowing smile.

So when you got accepted into a university in New York City, it felt like fate was guiding you there.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The truth was, you needed to leave. You needed to know who you were beyond the quiet safety of your childhood home. You needed to learn what your powers meant, what you meant in the grand scheme of things.

But that didn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

The house smelled like cinnamon and burning wax, the way it always did when your mother was nervous. She had spent the entire afternoon lighting candles, muttering quiet prayers under her breath as she moved through the small kitchen, her hands gripping the rosary she had owned since she was a girl.

Daniela was sprawled on the couch, arms crossed, her expression stormy.

"I still don’t get why you have to go so far," she muttered, kicking at the old wooden coffee table between you. "There are colleges here. Good ones."

You sighed. "It’s not just about school, Dani. I need to—" You hesitated, trying to find the right words.

How could you explain the feeling that had been gnawing at you for years? The restlessness, the sense that you were meant for something more?

"I just need to," you finished lamely.

Daniela scoffed. "That’s not an answer."

"I know."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.

Then, Daniela shifted, her expression softening just slightly. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Don’t forget where you come from." She reached out, squeezing your hand. "And don’t let New York turn you into some stuck-up city girl."

You laughed, nudging her with your elbow. "I’d never."

She rolled her eyes but smiled.

Later that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you felt a weight settle in your chest. You had spent your entire life with Daniela always within arm’s reach, your constant, your other half.

Leaving her behind felt like tearing away a part of yourself.

"We take care of each other, always."

The words echoed in your mind, but for the first time, you weren’t sure if you could keep that promise.

New York was nothing like home.

It was loud, overwhelming—a living, breathing thing that pulsed with energy at all hours of the day. The first time you stepped off the bus, dragging your single suitcase behind you, you felt like you had been dropped into a completely different world.

Back home, the stars stretched wide across the night sky, unhindered by the glare of city lights. Here, they were swallowed by towering buildings and neon signs, blinking advertisements for things you couldn’t afford. The streets smelled of exhaust, coffee, and something fried from the food carts on every corner.

It was exhilarating.

And terrifying.

Your apartment was nothing special—just a tiny dorm room shared with a girl named Mia, who greeted you with a lazy wave and a bored, "You snore, I’m kicking you out."

You liked her immediately.

Classes started the following week, and it didn’t take long for you to fall into a rhythm. Mornings were spent buried in textbooks, afternoons balancing a part-time job at a bookstore, and nights walking the city, letting the buzz of life around you settle your nerves.

For the first time in your life, you were completely on your own.

And you weren’t sure if you loved it or hated it.

The first few months passed in a blur of late-night study sessions, cheap takeout, and phone calls home that always ended with your mother telling you to eat more. Daniela texted constantly, sending you updates about home—Papá finally fixed the truck, Mamá started taking painting classes, the neighbor’s cat had kittens, why don’t you ever call me first, are you forgetting about me?

You never answered that last one.

Because no matter how much you missed home, you were changing.

New York had a way of forcing you to grow, to see the world differently. It stripped away the small comforts you had always taken for granted and pushed you into situations you never thought you’d experience.

Like the night everything changed.

It was supposed to be just another night—another shift at the bookstore, another walk back to your dorm. But fate had other plans.

And they came in the form of a god with a scepter and an army of alien soldiers.

comment below if you want to be added to my taglist!

@mythixmagic

[idkwhylou]

𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

masterlist | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders. 

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud. 

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands. 

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy. 

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor. 

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood. 

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts. 

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. 

A marriage ? 

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still. 

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender. 

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold. 

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken. 

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!” 

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose. 

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine. 

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment. 

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur. 

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable. 

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real. 

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all. 

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense. 

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair. 

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy. 

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march. 

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name. 

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments. 

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed. 

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white. 

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return. 

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to. 

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure. 

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down. 

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk. 

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him. 

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman. 

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched. 

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his. 

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen. 

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter. 

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes. 

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze. 

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his. 

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher. 

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his. 

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find. 

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired. 

That simple. 

That final. 

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured. 

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played. 

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | next chapter

[maddamoiselle]

The Weight of Wanting You

Pairing: Caleb x NonMC!Reader Synopsis: You fell for each other in pixels and whispers—never realizing you had already crashed into each other every day in real life.

Tags: Ennemies to lovers, friends to lovers, university AU, slow burn( I hope) Author's nonsense : Here is the next chapter ! I hope you'll enjoy it because I surely did ! Words; ar.6k <- Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ->

Chapter II: The pull of unseen things

The pill tasted like metal and chalk.

You tipped your head back, tossed it in, and swallowed before it even touched your tongue.

Water followed. Cold, clean, clinical. It burned a little going down— maybe from habit.

Your dad called them “stabilisers pills”. You’ve been taking them since your Evol manifested.

Your father, as a doctor, didn’t want you to feel pain because of your power. He did a lot of research for those pills, creating them so you wouldn’t … You didn’t even know.

He used to say you had a bad episode when you were a child, and your evol almost destroyed everything… You had no memory of this…Sometimes you felt like your father was a tiny bit overprotective.

The bottle is plain. No branding. Just your name, your dosage, his signature.

You pressed the bottle back into your bag, zipped it up like you were hiding away a part of yourself. Your suitcase was ready, your phone was charged…

There was practice today. Game soon. You needed to be sharp. Ready. Controlled.

Especially around him.

Your phone buzzed just as you were tying your shoe laces.

Ding.

You checked your phone and couldn’t suppress a smile when you saw the notification on your phone.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (5:21)

Since you first sent the picture of your finger forming half a heart, your discord friend started to send you pictures every day.

Sometimes, it would be the sky, sometimes a dog he was petting, something he was cooking…

But there always would be his finger making half a heart.

And you would answer with a picture of your own, never showing your face, of course, but always making the other side of the heart with your fingers.

Today, the picture was of a park.

He told you he had a very strict routine for his body. Waking up early to go for a run and then get ready for his school. One time, he said that his sister tried to keep up with him but ended up sleeping on a bench, waiting for him to finish.

Your face warmed. Your stomach did that annoying soft-flip thing when you noticed his finger making a half-heart. The picture was a little blurry. He must have taken it while running.

You snapped a picture in return— nothing big. Just the morning sky that looked pink… or even purple like. The colors were beautiful, it would be a waste not to share it. You do the other half of the heart with your finger before sending it with a caption.

WindQueen.exe (5:22): heading to battle

WindQueen.exe (5:22): if i don’t survive, avenge me with memes

WindQueen.exe (5:23): and maybe emotionally scar the enemy

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (5:24): already have the soundtrack queued

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (5:24): no one will be spared

You didn’t respond immediately. You just stared at the screen for a second longer than you should, smiling like a fool.

Then you stuffed your phone in your pocket, your headphones blasting soft music in your ears, and headed out to the train station.

You sent a message to Zayne, wishing him a good morning and asking him to keep you updated on all the hospital’s drama. He sent you a picture of you— that truly wasn’t your best angle— where you were giving the lens a side eye with a smug expression.

You chuckled before putting your phone away and tried to find a place inside the train.

After succeeding in your noble quest. You opened your bag and started to write today’s training.

You were in the university’s basketball girl’s team. You were the captain, and you wished to bring this team to the championship. That’s why you needed to make sure the gymnase was reserved for your team today.

The girls in the team were good, nice, and even cute sometimes. You weren’t close enough to them to call them friends. A few of them were really interested in playing basketball, they others were mostly there because sometimes, the boy’s team would train with you.

And, of course, Caleb would be there.

A yawn escaped your lips, forcing you to hold your hand on your mouth. You were more exhausted than you believed. The ride to SkyHeavan was mostly two hours… Maybe you could sleep for forty-five minutes, and then prepare for today's training…

Yeah…

‘Next stop: SkyHeavan.’

Your eyes snapped open. The voice repeated the sentence you thought was in your dream, but no.

The train was coming to your stop. Your notes were empty. And you were still sleepy.

Fuck.

You quickly grabbed your things before dashing out of the train. You must have looked like a lunatic. Your eyes were still burning from the lack of sleep, your hair must look like a bird's nest, and you could feel some drool on your chin.

You quickly took the bus that brought you to your apartment. You quickly left your suitcase iin your bedroom and took a quick shower to wake you up before dashing to the university.

Now that most of the exams were over, not a lot of students were on campus. The ones staying were the ones who had obligations or were studying for the next semester’s exams. You knew you had just one week of break before going back to your lessons… just one week…still better than nothing.

A sigh of relief passed your lips when you noticed the girls waiting for you in front of the gymnase. They waved at you while you smiled at them, opening the gym with the key which had been given to you when you started this year.

You gave orders, talking about the championship. It was your last year together. You wanted to win this trophée.

After an encouraging speech, the gym’s echoed with sneakers squeaks and half-hearted laughter as your team started their warmup up. You adjusted your hair, focused, already planning plays in your head. Even if you didn’t have the time to organise anything during your ride to SkyHeavan, at least you slept enough for you to have ideas for your girl’s training.

Then: the door creaked open. Heavy foot steps. Familiar voices.

”No way..”

”It’s the boy’s team…”

”Caleb’s here—“

You didn’t even look. You heard the shuffle, the whispers, the giggles… then Caleb’s voice, casual as always.

"Didn't know we were double- booked.”

Translation: We want the court, move.

“That’s because you weren’t booked at all. We reserved the gym.”

You crossed your arms as your teammates were already starting to drift toward the sidelines, blushing and brushing their hair behind their ears like they were in a teen drama instead of training for the championship.

“Unless you hacked the system,” he said, voice low and smooth.” I’m pretty sure that’s mine.”

”Captain…” one of them murmured, “ it’s fine we can cut a little short—“

”No, we can not.” Your voice was sharp, not yelling, just.. undeniable.

Caleb walked toward you with his phone in his hand. You frowned as he showed you his screen. In front of your eyes were the schedules for the gym’s reservation. Today’s session… was reserved for the boy’s team.

You took his phone out of his hand, making sure it wasn’t a joke. Why? Why? you booked the reservation this morning on the train—

Fuck, you fell asleep before you could do it.

You turned to face him. Caleb started down at you, knowing no one could see his face as his back was facing everyone.

He smirked at you like this was a joke he was already winning. He leaned toward you until his lips brushed your ear.

”Now, you can shut up and fuck off.”

Murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal…

“ Caleb, why don’t you all play against each other?”

Caleb looked behind him, and then you saw her. His pipsqueak… She was looking at him with hopeful eyes while Guideon was laughing behind his hand. You could hear your teammates gushing and giggling, excited about the idea of playing against Caleb’s team.

” Pipsqueak… It’s not reall—“

” Come on, Caleb! And I would like to join the girl’s team too!”

You tried not to laugh at that. Your team, as distracted they could be, was on a level that made you reach nationals. You knew Caleb’s girlfriend wanted to be a hunter but… being a basketball player and a hunter was two different things.

Caleb scratched his neck before smiling at your team with a sorry expression.

”I’m sorry.. If it’s okay with you… could someone sub out for my—“

You groaned when you heard your teammates squealing in joy. Thank god, some of your girls were walking toward you, serious about playing against Caleb’s team. You weren’t ready to admit it out loud, but that would be a better training than what you had planned.

The court was split.

Lines drawn. Teams chosen. And somehow, because the universe had a shitty sense of humor, you ended up guarding him.

Caleb.

Again.

You didn’t know why his girlfriend didn’t want to guard him. Wouldn't that be a cute moment ? So why was she guarding Guideon?

Caleb played hard. Like he was trying to make a point. Every pass was sharp. Every drive was fast. He didn’t go easy on your team— even less on you.

He scored twice in a row, grinning like he already knew you were mad. And you were. But you wouldn’t show it.

Not yet.

His girlfriend called for the ball, and you passed it— a bit too quickly— and she fumbled it. Guideon scooped the ball before she could react. He passed it to Caleb, who pivoted midair, landed a pass with a snap, and his teammate scored.

”Nice assist, pipsqueak!” He laughed, facing his girlfriend and messing her hair. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.’

So it was yours, maybe? You sighed, trying to keep your head cool.

Your team was getting frustrated. Even Caleb’s girl wasn’t smiling anymore. Your chest tightened.

Fuck it.

You let a gust of air slide under your shoes— just enough to give you a lift as you broke past Caleb and landed a clean shot.

He eyed you across the court.

Grinned.

Then, he messed with gravity.

The next time you go up for a shot, your legs are dragged, heavier than they should be.

You landed hard.

You knew it was him.

”Real subtle.” You hissed as you passed him.

”Don't start what you can’t finish.” He muttered back.

Oooh, it’s on.

Next time he drove toward the basket, you twisted the air — just a breeze, subtle, under his feet. He stumbled for half a second. Not enough to fall. But enough for you to steal the ball.

Your teammates on the bench cheered for you. His eyes found you again— a little surprise. A little impressed?

A lot annoyed.

”Cheating again?” He muttered as he passed you.

”Playing smart.” You shot back.

His girlfriend wasn’t that bad. She truly was trying and had good ideas. She was trying harder than some of your teammates. She called for a pass, and you didn’t know why you hesitated. You gave a shitty pass that made it out of the court.

”Sorry”!” She sighed. You could see she was truly annoyed by her mistake, even though it wasn’t her fault this time.

”All good, it was my fault.” You waved it off, tight-lipped. What was wrong with you?

Caleb noticed it. His jaw tensed. You could feel it— like gravity had eyes now. He got the ball again. Drove harder. Shoved past you, barely legal contact. The kind of shove that made you stumble and caught yourself before running after him.

”Relax,” he muttered under his breath,his whole body tensed.” Or is this about your new teammate?”

You glared at him, breathing hard. You didn’t have the time for his bullshit.

”This isn’t about anyone.”

”Right.” He smirked. “ Totally not acting like you’re one bad pass away from setting the court on fire.”

The match kept going, and in the end, other students started to come inside the gym to watch the game.

The ball landed in your hands. Caleb was guarding you. Just you and him.

The court noises faded— your teammates shouting, shoes squeaking, his girlfriend calling your name from somewhere far behind. None of it mattered. Not right now.

Caleb stepped up to guard you, and for a second, he wasn’t laughing anymore. No smirk. No taunt. Just eyes locked on yours, heavy with something you couldn’t name— something between challenge and accusation.

”Come at me.”

You didn’t answer.

He was fast. You were faster. The wind curled under your soles, a quick assist, but he felt it. The gravity shifted— your feet suddenly a fraction heavier. It was like you were running through syrups.

You shoved harder. Air lashed around you in a ripple. Your evol brushed against his like a current slamming into a wall.

Push. Pull. Lift. Drag.

Neither of you said a word; but every move screamed.

He blocked your path. You twisted. He shifted the floor beneath you. You pushed back with wind so sharp it raised the edges of his jersey.

”Are we still playing basketball?” He growled low.

”Afraid to lose?”

You pivoted. He mirrored.

You jumped.

He raised the ball’s gravity midair.

You countered with a sudden gust— trying to push the ball against his gravity.

It was raw, deseperate, and precise.

The second your fingers brushed the ball, your evol surged. So did his.

Air and weight collided. The gym’s lights flickered. The ball, pushed by both of your evol, is sent in the air with too much force. Too much speed. It escaped your control, and you could only gasp as it flew right into…

Guideon’s face.

”Fuck!”

Fuck.

Everyone ran toward Guideon, who was holding his bloody nose. You quickly grabbed your bag and gave him tissues while apologizing a hundred times.

”What the fuck is wrong with you two? Since when are we using evols for a friendly match?” Guideon winced as you tried to wipe the blood from his chin. Caleb is already using the phone in the gym to call for the infirmary.

After a few minutes, Guideon was taken away to make sure he was okay.

You sighed, grabbing a bottle and drinking the water you so needed. You could hear Caleb and his girlfriend talking about Guideon, hoping he was okay. You glanced at them and couldn’t help but feel envy as you watched Caleb hug his girlfriend.

Their touches weren’t romantic, but you could definitely feel a deep bound between them.

You wondered how it felt to be loved and cherished…

Your phone was still on the bench, and after hesitating for a second, you couldn’t help but send a message to your friend in Discord.

WindQueen.exe (11:34): i manage to take down my enemy's minion.

WindQueen.exe (11:35): might need help to defeat his boss

“It was a good match! I’m sorry I was so slow, but what can we do about it, Caleb was the one who trained me.”

You turned around and faced Miss Futur Hunter. She was beaming at you, blushing a bit. You could see she was nervous, you wondered why. A glance to your left, and you could see Caleb, his phone in his hand, staring at you.

Was he afraid you were going to hurt his girlfriend? Why was he always looking at you like you were a loaded weapon he forgot to disarm?

“You have good reflexes.” You nodded at her. She seemed disappointed you didn’t want to engage in a deeper conversation with her.

You took your stuff before walking toward the showers. You were sweating so much… Ugh..

The sound of Caleb’s chuckle made you pause. You glanced at him, surprised to see his face coloured by a light blush, his hand hiding his smile while he was staring at his phone.

You raised your eyebrow.

If you were his girlfriend, you would be jealous to see him react like this to someone’s message… Or maybe he was watching cute videos of puppies?

You went into the locker room and quickly went under the shower. You sighed in delight as the warm water fell upon your skin. You took your phone with your dry hand and quickly played music randomly.

You quietly hummed the lyrics, moving under the water.

That song was very catchy…

After drying yourself, you shared that song with your friend in Discord and realized he had answered you while you were showering.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:40): that’s my girl :)

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:40): now, give me a date so we can get rid of your final boss

You bit your thumb, trying to keep your smile in check. You almost felt confident enough to send a picture of you but decided not to. That was maybe… a bit too much. You walked back to the locker room to get change.

Your teammates were laughing, doing their hair, and taking selfies. Talking about the boy’s team like they were celebrities instead of classmates. You tied your laces tighter than necessary.

”Did you see how Caleb looked in his jersey today?”

”I’d give up a whole practice slot for that smile.”

You almost threw your water bottle at the wall. No matter what you’ve done— how hard you’ve trained, how hard you’ve fought for the team— they always melted when Caleb showed up. Did they forget that you managed to bring them to the nationals; that you fought against the teacher so you could train in they gym.

” Girls, you know we have a match in two weeks. Caleb has a girlfriend, please be respectful about it.”

You said in a cold voice before leaving the locker rooms while your teammates winced at your tone, feeling ashamed.

You walked toward the university, trying to find an empty room to… to be alone for a little while. You stopped when you heard a familiar song… The one you sent to your friend in discord… it couldn’t be…?

”That’s a good song, Caleb!”

You peeked into a room and stared at the scene. Caleb is sitting on a desk, music coming from his phone while his girlfriend is doing a TikTok with the song playing. You sighed in disappointment and also relieved…

Maybe you really were not ready to meet him..?

You stared at Caleb. His face had a fond expression as he tapped on his phone with one hand, his head moving to the beat of the song. His other hand was busy tapping on the desk he was sitting at, humming the lyrics.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:56): oh i love it :)

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:56): in our playlist it goes

You left the two lovebirds, smiling down at your phone while walking to find another empty room. After walking for ten minutes, you decided to sit on the stairs. You kept talking in Discord with your friends, adding more and more songs to your playlist.

Your phone buzzed, and your expression fell a bit as you saw your dad’s contact appearing on your screen. You sighed before taking the call, a small smile on your lips.

”Yep, dad?”

”How are you feeling, sweetheart? Did you arrive at SkyHeavan? everything went well? Did you take your pills?”

“I’m good. I took them this morning. You sound exhausted.”

”Yeah, well, work… I’m happy you’re feeling well. I’m worried about you.”

You looked up to the ceiling. You wondered if your father saw your mother in you. She died a long time ago, and he never talked about her… Never. You had asked Zayne to sneak into the hospital’s archive, but nothing.

Wasn’t it suspicious enough?

Your mother used to work in the fleet, and then she died. That was the only thing you and Zayne managed to find out. That’s why you were aiming to work there. To have your answers.

Someone asked for your father, and you could hear their calm voice.

”Dr.Noah (…) we need…”

Your father quickly said bye to you with a quick “I love you don’t forget your pills” before hanging up. You sighed before standing up. It was time for some library study.

After five hours of study and a bit of daydreaming, you made sure you knew everything. You stood up and decided to go to the outside basketball court. It wasn’t big, a little bit far from the campus…

The moon was already in the sky, the lights were buzzing faintly overhead, half the court cloaked in the shadows. The court’s surface was slick with the day’s leftover heat, the air quiet except for the soft thud of the ball against the pavement.

You’ve been shooting for… who knew how long. Long enough that your hands were now aching.

The silence was comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

You heard footsteps behind you, measured, deliberated. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it is.

”What, stalking me now?”

”Was about to say the same thing.” Caleb replied, stepping into view. He was in a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair damped from quick rinse. His eyes found the ball in your hands, then the sweat on your face.

”Didn’t get enough earlier?”

You shrugged and bounced the ball once.

”Didn’t feel like a win.”

He stepped onto the court slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to shout at you for coming close to you. But you were tired… You didn’t know about what. You didn’t want to fight tonight.

He was closer now. You could feel the subtle pull of gravity shifted— not because of his evol. Just him.

You passed him the ball. Hard.

”One-on-open. No teams. No distractions."

He caught it easily and smiled— not cocky like usual. Just… tired… like you.

”Which side are you on?”

You paused. The wind stirred around you like it was trying to whisper an answer. This question seemed way deeper than you expected. He was surely asking which side of the court you wanted to play on… and yet it seemed much more meaningful… But you couldn’t grasp it.

“ First to five?”

Caleb spun the ball in his hands. It was slower now, like he was not here to win…

” No evol this time, just skills.”

”Afraid of a little breeze?” You quirked a brow. You didn’t want to admit it, but you just wanted to play without feeling like you needed to think about everything, your team, your lectures, your pills…

”Terrified.” He deadpanned. “ You might blow me away…Or I might catch a cold.”

You smirked despite yourself, already stepping into position.He dribbled forward— light on his feet, smoother than he was during the game this morning.

Less aggressive.

You matched him step for step, mirroring every motion. Your evol stirred automatically, but you kept it in check.

Still, you felt him - the subtle drag of the air shifting around him, gravity bending every so slightly when he pivoted.

And you wondered if he was holding back too?

The points came and went,quietly.

You drove left. He let you.

He faked a shoot. You called his bluff.

No score keeping. No trash talk.

Just breathe. Movement. Silence thick with meaning that you couldn’t understand.

You took your shoot, and Caleb let you. He stared at the ball, which didn’t even touch the net as it went inside. You both were breathing hard, staring at the basket without saying anything.

Caleb turned his eyes toward you. Those eyes that weren’t warm for you, weren’t soft. They were calm, still cold… but curious. You wondered, did Caleb hate this much because of one mistake you made during your first years? Because you injured his precious girlfriend by mistake?

”You seem different … more different than I expected.”

”What did you think I was?”

” Dangerous.”

You laughed once— soft, bitter. You walked to grab your basket, taking your bag before looking at him.

” Do I seem dangerous to you?”

You should leave.

You should turn your back,storm off the court, and let him think he had won— because staying there meant he would see he had hurt you. It meant staying in a moment where your pulse didn’t calm down and your lungs felt too full.

You .. dangerous…?

You could almost hear your father’s voice asking you if you took your pills. Every day. For your security.

Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills?

For whose security?

The ball was rolling somewhere near the edge of the court. Forgotten.

The wind had stilled around you, like it was holding its breath.

“ I don’t get why you hate me so much, Caleb. You don’t even know me.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight. He seemed tired, torned by his own emotions… What was he hiding?

“That’s the problem,” he muttered, “ I do know people like you. You end up hurting the one I’m trying to protect.”

You blinked.

Was it about his girlfriend again?

The implication was sharper than any blow.

“If you’re talking about your girlfriend, I never wanted to hurt her.” Your voice started to shake. Why did you care so much about his words?

Your heart beat against your ribs like it was trying to escape. You wrapped your arms around yourself, but it did nothing to quiet the ache under your skin.

Then, without meaning to, you said it:

“If I’m so dangerous... why didn’t you just walk away?”

The words hanged in the air.

You didn't expect an answer.

And for a moment, he didn't give one.

Then—his voice low, like he hated himself for saying it:

“Because something in me keeps wondering if I’m wrong.”

He was still watching you — all fire and edges, arms crossed like he was holding himself together with stubbornness.

You were about to walk away.

You needed to walk away.

But then he said it.

Low. Sharp.

“Whatever those pills are, they’re not for relaxation.”

You froze.

The word hit like a punch to the gut.

“What did you just say?”

He didn't back down. Didn’t blink.

“I saw them. Your bag was open during practice this morning. I looked.”

The world tilted for a second. Did that bastard look through your stuff… And for what?

Your chest tightened.

“You... went through my stuff?”

“Yes.” He shrugged, but his voice was cold, controlled. “And the bottle had no label. No pharmacy. There is no record in the school med system. Just your name. And your father’s signature.”

You felt like you were going to kill him.

“Those are just focus pills,” you snapped. “I take them to control my evol. My dad, he’s a doctor. He knows what I need.”

“Yeah, he knows exactly what you need,” Caleb muttered bitterly with a smirk.

You shoved the words down — the confusion, the hurt, the humiliation.

“You think I’m dangerous. You think I’m lying. So you spy on me, search my bag like I’m some kind of threat?”

He stepped forward, eyes sharp with something that looked too much like desperation.

“I'm wondering now. Do you know that doctors need to write the name of the medication they give..”

That stopped you.

He walked toward you, hands in his pocket while his eyes never left yours. You felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore. He was staring down at you like he had all the answers, and you were just a naive sheep waiting to be sacrificed.

“Ah, but I guess a doctor from Ever wouldn’t care about it.”

Ever..?

The words hit something deep — something you didn’t have a name for yet. Your father was a doctor, a respectable one. He would never work with Ever.

Never.

Yet, you couldn't open your mouth.

Your father had created those pills to help you with your evol.

You never left like you didn't control it.

He didn’t want you to suffer from your evol.

You never suffered from it.

He loved you.

He didn’t care about you. He only cares that you take these pills.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to vanish.

You wanted to believe he’s wrong.

But a seed of doubt has already taken root.

You left the court without another word. No goodbye. No second match. Just the quiet shift of your steps on the path back through campus.

Your legs ached. You didn’t want to go back to your apartment yet.

Your eyes were burning from the tears you refused to share with the world.

You were just tired, and Caleb was messing with your head. That was it.

So you find the tree. Your tree— a huge, knotted thing near the edge of campus that hides you from everything. The roots curved just enough to become a seat. The branches above you rustled faintly as you sat back against the trunk, staring at the stars through the leaves. you closed your eyes, letting the world around you lull you to sleep.

You didn’t know how many minutes— hours?— passed before you pulled out your phone and opened discord.

There he was. Your safe place.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed— online.

You snapped a photo of the grass, the edge of the tree trunk visible, and of course, you made half a heart with your fingers.

WindQueen.exe sent a media (22:09)

WindQueen.exe (22:09): world’s quietest therapy session

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:09) : wait wait wait

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:09): you mean this tree?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (22:10)

You blinked and looked at his phone, and your mouth went dry.

Because it was the same tree. Same roots, same cracked bark pattern.Same tiny carved initials near the base but… from the other side.

Your fingers froze above your keyboards. Then, three blinking dots. He was typing again.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 22:12): you’re kidding me

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:12): are we literally sitting on opposite sides of the same tree??

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:13): dont panic, do you want me to leave

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:13): even if i want to meet you, i can leave with my eyes close i promise

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 22:15): do you want me to leave, tell me please

WindQueen.exe (22:16): stay

Your eyes traveled to the grass, and you saw it.

A hand.

His hand— slowly pressing into the grass, palm open, fingertips brushing the clover between the rots. Not reaching toward you… but just being there. Close enough that if you wanted, you could…

No one said a word.

The discord window glowed faintly in your lap. The blinking cursors mocking you about your inability to react to this moment.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:20): we cant hug right now so… can i hold your hand?

He wasn’t peeking around the three. You weren’t either.

Your fingers shifted from your phone to the earth. You reached around the thick curve of the trunk blindly until your hand brushed his.

You felt him tense, but he didn’t move.

You tapped his palm with your fingers. You chuckled when you saw his message of discord.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:23): Are you trying to kill me, woman?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:24): my hand must be so sweaty, sorry

His finger closed around yours.

Warm. Smooth.Real.

The night deepened. The air is cooler now, brushing against your skin like a whisper. You were still holding his hand.

You didn't know if he could hear your sniffled, but he didn't text anything. He just kept holding on to your hand, squeezing harder and harder.

And you were squeezing back.

You were so grateful for his presence after this horrible evening. You didn't know if he was a student here or just passing by... but you were grateful..

His hand was still in yours.

Neither of you had spoken in minutes. The Discord chat sat open between you — a final few messages just waiting to be answered. But the words stopped being enough the moment your fingers touched.

And now, the silence said everything you were too scared to type.

The wind shifts through the branches above you. The leaves shivered. Your heartbeat felt too loud.

Then he moved.

Just a slight shift — a squeeze of your hand. And then… his fingers started to pull away.

Not fast. Not cold.

Just… gentle. Careful. Like letting go might hurt if he did it wrong.

But you both knew it’s time.

Neither of you said it out loud.

Your thumb gave his a soft, slow squeeze — the kind you didn't do with strangers.

Then your phone lighted up.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:10); i should probably head back

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:10): before the grass permanently imprints on my spine

You laughed softly — just under your breath.

WindQueen.exe (23:11):tragic

WindQueen.exe (23:11): you’d become part of campus folklore

WindQueen.exe (23:12): the ghost of the tree boy

A pause. And then:

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 23:13):…you’d visit, right?

Your heart fluttered — light and aching.

WindQueen.exe (23:13): every night, I would bring snacks. and sarcasm.

Another beat of silence. Your fingers didn't let go yet.

Then his last message appeared:

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15): same time, same tree, next time?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15): no pressure

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15) only if you want to

WindQueen.exe (23:15): as if you could put pressure on me

WindQueen.exe (23:17): Goodnight, my little ghost

And finally, slowly, his hand pulled away.

You didn't look.

You didn't move.

You just sat there —heart full of something you couldn't name,phone screen dimming, hand tingling like it remembered his.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:19): i can't stop smiling...

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:20): im such a loser

You giggled, tilting your head back against the tree.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (23:20)

You stared at the picture. It was the tree where you were sitting. You were behind it, so you weren't on the picture, but your heart melted at the sight.

And as always, half a heart with his fingers.

You took a picture of the tree and made the other side of the heart with your fingers. You sent it with a caption.

WindQueen.exe sent a media (23:22)

"For my loser."

---

Next Chapter ->

Taglist: @xyzbeloved @deepspace-fishie @floofycookie @silmeria-lafleur @pagesfalling @noxus123 @sylusgirlie7

[rainrot4me]

Run Rabbit Run - Chapter 2

“Spill Your Guts”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────────── crush - ethel cain

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

MAY CONTAIN SENSITIVE TOPICS

✦ . Summary: Masky wants answers, Tim wants out, and you’re caught in the middle—gasping for breath, fighting to stay afloat.

✦ . Characters: Masky x Genderneutral Reader, Ticci Toby, Hoody

✦ . Warning: Torture, interrogation tactics, kidnapping, waterboarding, intense water torture, descriptive themes of torture using water, suffocation, violence, mental distress

✦ . Words: 5.2k

✦ . Note: A month later, whoops! Sorry for the long wait, finals are currently kicking my ass!! But soon I'll have all summer to write, so stay prepared! Thank you for waiting patiently and interacting with this story. More to come!

────────────────────────────────────────────

Eight days.

You had been here eight days, almost nine, if you’d counted right.

You wouldn’t have been able to keep track if it wasn’t for the tiny cracked window on the wall opposite your position. It was mostly overgrown with weeds and roots from the yard outside, but sunlight brushed through nonetheless.

The basement stank of mold and old iron—like rusted blood soaked into the concrete decades ago and never properly scrubbed clean. It clung to the back of your throat, making every breath feel like swallowing something metallic. The walls were stained with water damage and something darker, something you didn’t want to think about too hard. The exposed brick had split in places, and heavy wooden beams above you groaned as if the house itself wanted you to know it was watching.

A single, flickering bulb hung overhead, swinging slowly from some unseen breeze. It cast warped shadows on the walls, long and bending, and in those first few days, you always mistook the shapes as something sneaking up on you. Someone always seemed to be standing in the corner of your eye. But when you turned your head, there was never anyone there.

Except for the footsteps.

They came and went above you every few hours or so. Pacing. Stopping. Whispering just loud enough that you could hear tones but not words. Mocking, maybe. Discussing. Debating. The sound of boots on rotting wood. The metallic jingle of keys. Sometimes laughter, ear-piercingly high-pitched and unnerving.

Sometimes the scream of something that wasn’t human.

Your wrists were raw beneath the cuffs (your cuffs, the ones that always stayed clasped to your belt loop), the skin split in places where the cold metal had dug too deep when you tried to shift your weight. They’d bound your hands high to an old water pipe running across the basement wall. The pipe itself groaned like it was tired of bearing your weight. You almost hoped it would give out—just for a moment of change, a break in the stillness.

Your stomach growled for the third time that hour. They didn’t starve you. Not quite. But they didn’t feed you on any kind of schedule, either. A figure from the top of the stairs tossed a protein bar toward your feet the night before, and you’d eaten it like a starving dog, fingers trembling. You hated how weak you felt. You hated that you were shaking.

There were more than just those three staying in this place. You couldn’t count the steps, couldn’t differentiate who was who, but at least they weren’t aiming towards the door at the top of the staircase leading down here.

You were a cop. You’d trained for hostage situations, interrogation tactics, and mental endurance. You knew how to assess a scene, pick apart a suspect, and survive under pressure.

But you hadn’t trained for this.

You hadn’t trained for the way he’d looked at you—the one in the white mask. Masky, they’d called him during the chaos of the station raid. Not Tim, not then, at least.

Tim was buried somewhere under that thing.

And the others… the tall one in a worn yellow hoodie, the twitchy one with the goggles—they hadn’t given names. You pieced together that they had relations to Tim, whether familial or otherwise, you weren’t sure yet. But they watched you like you were something between a curiosity and a zoo animal.

You had no idea what they wanted.

And that was terrifying.

Was this still about the interrogation? About what you’d said to Tim? Had you pushed too far, struck some nerve that shattered what little control he had left? Or was it something else? Something worse?

The truth sat like a weight on your chest: you didn’t know the rules of this game.

And if you didn’t learn them soon, you were going to die down here.

Your jaw ached from clenching it too long. You tried to breathe evenly, to stay grounded. Cop mode. Strategic. Alert. You repeated your training in your head like a mantra: Control the breath. Slow the heart rate. Assess threats. Maintain leverage. But all of that logic meant nothing when the shadows started crawling toward you at night—when the silence in the room whispered things it shouldn’t know.

When you swore, sometimes, that the walls were… breathing.

And still, the worst part of all of it was the silence that came after the footsteps.

When they stopped walking above you.

When the whispers ceased.

When you knew one of them had decided it was time to come downstairs. All the tension broiled in your body, like a hot rock sitting in the pit of your gut. You clung to yourself, your position strained from the handcuffs, tucking your legs as close to your chest as you could get them.

The steps were slow. Deliberate. Wood groaning beneath heavy boots as they descended one by one. No rush. No urgency. Whoever was coming wanted you to hear every creak, every echo, wanted you to feel their approach like a countdown.

The basement door at the top of the stairs opened with a hiss of rusted hinges. A brief shaft of dim hallway light spilled in, casting a silhouette at the landing. Then it closed again, swallowing you both in half-darkness.

You heard him before you saw him—something about the cadence of his breath, steady but sharp, like a wolf pacing unseen in the treeline. Then boots hit concrete. Slow. Measured.

A figure stepped into the flickering halo of the hanging bulb.

Tall. Broad-shouldered beneath a dark hoodie zipped to the throat. A black fabric mask obscured his face, stained and dirty like it had been worn through hell and dragged back again. A distinct frown was painted in red across the fabric. His hands were shoved deep into the front pocket of the hoodie. He didn’t move further once he entered the light. Didn’t speak.

He just stood there.

Something about the way he watched you made your skin crawl, not wild or frantic like the twitchy one from earlier, but cold. Calculating. Still. Like he could see things about you you didn’t even know yet.

The air felt heavier under his gaze, like the basement itself had shrunk, pulling the walls closer until the shadows pressed in around you. You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to shrink deeper against the pipe. Beads of sweat pooled at your brow, doing nothing to help the already disgusting feel of grime covering your skin.

He tilted his head slowly, almost curiously. Still silent. Still unmoving.

“…You going to kill me, or are we just staring at each other all night?” You rasped, trying to keep your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.

The man didn’t react at first. Then, in a voice so low it barely stirred the air, he spoke:

“…How’d you do it?”

The words slithered out from behind the mask, more statement than question.

You frowned. “Do what?”

Another pause. His head straightened again, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t fidget. He stepped closer—just once, deliberate—and the floor creaked beneath his weight.

“How’d you break him?”

Your breath hitched. “…Tim?”

A faint shift of his head. Affirmation.

You stared back at him, confused. “I—I didn’t—”

“You did.” His voice sharpened like a blade. “Stop lying. Answer the question.”

You shook your head. “I didn’t do anything. I just… talked.”

He stepped closer again. The shadows stretched behind him like they were tethered to his heels. His presence pressed down harder, suffocating.

“…No one just talks him loose,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Something got in. You let it in.”

The weight of his stare made you want to recoil, but you held your ground. “I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, breathing quietly and even, head tilting again as if he was watching something beneath your skin. As if he could decipher the truth in your words just from facial expressions alone.

Then the door at the top of the stairs burst open with a loud bang. Your body jumped out of your skin, the man in front of you didn’t move an inch.

“Ooooh, you’re finally tal-talking to ‘em, huh?”

The new voice was bright and scratchy. High-pitched and grating against the stuttering in-between syllables. The rapid thud of boots clattered down the steps, and a figure practically bounced into the basement light.

Another mask—just covering his nose and mouth, made from thick metal. Hood pulled tight over messy brown curls. Goggles perched haphazardly atop the head. A hatchet swung lazily in his gloved hand as he approached.

“Come on now. No need to look-look so upset,” he grit, elbowing the other man in the ribs—not that it made him flinch at all. “They’re gonna think you’re some kind of freak or somethin’, Hoody.” If it was meant to be some play at the frown on his mask, he didn’t think it was very comical.

“…Funny.” Hoody replied quietly, his gaze never leaving you.

The new guy snorted. “Ha! Right. And how’s the bi-big bad officer doin’?”

He strode right up to you, crouching low so he was nearly eye level. The grin behind the mask widened. “Did you reveal all of your deepest darkest secrets?”

You tensed, pressing back as far as the cuffs allowed. His nearness radiated against your skin, the jerks of his muscles and limbs making your recess further into yourself. The only human thing about him seemed to be the dull brown of his irises, contrasting hard with the sickly gray of his skin.

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t? Oh, no no no,” he waggled a gloved finger, voice sing-song. “See, you sho-should be dead. Real dead, y’know? But somethin’ you did made Mas-Masky want to bring you back here.”

“Toby.” A warning from the hooded man.

Toby didn’t seem to care, not even casting him a glance. “So why don’t you just sa-save us all some time, and fess up. I’d really like to get on with that you-being-dead thing—”

“Why am I here?” you demanded, your voice cracking despite your effort to stay firm. “What do you people want from me?”

Toby’s smile grew in the crease of his eyes. “Oh, that’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it? But m-me? I just wanna have fun.” He leaned in closer, head tilting. “Hoody’s the one with the que-questions. Me? I’m just here for the show.”

Hoody’s shadow loomed just behind him, silent, unmoving. Watchful as ever.

“…How’d you do it?” Hoody repeated, softer this time.

The two masks stared at you—one blank and cold, the other wild and grinning. You weren’t sure which one terrified you more. You knew their names now, had the ability to tack them with aliases if you ever came into contact with your station again. If. You had to get out of this place first—

The sound of another door opening. Heavier footsteps. Slower. Measured.

Something shifted. The air thickened. No, solidified—like a weight pressing down on your chest, as if the very atmosphere had grown teeth and was leaning in to bite. Even Toby’s manic bounce faltered, his grin twitching down for a fleeting second as he glanced up toward the stairs.

“…Looks like your boyfriends here,” Toby hummed, his voice oddly subdued. He rocked back on his heels, fingers twitching against the handle of his hatchet. “Fi-Finally got over himself, hmm?”

Hoody finally lifted his gaze. His head tilted slightly, watching the landing above with that same eerie, unreadable stillness. His shoulders rolled back, not out of tension, but acknowledgement of the newcomer.

You heard the tread of boots descending. Each step landed with the kind of weight that didn’t need to announce itself; it simply was. A steady, inescapable rhythm. Like the ticking of a clock counting down toward something inevitable.

The light above flickered, shadows stretching across the basement walls—long, spidery, warped like claws scraping the concrete. The bulb buzzed, dimmed, brightened again in a sickly pulse of yellow-white. You could practically feel the bile turning in your gut.

A figure appeared at the base of the stairs.

That mask, white, cracked at the temple, black markings around the eyes. His mask. He brandished it with an unfamiliar jacket, too. The yellowed leather was torn and creased in spots from age, other bits from struggle.

A breath caught in your throat. For a moment—just a single, fragile moment—you felt a flicker of something foolish and desperate bloom inside your chest. A recognition or familiarity, something you could cling to.

“Tim,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, voice hoarse, raw from disuse.

He stopped dead still at the bottom step. Slowly, his head turned toward you, the mask shifting just enough to let the light catch deep voids of his eyes. There was that drawing feeling again, like they were sucking you in. Black holes, you decided, that’s the difference between Masky and Tim. 

For a fleeting heartbeat, you thought you could see him hesitate. But there was nothing there. Nothing soft, nothing human, nothing left of the man you hoped to see.

“…Don’t call me that.”

The words were quiet. But they fell with the weight of a hammer.

Not the same voice. Not the soft uncertainty you’d heard in the interview room. This voice was steel dragged across asphalt. Rusted iron wrapped in splinters.

Your lips parted, but the sound came out smaller this time. “Masky.”

He stepped down the last stair, boots planting solidly on the concrete. Each movement deliberate, economical. The flickering light swung overhead, casting him in alternating stripes of gold and shadow as he crossed into the room.

Every step he took made the walls feel closer. Like the basement itself was shrinking, folding in around you, the air curling tight against your skin. You felt your pulse thudding beneath your jaw, too loud, too fast, filling your ears with a hollow rushing sound.

“Out,” Masky said. The command wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. 

Toby’s eyebrows lifted. “Aw, come on—”

“Out.”

That single word sharpened, slicing the air like a blade.

Hoody was already moving, slipping toward the stairs without a backward glance. Toby lingered longer, swinging his hatchet lightly by the handle, his grin creeping back in a flicker of defiance.

“…Yeah, yeah, alright,” he muttered, backing away. “Don’t get your pa-pants in a twist.” He paused at the stairs, casting one last look at you over his shoulder. “Have fuuuun.”

The door creaked shut behind them.

Silence fell.

Masky stood a few feet from you, his hands loose at his sides. The mask tilted slightly, the faintest gesture, like a bird considering its prey. You forced yourself to meet that gaze. Forced yourself to speak through the raw scrape in your throat. “You’re angry,” you whispered. “I get it. But whatever you think I did… I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up.”

The words hit like the slam of a cell door.

Your mouth clamped shut.

“I don’t want excuses,” he said. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. There was no space for escalation here; his quiet was sharper than a shout. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want the truth.”

“I told you the truth—”

“No.”

He stepped closer. And the basement somehow shrunk again. The light above hummed louder.

“You think you told me the truth,” he continued. “You think you’re innocent. But something about what you said to Tim… messed everything up.”

“I was just doing my job—”

“Don’t.”

A single syllable. Sharper this time. Cutting. His head tilted again, the shadows from his mask deepening across his face.

“You don’t get to hide behind your badge down here.”

Your heart hammered harder. You could feel it beating at the base of your throat, a frantic bird battering its wings against a cage.

“What… what do you want me to say?”

He stared at you. The silence stretched so thin you thought it might snap. The water pipes creaked somewhere deep inside the walls, a groaning sound that made your skin crawl.

“I want to know what’s inside your head,” Masky said quietly. “And if you won’t tell me willingly—” He turned, walking away across the basement. Each step echoed off the concrete, hollow and final.

He stopped beside an old utility sink bolted into the far wall. Above it, a rusted metal pipe twisted down from the ceiling, a battered hose clamped beneath the spigot. A dented bucket sat beneath the drain, stains lining its interior like old scars. He opened the spigot. A slow, steady trickle of water began to pour, pattering softly against the bottom of the bucket.

You stared. Your chest tightened. The drip-drip-drip filled the space like the ticking of a clock. Counting down.

“…What are you doing?”

No answer.

Masky unhooked the hose, testing the nozzle in his hand. He turned it off, rolled his shoulders back, and turned toward you again. Slowly. Deliberately. His boots whispered against the floor as he approached, each step heavy with intention.

“You’ve done interrogations before,” Masky said. His voice was low, almost conversational. “You know how this works.”

A cold blade slid beneath your ribs, spreading wide. “Masky… Masky, listen—”

He crouched beside you. Set the bucket down near your feet. The water inside sloshed softly, ripples lapping against the metal rim.

“I’m giving you a chance,” he said quietly. “Tell me before it gets worse.”

“Masky, please—” He pulled a folded cloth from his hoodie pocket.  

“How does it feel to be on the other side of things? Hm?” Masky murmured. He stood again and looped the cloth behind your head, pressing it down across your face.

Panic detonated inside your chest, a flood of cold electricity that made every muscle seize.

“No—no, please, please don’t—”

“Quit pleading. I want answers, not crying.”

The water splashed.

The first pour wasn’t much, barely a cup’s worth. But it was enough. Enough to fill your nose, your mouth, to cling to the fibers of the cloth like a second skin. Enough to make your body forget logic, forget that you could breathe if you just waited.

Your lungs spasmed. Your throat convulsed. You kicked wildly, the cuffs biting deeper into your wrists. A scream clawed its way up your throat but died beneath the soaked fabric.

Then air tore into you, burning and sharp. The cloth peeled back just enough to let it scrape down your throat. You coughed hard, body heaving, tears stinging your eyes.

“Talk now?” Masky’s voice, above you. Calm. Steady.

“I—I don’t know—” you gasped between broken gulps. “I swear—I swear—”

A hum of acknowledgement.

The cloth pressed down again.

“No—NO—”

The water came again.

Harder this time. A rush. A flood. Filling your mouth, your nose, burrowing down your throat, soaking the fibers tight against your skin. The panic doubled. Tripled. Your body fought itself, every instinct screaming breathe, breathe, breathe—

A hand pressed against your chest. Holding you steady. Holding you down.

The water stopped.

You were sobbing now. You didn’t realize it until the cloth lifted again and air slashed back into your lungs.

“Please…” you choked out, voice shredded, broken. “Please, I don’t know—”

He crouched again. Mask level with your blurred, tear-streaked gaze.

“…You do,” he whispered. “Maybe you don’t realize it yet, but you’ve ruined all the progress I made. I need to know what it is before it rips him apart.”

He stood.

“…And you’re going to tell me.”

The cloth pressed down again. Your instincts finally kicked into high gear, all the adrenaline pumping to your head and making you dizzy. Your heart pounded so violently it felt like your ribs were vibrating, straining against skin and bone.

“Please—please don’t—” you gasped, voice raw, broken, chest heaving under the weight of his hand. “Tim—Tim, please—”

That name cut the air like a blade.

His hand froze for a heartbeat. A flicker and his grip loosened—not enough to let you go, but enough to make you feel it, the hesitation.

“…Tim…” you whispered again, desperate, clinging to his pause.

The reaction was immediate. A sharp intake of breath and the cloth ripped away. Before you could even process relief—

“Motherfucker.” His voice snapped like a whip, low and lethal, vibrating with something too big to contain.

Then—

SLAM.

His palm cracked against the back of your head, jerking your neck forward so fast your teeth clacked together.

“DON’T YOU DARE—” The words tumbled out ragged, furious, hoarse with something deeper than anger.

Your face collided with cold metal, the bucket’s rim bit into your collarbone, scraping skin. The water rose up to meet you, or you pushed down to meet it. Either way, it swallowed your mouth, your nose, your eyes all at once, shocking you breathless before you could even scream.

You thrashed. Hard.

Kicking, twisting, slamming your legs against the chair’s legs, pulling against the ropes until they burned into your wrists. But his hand pressed harder. Flattened over your skull, shoved you down, forcing you deeper, until your cheek scraped the bottom of the bucket and cold wrapped around your scalp like a noose.

Above the surface, his voice snarled, cracking apart:

“You piece of shit. Will Tim save you now? Huh?!” It didn’t sound like him anymore. Didn’t sound like anything human. “Never beg for his help.”

The water roared inside your ears. The cold leached into your skin, your bones, your chest. Your lungs seized in a locked spasm. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—

Your mouth opened under the water, reflexive, desperate. The cold spilled in. You choked on it, gagged, coughed bubbles that danced uselessly up the sides of the bucket. You kicked harder and your knees jerked up, knocking against the hard pavement. Your arms locked behind you, strained from the cuffs and nearly tearing the muscles in your shoulders.

Your whole body strained toward air, toward light, toward anything above the rim of that bucket. But his grip wouldn’t let go. Above the roaring in your ears, you heard his breathing, like he was barely holding onto something himself.

Your chest burned, your throat convulsed, spots bloomed behind your closed eyelids. The world narrowed down to cold and pressure and the hammering of your own heartbeat growing weaker—slower—fainter—

You kicked again. A sluggish, trembling spasm. Then again.

Then… slower.

Your legs twitched once. Twice.

Stopped.

Your hands unclenched, fingers going slack against the cuffs. The fight drained out of you, sinking deeper than the water could reach.

The last air in your lungs trickled out in a weak stream of bubbles, swirling toward the surface you couldn’t reach.

I’m going to die, you thought.

He yanked you up.

The world exploded back into sound and light and air, jagged and violent.

You gasped—a huge, ragged gulp that tore down your throat like broken glass. You coughed hard, doubling forward against the chair, sputtering, choking, water gushing from your nose and mouth in messy streams down your chin, your chest.

Your whole body shook, wracked with shivers, every nerve buzzing between numbness and raw sensation.

“Look at me,” he barked.

Your head jerked back, his hand tangled in your hair, yanking you upright.

“Look at me!”

You blinked through tears and water, vision warping around his mask looming too close, too bright under the flickering light. The smudged black lines on the porcelain warped with your dizziness, his eye holes obscuring his pupils in the shadows.

“Don’t… don’t you ever call me him again,” he snarled, his voice breaking at the edges. His chest heaved. His fingers trembled where they knotted in your hair.

“He’s not here.” His breath hitched. “He’s gone.” A crack ran through the mask’s voice, thin and sharp as splintering glass. “He doesn’t get to come out again. I won’t let him.”

His hand stayed tight. Holding your head up. His forehead dipped lower, almost brushing yours, the mask trembling faintly like it wasn’t fully settled on his skin.

“…He’s not coming to save you. No matter how bad he wants to.” Maybe it was the water rushing from your eardrums, but it didn’t feel like Masky was speaking to you anymore. Moreso reminding Tim exactly what he couldn’t do, taunting him.

His hand stayed curled in your hair, knuckles white around the strands, holding you suspended between him and the now-soaked concrete beneath your knees. The mask tilted slightly, studying you.

You shivered. Your chest heaved with another wet, rattling cough. You couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t lift your arms, couldn’t even lift your gaze higher than his throat, watching it rise and fall beneath the collar of his jacket.

“…You really don’t know, do you,” he said lowly. Not a question, but a quiet, tired certainty.

The mask tipped closer, inspecting your face like it was some puzzle he couldn’t solve. His breathing slowed, almost cautious.

“…You’re empty.”

He sounded… almost disappointed. Almost bitter.

A pause stretched between you. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

“…He listened to you.” The words were more for himself than you. Muttered under his breath, rough at the edges, strangled by something bigger than frustration.

He exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl, and finally let go of your hair.

You slumped forward, too weak to catch yourself, forehead bumping softly against the bucket’s rim.

Above you, his shadow shifted.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, but the insult didn’t quite reach you—it felt aimed elsewhere, lingering bitter in his throat.

A hand dragged down his mask’s jawline, fingertips curling tight into the edges like he was tempted to tear it off, to claw his way out from under it.

“…You don’t even realize what you’ve done,” he said, quieter now.

You barely moved. Barely breathing from the leftover panic still thrumming in your veins. He watched you for another long moment. His fingers tapped twice against the mask’s cheek, a nervous tic, a jagged rhythm.

“Try anything,” he warned, his voice suddenly sharper again, snapping back like a rubber band stretched too far, “and I’ll make sure next time you don’t come back up.”

But even as he said it, something in him sounded… tired. Frustrated. Not just with you, but himself. With the part of him clawing underneath his skin, rattling the cage.

He turned sharply, walking away. His boots thudded against the floor, fast, uneven. A muffled curse under his breath. A fist slamming against the wall.

Leaving you dripping, shivering, folded over the bucket’s rim like a ragdoll.

Alone, except for the faint sound of him pacing in the dark. And the faint, cracking whisper of a name caught somewhere beneath the mask.

── .✦

It was nighttime before you realized it.

The basement walls pressed in closer now, heavy with damp and shadows. That single bulb swung overhead, its weak light sputtering every so often, throwing shapes across the floor that made your stomach twist.

Masky had left soon after, falling quiet and stomping up the stairs and out of sight.

Your throat still burned raw. Your lungs still fought every breath, shallow and rasping. The wet chill in your police uniform clung stubbornly to your skin, leeching warmth from your bones. Your head ached. Your wrists throbbed against the cuffs.

The silence was the worst. It wasn't peaceful. Wasn’t quiet. It had a weight to it. A pulse. Like something lurking just outside the edge of your hearing, breathing with you, waiting for you to forget it was there.

You drifted in and out.

The sound hit like a gunshot.

BANG.

The door upstairs slammed open, rattling the hinges so violently you flinched hard, your whole body jolting back to painful awareness.

Heavy boots stomped across the floorboards above then clattered down the stairs.

“Hey, hey, hey—” A voice, sing-song and scratchy. Your pulse spiked.

The basement door flung open, light flooding down in a blinding wash. Toby stood in the doorway, grinning wide under the goggles and mask, his head tilted at a crooked angle.

“Rise and shine,” he chirped.

You shrank back instinctively, your raw throat scraping out a hoarse, useless sound, but Toby’s grin didn’t falter.

He strode across the floor, crouched beside you, humming under his breath as his gloved hands fumbled at the cuffs. “Lemme just—yeah, that’s it—don’t squirm, makes it harder—”

“W-what—” you rasped, but your voice cracked, barely audible.

Toby clicked his tongue. “Ah-ah, don’t wa-worry your pretty lil’ head, okay? Big night ahead.” The cuffs snapped loose. Your arms fell limply forward, muscles screaming as circulation returned.

Before you could move, Toby grabbed you under the arms and hauled you roughly to your feet.

“Whoa, you’re light!” he laughed, half-dragging, half-carrying you toward the stairs. “You been ski-skipping meals down here? Not cool. Gotta keep your strength up for the fun parts.”

You stumbled, legs barely holding. “Toby—please—where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, just hummed again, cheerfully off-key, rocking his head side to side as he climbed the stairs with you slung under one arm like a bag of laundry.

“Toby—” Now that you knew his name, you were going to use it. Humanizing someone was always the best option for bribery. It didn’t seem to affect the boy at all, though.

He kicked the basement door shut behind you, the echo slamming down like a final nail in a coffin. Your feet dragged over the floorboards, catching on loose nails, splinters biting your soles through soaked socks.

“Boss thou-thought it would be good for Masky,” Toby finally spoke again, conversational like he was discussing the weather. “Letting you tag along, y’know.”

Your chest constricted. “Tag…along…?”

“Yeah.” His grin widened. “Boss has a job for us tonight. Ex-Extermination ’er something.” He paused. Tilted his head again.

“You’re coming too.” The way he said it—coming wasn’t an invitation. It wasn’t a choice.

You stared at him, dread pooling deep and cold in your gut. “Boss?” you whispered.

Toby’s smile sharpened. He leaned closer, his voice dropping low, sing-song fading into something more hoarse.

“…Boss wants to see ho-how well Masky can hold Tim back. Since you messed up all th-the progress.”

He tapped his temple twice with two fingers, a mock salute.

“Boss thinks it’s time to test ya.” He grinned again, his eyes creasing at the ends. “Hope you’re ready, sweetheart.”

The front door creaked open ahead of you both. Cold night air drifted in, sharp and metallic. Beyond the threshold, the dark woods waited. And somewhere unseen, something was watching.

“She’s he-here!.” In the distance, you saw the figures shifting against the treeline, two horrifying silhouettes against the dense underbrush starting at the forest-edge.

Masky and Hoody waited for the both of you.

Toby’s voice was almost a whisper now, but it crawled under your skin like ice. “Let’s not keep him waiting, yeah?”

The door swung shut.

And he dragged you out into the night.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[justchillgurl]

Title: Debt and Dagger Smiles.

Summary: At Kanghak High, she’s the girl everyone turns to—for help, for answers, for secrets. Controlled, calculating, she runs the school from behind her polite smile. Unseen by her, Geum Seong-je starts paying attention—and he doesn’t like what he sees. He likes it too much.

Check this out!@

Author's Note: Welcome to Debt and Dagger Smiles. This story is a slow burn—full of power plays, tension, and the clash between control and chaos. If you're into smart characters, unspoken games, and dangerous chemistry, you're in the right place. Updates will come as inspiration strikes—feel free to leave your thoughts.

Content Warnings: None (for now).

_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_☆_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_☆_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠_☆_⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠____

Chapter 1: The Balance Sheet.

At Kanghak High, no one held the web of whispers tighter than her.

She walked the halls with a quiet, calculating ease—her uniform always crisp, her eyes always focused, her phone never more than a breath away. Most students thought of her as approachable, reliable, the kind of girl you’d ask for help with a project or directions to the nearest printer. And sometimes, she said yes. But only after calculating the weight of the favor.

Because nothing came free.

She didn’t offer kindness out of softness. Her generosity was strategic. She said yes when it mattered—when the person asking held potential. A future teacher’s pet. A student council officer. Someone whose name would matter on a list. Those who received her help might think they got lucky.

They didn’t.

They were already in her pocket.

She didn’t waste time with the Union. Despite their presence in the school and the vague air of intimidation they carried, she saw them as distractions. She wasn’t trying to control through fists—she was building something smarter. Cleaner.

In her notebook, color-coded and organized to military precision, she kept track of every test date, every exam format, and every student in the top ten. Her grades were near perfect, and she made sure to keep it that way. While others stayed out late or fought behind buildings, she was home by eight sharp. Her family didn’t tolerate disobedience, and she didn’t test their limits.

Not publicly.

What no one knew was that she ran the school blog.

Anonymous. Undefinable. Ruthless.

She didn’t write everything, of course. She barely wrote at all. But she knew what was happening—who was cheating, who was skipping, who was crying behind the lockers. Gossip reached her before it hit group chats. Secrets traveled faster when people trusted you, and she made sure everyone trusted her just enough to slip up.

Geum Seong-je watched her from the corner of the school convenience store.

She didn’t notice him. Not because she wasn’t observant, but because he wasn’t in her circle. Not worth tracking. Not yet.

He’d seen her around, of course. Everyone had. But this was the first time he paid attention.

She stood in front of the drink fridge, scanning the labels like she had a spreadsheet in her head comparing caffeine levels. Her movements were efficient, deliberate. No wasted steps. She picked a small can of black coffee and a rice ball, paid in coins, and dropped the receipt in her bag.

Not once did she smile.

When another student tried to stop her near the exit—some third-year begging for help printing a missing assignment—she tilted her head slightly, brows pinched as if already calculating.

“What do you do again?” she asked.

“I’m vice secretary of—”

“Of the eco club,” she finished. “Right. You owe me. Done. Send me the file. I’ll print it. But you’re collecting survey data for me next month. No complaints.”

The girl nodded quickly.

She walked off without confirming. The favor was made. The debt recorded.

Seong-je didn’t move. He leaned back into the shelf, hood pulled low, watching her disappear past the glass doors.

Interesting.

He’d heard rumors before—of how she always had the answers to tests before they dropped, how her notes circled among the elite students, how she knew when a relationship ended before either person confirmed it. He’d assumed most of it was exaggerated.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She didn’t just survive in this school.

She ran it—quietly, efficiently, and with terrifying precision.

--------------------------------------------------

End of Chapter 1.

Chapter 1 has been updated to third-person POV.

Thank you for reading🫂.

[scarsnfevers]

Amber eyes

Chapter II of Wolfgang

summary: as you took a walk through the forest, you finally found traces of a pack near a lake in the heart of the forest. You quickly realized that the earlier encounter with the pizza delivery guy had not been a coincidence. There was a pack here—hidden, powerful—and now, they knew you had seen them.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader x werewolf!minho

chapter word count: 4,6k

chapter warnings: none

Two days had passed since the encounter. Yet the memory lingered, refusing to fade like mist beneath the morning sun. You could still recall the scent that had hit you the moment you’d opened the door—an intoxicating blend of jasmine and warm, resinous cedarwood. It had caught you off guard, striking a chord deep in your instincts, and you hadn't expected the magnetic pull that followed. He was a Beta, that much had been immediately clear, but there was something more—something in his eyes, in the way he looked at you. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. You weren’t sure.

And now, the thought of him crept back into your mind like ivy on stone. You stood at your front door, breathing in the morning air. The sky was a muted silver, the clouds swollen and heavy, but no rain had yet fallen. There was a calmness in the air, the kind that always came before a storm, as if the world itself was holding its breath. You needed to clear your thoughts, and so you turned away from the house and stepped onto the forest path, drawn by something you couldn’t quite name.

The woods embraced you in their hush, broken only by the wind whispering through pine needles and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. Your boots crunched softly over a carpet of damp moss and fallen leaves. Birds called to one another in the high canopy above, their cries distant and melodic. Here, the air was thicker, scented of loam and pine resin, touched by the wild magic that always seemed to hum just beneath the surface of the forest. The deeper you went, the more the world outside faded—replaced by the rhythm of the woods, by the pulse of the earth underfoot.

Since you’d arrived, the silence had become your constant companion. No distant traffic, no city sirens. And, surprisingly, no howls. For days now, the forest had kept its secrets. No late-night calls through the trees, no signs of others. At first, it had unsettled you, but now... now you found solace in it. For the first time in years, you weren’t surrounded by the press of unfamiliar wolves, weren’t overwhelmed by the heavy presence of other Alphas and their ceaseless energy. You were alone, and that was a kind of peace you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly.

The weight of the past weeks—the move, the adjustment, the unspoken tension of being something other wolves often feared—had finally begun to loosen its grip on your shoulders. Out here, no one expected anything of you. No dominance games. No political maneuvering. No power struggles. Just you, and the trees, and the sound of your own breath. You’d found a rhythm again, a quiet cadence in your days that felt like healing. You were finally beginning to feel like yourself. Your thoughts drifted again—to that moment. His eyes. Dark and striking, holding a question neither of you had dared to voice. You shook your head, trying to dismiss it, but the pull remained, buried in your chest like a spark caught in dry tinder. You’d felt it instantly. That awareness. That connection. A recognition of something you couldn’t quite name.

The trail narrowed, winding deeper into the forest. The trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks mottled with lichen, their limbs stretching toward the gray sky. Mist had begun to gather, curling around the underbrush like soft fingers. It clung to your clothes and hair, brushing cool against your skin. The temperature dropped slightly, and the scent of rain grew stronger. It was quiet here, but not empty. You could feel the life teeming all around you—birds in the canopy, a fox watching from the brambles, the slow breath of the forest itself. You let your fingers trail across the rough bark of a tree as you passed, grounding yourself. The silence out here wasn’t cold—it was alive. It wrapped around you like a blanket, a sanctuary carved from time and untouched by the chaos of the world beyond. You moved slowly, deliberately, following no path in particular. Just moving, breathing, feeling.

After a time, the path opened up, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a small, mist-covered lake. The water was still, a mirror of dull pewter, and the fog clung low over its surface, thick enough to blur the opposite bank. Reeds whispered against the breeze, and the quiet was so complete that your own breath felt like an intrusion. The place felt untouched, sacred somehow. Like you had stumbled into a forgotten memory.

You stepped closer to the shore, the earth beneath your feet damp and cool. Droplets of condensation clung to the tips of the reeds and to your lashes, and your breath fogged gently in the chilled air. Your eyes scanned the edges of the lake. And then you saw them—prints.

Pawprints, large and distinct, pressed deep into the mud.

You crouched, heart suddenly thrumming in your chest. There were several, overlapping and trailing along the shoreline, disappearing into the trees beyond. A pack. No doubt about it. The spacing, the variation in size—it wasn’t just a lone wolf. They’d been here, maybe only hours ago. The prints were fresh, the edges still crisp. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. You’d come here for solitude, for peace. Not to find signs of a pack moving through your backyard. Yet there was something about the discovery that didn’t strike fear into you. Instead, it sent a shiver up your spine, the kind born not of dread, but of awareness. You weren’t as alone as you thought.

You stood and looked across the mist-covered lake. Somewhere out there, they were watching. Or maybe not. Maybe they had come and gone without even knowing you were near. But part of you doubted that. If they were wolves, they’d know. They’d scent you, feel the presence of another. And if they hadn’t come to meet you... it meant they were choosing to stay hidden.

The mist curled around your ankles like ghostly tendrils, and the breeze carried a scent you couldn’t quite place—earth, bark, something vaguely feral. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. The chill of the mist had crept beneath your clothes, but you didn’t move. You stood there a while longer, staring into the fog, wondering if he—if they—were out there. A bird called sharply in the distance, breaking the stillness, and the spell shattered. You blinked, stepped back, and glanced once more at the tracks before turning away from the lake.

Eventually, you followed the path home, but your senses remained sharpened, your every step more alert. The wind had picked up slightly, rattling the bare branches above, and the clouds had thickened into a deeper shade of gray. You knew you should feel wary. You knew that being a lone Alpha in unknown territory was always a risk. But instead of fear, there was only that persistent awareness. Something had shifted in the quiet. Something unseen. You weren’t sure what it meant yet.

But the forest was no longer silent.

The forest whispered beneath the hush of the early morning, its voice weaving through the trees like a forgotten hymn. Shadows stretched long and deep as the pack moved fluidly between them, shapes of fur and breath and silence—ghosts carved of muscle and instinct. Minho ran near the front, his paws soundless against the moss-carpeted floor, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the thrum of the earth.

The cool air flowed over his fur like water, catching in the thick, dark brown coat that lined his lean frame. The morning sun, breaking through the clouds, pierced the canopy in fractured beams, brushing over him in flashes—amber eyes glinting like embers in the half-dark, always alert, always watching. They’d left the lake behind nearly an hour ago, a still pool of silver mist nestled in the woods like a secret. At the time, Minho hadn’t thought twice about it. The forest was vast, and the lake was only a marker, a midpoint between where they’d come from and where they were going. But now—now something hung in the air.

A scent. Subtle. Barely there. But impossible to ignore.

The wind carried it gently at first, threading through the bracken and pine with almost reverent fingers. Minho’s stride faltered, not enough to draw attention, just enough to let the shift ripple through his limbs. He slowed, lifted his muzzle slightly, and breathed in deep.

Lilac.

Wildflowers crushed beneath rain-soaked footsteps. Lightning split through humid skies. And beneath it all, the unmistakable thread of power—Her. It wasn’t strong, but the scent still lingered, soft and persistent, like a dream refusing to be forgotten.

Ahead of him, Hyunjin’s silver form began to slow as well. The Beta turned his head, ears pricking forward and locked eyes with Minho across the clearing. They didn’t speak—not in words. But the exchange was clear. A subtle tilt of Hyunjin’s head. The way his tail stilled, just slightly. The faint tension in his shoulders, like a bowstring drawn and waiting. Minho met his gaze evenly. His mind, even in this form, was calculating. Curious. Not afraid, not exactly. But aware. The scent wasn’t dangerous—yet it had marked the air like a fingerprint, and Minho didn’t ignore fingerprints. Especially not ones that left Hyunjin looking like that.

They held each other’s stare for a heartbeat longer, then Minho gave a slight twitch of his tail and turned forward again, his muscles coiling before he pushed off the earth with silent grace. Hyunjin followed without hesitation, his silver form a blur beside Minho’s darker frame, weaving between trees with practiced ease. The run carried on, fluid and soundless. Paws whispered over stone and root, and though Minho’s body moved with the same effortless grace as always, his mind drifted.

Back to the lake, still and shrouded in fog. Back to the wind, and the way it had shifted, just barely. Back to a presence that didn’t belong. He hated loose ends. Scent trails without faces. Words left unsaid. And this one—this Alpha—was more than a curiosity. They were an imprint. A question curled inside Hyunjin’s silence. One Minho couldn’t ignore. He knew Chan wouldn’t approve. The other Alpha had made his stance clear two nights ago, at the long table where candles burned low. Strangers weren’t to be engaged—not now, not like this.

Minho understood that. He respected it. He respected Chan. But he was an Alpha as well. And there were times when duty meant more than following orders. And tonight, that meant stepping off the path. At nightfall, he’d know who had touched the wind with wildflowers and lilac and why it had changed everything.

The night had fallen with a quiet solemnity that blanketed the forest in silver and shadow. The trees stood tall and unmoving, their silhouettes jagged against a sky spangled with stars. A full moon hung high above the canopy, glowing like a pale eye in the heavens, casting its ethereal light over the dark woods below. The air was still, holding that peculiar crispness only found in the dead of night, and every sound—every flutter of wings, every rustle of leaves—was sharpened in the quiet.

A lone wolf moved silently between the trees.

His coat, thick and dark as the soil beneath him, shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Muscles coiled beneath his fur with each fluid stride, and his breath rose in faint clouds from his snout, evaporating as soon as it met the cold night air. Eyes like molten amber flicked from shadow to shadow, focused yet alert, as if expecting something to rise from the dark at any moment.

Minho.

Even in his wolf form, the name lived within him. A heartbeat. A thought. A tether to who he truly was beneath the fur and fang. His paws barely made a sound against the soft earth, the thick blanket of pine needles and moss muffling each step. He moved like a phantom—silent, swift, and solitary. And yet, unlike the many times before when he had taken this form, there was something… different tonight. Something he couldn’t shake off, no matter how deep he buried it under instinct, scent and the rhythm of running. A strange tension clung to his spine, like static before a storm. Excitement?

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t explain it. There was no danger he could sense. No prey he hunted. But something within him stirred with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. His thoughts—wild and scattered in this form—kept circling around the same memory. The same scent. Her. The girl.

The one Hyunjin had spoken of in hushed tones and lingering looks. The one John had sold the old cabin to—the same cabin Minho was now moving toward with an urgency he couldn't fully justify. The forest grew denser as he moved further from the path. The trees leaned closer together, their branches tangled like clasped hands, allowing only thin slashes of moonlight to filter through. Shadows danced on the undergrowth as he weaved his way deeper into the woods, his breath coming a little faster now. His ears flicked back for a moment—something in the night whispered to him. Not words, not danger. Just… presence. The forest always spoke, in its own way. Tonight, its voice was hushed and reverent, like it too waited for something to happen.

Minho slowed as he approached a rise in the land. He paused at the crest of a small hill, his body low, ears high, nostrils flaring. The scent was faint, carried on the breeze—woodsmoke, pine, something soft beneath it. Something human. His heart thudded in his chest. He hadn’t realized how fast it was beating until now.

Carefully, he crept forward, the soil damp beneath his paws. He moved like a shadow between the trunks, eyes trained on the thinning line of trees ahead. Then—

A glimmer.

Faint, golden light flickered through the distant branches. There it was. The cabin.

It appeared slowly, revealed piece by piece as he crept closer—first the stone chimney, then the slanted roof, and finally the wooden frame that sat like a lonely sentinel at the edge of the forest. The warm glow from the window spilled across the clearing, a stark contrast to the cool silver of the moonlight. It looked… out of place here. Like a dream. Or a memory. Minho stopped just beyond the treeline, half-shrouded in shadow. His breath caught. Something about the sight stirred something deep within him—an ache, almost. Not pain. Not longing. But something adjacent to both. A memory not his own. A thread tugging at his instincts.

He had never seen the place before. Not in person. And yet, standing here, staring at the cabin with its golden window and smoke curling from its chimney, he felt as though he’d been here a hundred times before. As though something waited for him inside. As though someone did. His ears swiveled forward, and he took another step. Then another. The light from the window cast a soft glow over the front porch, illuminating a worn wooden door and the old rocking chair beside it. There was movement inside—soft, barely perceptible shadows shifting behind the curtains. Someone was there. Awake.

Minho’s tail flicked once behind him. He should leave. He told himself that.

There was no reason to be here. Not really. But something stronger had pulled him here, something that had nothing to do with logic or reason. The scent again—subtle, but unmistakable. Warm. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be.

Her.

He lowered his body to the earth, lying down just at the edge of the trees, eyes fixed on the cabin. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud, as if afraid the night itself would betray his presence. His ears twitched, catching the faint sounds from inside—the creak of floorboards, the low hum of a voice. A song, maybe. Or a whisper. Time passed slowly. The moon had climbed higher, casting silver light like spilled milk across the forest floor. Crickets sang somewhere in the distance, their steady rhythm weaving into the pulse of the woods. Minho remained still. He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

But he waited.

The night wrapped around him like a second skin, cool and constant. His heartbeat had slowed, but the tension remained—a coiled thing beneath his ribs. Why did this matter? Why couldn’t he look away? He blinked, slowly. His gaze softened as he watched the window, the way the curtain moved slightly with the breeze from inside. The glow from the fire flickered and shifted, casting shadows against the glass.

And for a moment—

A silhouette appeared. A figure standing by the window. Feminine. Still. Minho’s breath hitched.

Her?

He couldn’t be sure. But something in him surged forward, instinctually, pulling him to his feet. He took a step out from the shadows, one paw crunching lightly on the frosted grass. The figure turned slightly. Minho froze. Golden light spilled over the figure’s face, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of soft features and eyes that seemed to stare directly into the trees. Maybe at him. She didn’t move. Neither did he. For a long heartbeat, everything was still.

Then the curtain fell back into place, and the figure was gone.

Minho stood alone again, half-shadowed beneath the moonlight. His heart pounded now, thundering in his chest like a war drum. His breath came faster, shallow. His body trembled—not from cold, but from something he couldn’t name. Something that left his limbs restless and his mind hazy.

He backed away slowly, vanishing once more into the shadows of the forest. But he didn’t run. Not yet.

He circled the clearing at a distance, eyes still locked on the light in the window, watching. Waiting. Wondering what it was about this place—about her—that stirred something so primal in him. And why it scared him as much as it thrilled him. He stayed until the firelight dimmed. Until the forest was still again. Until only the moon bore witness to the lone wolf who watched from the shadows, silent and waiting, heart thudding with something that felt very much like fate.

And then—

A sound cut through the silence like a blade.

A low, rising howl in the distance. Raw. Sharp. Familiar. Minho stiffened. His ears turned toward the sound before his head did, body going tense from snout to tail. His eyes widened—just slightly—but the recognition hit him fast and deep, like a spark catching dry kindling.

Chan.

There was no mistaking it. No other wolf sounded like that. No other voice carried that weight, that authority, that ache. Even from this far, Minho heard it in every note—heard the disappointment layered beneath the warning.

Chan had found his trail. And worse—Chan knew.

The howl faded slowly into the night, but the silence that followed was heavier than before. Thicker. As if the forest, too, was holding its breath. Minho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Because something in that howl hadn’t just been a message—it had been a question. Not shouted, not screamed, but spoken in that quiet, restrained way Chan always used when he was trying not to be angry. When he still wanted to believe in you, even when he shouldn’t.

Why?

He turned his head slowly, eyes drifting back to the cabin—its windows now dark, its glow extinguished. Only the memory of her face lingered in his mind, soft and half-lit, like moonlight through mist. He could still feel the pull.

The part of him that had come here out of instinct—or maybe something deeper—still hummed beneath his skin. But now it was tangled with something else: guilt. His tail lowered. His ears twitched. Another howl rang out—not a warning this time, but a command.

Come back.

Short. Sharp.

Minho looked away from the cabin. He felt the weight of it behind him. The memory of warmth. The imagined scent of her skin, her voice. The impossible familiarity of a girl he hadn’t even met. His chest tightened. Then, slowly, he turned—muscles bunching beneath fur, paws moving quiet over the moss—and slipped back into the darkness of the trees. He didn’t run. He didn’t need to.

Chan knew exactly where to find him. And for the first time in a long time, Minho wasn’t sure what he would say when he did.

The walk back felt longer. Not in distance, but in weight.

The forest behind him whispered with the memory of a howl that still lingered in the back of his mind. Chan hadn’t needed to say anything—Minho had heard everything in the call alone. A warning, perhaps. A tether tightening. A reminder of what it meant to lead, not just to chase instincts through the trees.

The moon still hung high above, silver and solemn. The air had cooled further, brushing bare skin with fingers like cold silk as he shifted back into his human form near the outskirts of the property. His bones cracked into place with quiet familiarity, fur retreating into skin, claws curling back into fingers. He stood still for a moment, breath steaming in the air, heart beating slower now—though not steady.

He reached for the clothes he’d stashed earlier, pulling them on without much thought. Shirt, pants, boots. The human shell felt more constricting than it usually did, as though some part of him hadn’t quite left the forest behind.

By the time he stepped onto the porch of the old cabin, the sky had begun to fade from deep sapphire to something closer to black. The stars still burned like frostfire overhead, but the quiet hum of night had settled. No more sounds from the woods. No more wind. Just the hush of a world sleeping. Except inside, the fire still burned. Minho stepped quietly through the door, letting it close with barely a click. The cabin was warm, dimly lit by the flickering remains of a hearth that had almost given up its light. Shadows clung to the corners like dust, and for a moment, Minho thought everyone had gone to bed.

But then he saw him.

Chan sat in the armchair closest to the fireplace, an old, half-drunk mug of tea resting on the floor beside him. His elbows were on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head bowed slightly in thought. He didn’t look up right away, but Minho knew he’d heard him. Of course he had. They didn’t speak. Not at first. The fire popped softly, one last gasp of heat before it collapsed into glowing coals. In the silence, Minho could hear the distant groan of floorboards upstairs. A sigh of wood and sleep.

Finally, Chan lifted his head.

Their eyes met across the flickering light. No anger in that gaze—no sharpness, no heat. Just something quieter. Heavier. Disappointment was quieter than rage. Minho exhaled, a breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a confession. He dragged a hand through his hair, damp still from the run, and let his gaze fall to the embers before shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know why I did it,” he said softly. “I didn’t plan it. I just… found myself walking. And then I didn’t stop.” Chan said nothing. “Maybe it was curiosity,” Minho continued. “Or maybe something else. Ever since Hyunjin came back and told us about her… I couldn’t stop thinking about it." Chan’s lips pressed into a thin line. His hands folded tighter. Minho looked back up at him. “It didn’t feel wrong. Not until I heard you.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Chan said at last. His voice was rough, hoarse with tiredness and thought. “I just… I hoped you wouldn’t.” There was no judgement in the words. Just honesty. And perhaps a touch of weariness. Minho lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, mirroring Chan without meaning to. “You think I made a mistake.” “I think,” Chan said slowly, “she came here for a reason. She didn’t ask for this. Didn’t want it. You saw the way she lived—quiet, away from everything. No scent trails, no markings. She is careful. Purposeful.” “She is hiding,” Minho said. “She's protecting her peace,” Chan corrected gently. “And now she knows she’s not alone out here anymore. What happens if she sees that as a threat?”

Minho didn’t answer.

“Maybe it’s not about you,” Chan said, eyes flickering with the last light of the fire. “Or Hyunjin. Or me. Maybe it’s just about her. And maybe she doesn’t want anything to do with us.” Minho clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. “But what if she needs something? What if she’s not okay? You heard Hyunjin when he talked about her. He’s changed since that night. Like she stirred something up in him he’s been trying to bury for years.”

Chan tilted his head slightly. “And you think you can fix that for him?”

“No,” Minho said. “But I had to see. Just once.”

“And did you?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then maybe that’s for the best.”

Silence again.

The colas cracked low, an echo of warmth fading into memory. Minho stared at it, thinking about the quiet of the woods, the scent of wildflowers and lilac, the light in the trees. The glimpse of a world just out of reach. He hated leaving things unfinished. Hated questions without answers. But more than that, he hated the idea of disturbing someone who had chosen solitude with such care. Even if a part of him still burned with the desire to know.

“I’m not going back,” he said finally. “Not unless she comes to us.” Chan nodded, slow and solemn. “Good.” Minho leaned back, head resting against the edge of the couch, his eyes closed. He was tired now, the weight of the run, the conversation, the choices pressing into his bones. The scent of something indescribable clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, the air. A long moment passed.

“Did Hyunjin know you’d go?” Chan asked quietly.

“No,” Minho said. “But I think he’ll know I did.”

“Then you should tell him before he asks.”

“I will.”

Chan stood slowly, his joints stiff, his eyes shadowed. He reached down for the cold mug and carried it to the sink without another word. The sound of water filled the cabin briefly. Then silence. He turned back to Minho, offering him a look that was neither approval nor blame. Just understanding. “We all carry the same weight,” he said. “But we don’t always carry it the same way.” Then he turned and made his way toward the stairs, disappearing into the darkness above.

Minho sat a while longer.

Alone now, save for the fire and the silence and the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Outside, the stars still watched from a thousand miles away.

And somewhere in the woods, a presence waited. Unseen. Unknown.

But no longer untouched.

taglist: @shoganaiiii, @h0rnyp0t, @maddy24207, @ihrtlix, @alisonyus, @poody1608, @emogril

masterlist | prologue | chapter I

[chiming-bluebells]

༘⋆ ꙳ TERABITIA ; 998 anno domini. ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚｡

˖˙ ᰋ ⋆ ˚ ⊹ യ *◞ ˚ ꕀ .*

CLOVES & SAGAS ꕤ distant rolling thunder echoes throughout the kingdom of terabitia; the scent of incoming summer rain permeates the air. the princess is restless, pressing clove after mind-numbing clove into the skin of the orange resting in her hand. next to her, kamaria sits with a well-loved copy of ”terabitian chronicles” perched open on her lap. voice mellow as she reads.

chapter i. ANCIENT LAND : terabitia -land of the mystics- is the kingdom where art, magic and storytelling shapes the very fabric of its society. the nation flourishes in imagination; it is a place where music and poetry are considered just as vital as breath, where emotions are not suppressed but welcomed as sources of strenght, and where the soil itself seems to hum with an ancient, divine energy. the capital, edrasil, is home to painters, troubadours, sorcerers, and the prophesised princess: born from a star.

chapter ii. FRAGMENTS OF ITS SOUL : ⋆ a love which is ancient and sacred ⋆ to see the unseen ⋆ creation is magic ⋆ whispering forests ⋆ sanctuary ⋆ cascading waterfalls ⋆ vibrant meadows ⋆ fairytale quests ⋆ grand adventures ⋆ dancing fairies and morning mist ⋆ portals to other worlds ⋆ past lives ⋆ confide in the stars, the moon, and the sun, for they will guide you ⋆ innate divine knowledge ⋆ vast oceans and sinking islands ⋆

chapter iii. MELODIES , HYMNS :

*◞ opening titles by david arnold

*◞ constellation by aurora, vincent diamante

*◞ endless dreamless by aspidistrafly, haruka nakamura

*◞ romantic flight by john powell

ib the lovely @elysian-fawn ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

[arcana-greenleaf]

Ok, ok, I hope you don't mind another. Your writing is just amazing and the way you write the characters is just PERFECTION!!

I've had this one idea floating around and I'm itching to share it!

A girl ends up in Volterra after deciding to go on a solo trip. She's mated to either Alec or Demetri or maybe even Felix(I'm open!) BUT the twist is this: she is Aro's great(however far down the line) niece. I'm thinking something about her triggers his memories of his human family(I know Marcus was with his sister but I'm thinking one sibling survived and stayed human).

I'd love for her to be a bookwormish type of girl again, maybe she traveled there to see the historic sites or something and ends up being pulled into something supernatural!

I hope this makes sense! I appreciate all you've done so far! 😭😭😭

Hey hey!! I’m so sorry for the long wait I got super busy with exams, Valentine’s Day, and some family things. Hopefully, this chapter meets your expectations! As a history student, I really enjoyed writing the historical elements hehe. :) I focused mostly on Aro and his long-lost niece because I loved the concept and wanted to establish it properly, but I’m totally open to doing a part two where I explore the romance between the reader and their chosen character. That’s all from me for now and thank you so much for requesting, as always! <3<3

The cobbled streets of Volterra were everything she had dreamed of. Ancient, winding, whispering with the ghosts of the past. Ivy clung to weathered stone, the scent of fresh bread and aged parchment drifted from open-air cafés, and the warm Tuscan sun bathed the city in gold. She adjusted her glasses, brushing a stray curl from her face as she studied the guidebook in her hands. She had spent years dreaming about this solo trip, pouring over history books, sketching maps in the margins of her notebooks. It was an escape and an indulgence in everything she loved. History. Literature. The stories that old places told if one only listened closely enough. And Volterra, one of Italy’s most ancient cities, promised plenty of stories. The city was steeped in history, dating back to the Etruscans. She had always found herself drawn to ruins, to places where the past lingered in the air. This was her chance to walk in the footsteps of scholars and poets, of conquerors and commoners, of those long forgotten yet eternally present in the walls that surrounded her. She had spent the morning exploring the Museo Etrusco Guarnacci, marveling at the funerary urns and their intricately carved lids depicting figures frozen in time.

Now, she wandered aimlessly, allowing the city to guide her. What she never imagined was stepping into a story of her own. The feeling started subtly at first – a prickle on the back of her neck, the uncanny sensation of being watched. She dismissed it as the natural unease of being alone in a foreign place, but the weight of unseen eyes never left her. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, but the bustling streets carried only tourists and locals, none of whom paid her any special attention. Still, the feeling persisted. She chalked it up to paranoia. Or maybe jet lag. She had barely slept the night before, too giddy with excitement. That, combined with the heavy heat, was bound to play tricks on her mind. Her feet led her through the Piazza dei Priori, the heart of the city. She let her fingers trail along the cool stone of an archway, pausing before an iron-wrought gate leading into what she assumed was an administrative building. The emblem above it was an ornate crest that drew her in, the design strangely familiar in a way she couldn’t place. She turned away, intending to continue her exploration, when she collided with something, or rather someone, solid. A chill raced down her spine. The man before her was unnaturally still, his crimson eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. He was tall, statuesque, with dark hair and an aristocratic air that made him seem like he had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. “I- ” she began, but the man tilted his head, lips curving in a way that sent every nerve in her body on high alert. “Interesting,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “You have quite the resemblance to someone.” As he spoke she could feel it – some tether snapping into place, something irrevocable settling in the marrow of her bones. His gaze darkened, nostrils flaring as if drinking in her very essence. She didn’t understand the weight of the moment, but he did. “You should come with me,” he said, voice gentle, but there was no mistaking it for anything but a command. She took a step back. “Excuse me?” Before she could blink, another figure materialized beside the first, this one even more regal, draped in flowing black robes. His skin was translucent, his long fingers steepled in thought as he studied her. “Aro,” the first man murmured, as though she were an offering presented before a king. The second man, Aro, gazed at her in silence. Then as if compelled he reached for her hand. She jerked back on instinct, but something in the way his expression flickered made her pause. “You…” Aro whispered, his voice barely audible. His crimson eyes burned with something she couldn’t name. “I know you.” A cold dread settled in her stomach. “That’s impossible.” Aro’s lips curled into a knowing smile, and in that moment, she knew her fate had already been sealed. She had come to Volterra to touch history. She hadn’t expected history to touch back.

______________________________________________________________

In the hours that followed, she found herself swept away and led through a labyrinth of hidden corridors beneath Volterra. The walls dripped with age and the air was thick with something ancient, something beyond time. She should have been afraid, should have been struggling, screaming, demanding an explanation but instead, she walked in silence, her mind whirring. They finally arrived at a vast chamber where two more men were waiting. The silence in the chamber was suffocating. Aro stood before her, fingers still tingling from the momentary contact with her skin. His expression remained unreadable, though a storm brewed behind his red eyes. He turned slightly, exchanging a glance with Marcus and Caius, who observed the scene with varying degrees of interest. “My dear,” Aro’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea who you are?” The question sent a shiver through her. “I’m just… me,” she answered hesitantly. “I came here for a vacation, to see the historical sites.” Aro let out a low chuckle, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, fate is truly a fascinating thing.” He stepped closer, tilting his head. “You are more than a tourist. You carry the blood of my family, the last thread to a past long buried.” She shook her head, heart hammering. “That’s not possible.” “Oh, but it is.” His voice was velvet and as he circled her his robes whispered against the marble floor. “Centuries ago, before I chose this life, before immortality, I had a family. A sister.” His eyes darkened. “She did not join me on this path. She remained human. And her bloodline, it seems, has endured the test of time.” The words hit her like a blow. Aro, this ancient, powerful being was claiming her as kin. “You are my descendant, my blood,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary.” The weight of his words sank in, a dizzying sensation overtaking her. Her entire reality had shifted in an instant. She wasn’t just another tourist. She wasn’t just a visitor admiring Volterra’s beauty. She was tied to something far older, far darker than she had ever imagined. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe. This had to be a mistake. “I don’t-” She struggled to form the words, to make sense of the impossible. “I don’t understand. How can you be sure?” Aro’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, but there was something almost wistful in his expression. “My dear, I have seen many things in my years but there are certain truths one does not question.” He lifted a pale hand, as if tempted to touch her again but refrained. “When I took your hand, I saw pieces of the past, fragments of what once was. The resemblance alone is uncanny, but the blood… it does not lie.” Marcus, who had been watching in silence, shifted slightly in his throne. His expression was unreadable, yet his eyes bore into her with a depth that made her uneasy. “It has been a long time since Aro has spoken of his human ties,” his voice barely above a whisper. “This is… unexpected.” Caius, on the other hand, did not look as pleased. His lips curled in distaste, his crimson gaze sharp with suspicion. “Blood does not always make one family,” he murmured barely sparing her a glance. “What does it matter? She is human. Fragile.” Aro didn’t seem perturbed by his Caius' dismissiveness. Instead, he clasped his hands together, his eyes still locked onto her. “Oh, but this changes everything, dear Caius. She is the last of my mortal lineage. A thread connecting me to the past I had thought lost forever.” His voice filled with admiration, and it made her stomach twist. The sheer gravity of the situation was suffocating.

This morning, she had been an ordinary traveller exploring the streets of an ancient city, marvelling at its history. Now, she was standing in the heart of something far older, something secret and dangerous. “I- I don’t know what you want from me,” she admitted, voice unsteady. “I’m not… I’m not special.” Aro chuckled, shaking his head as if the very idea amused him. “Oh, but you are, dear one. You are proof that my past did not die with my humanity. You are a living remnant of a life I thought lost to the sands of time.” His gaze softened, something almost warm flickering in his ancient eyes. “And I would see you protected.” Protected. The word rang in her ears like a warning. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Protected,” she echoed warily. “From what?” Aro exchanged a glance with Marcus before answering. “From the world, my dear. And from those who might seek to exploit what you are.” A chill ran down her spine. “And what exactly am I?” Aro stepped closer, his presence both commanding and unnerving. “You are my kin,” he said simply. “And that is not a thing I take lightly.” She searched his face for any sign of deception, for some hint of ulterior motive, but all she found was certainty. Whatever this was, whatever he saw in her, he truly believed it. And that terrified her. Alec and Felix, who had been standing in silent observation after entering the chamber, finally moved. Alec’s curious gaze lingered on her. Felix, on the other hand, exhaled sharply and smirked. “So, what now?” he asked, his deep voice breaking the tension. “Do we add ‘long-lost niece’ to the official Volterra records?” Caius scoffed. “This is a distraction.” Aro only smiled, clearly unfazed by his displeasure. “This is an opportunity,” he corrected smoothly. Then, turning his full attention back to her he gestured toward the grand chamber. “You must be exhausted, my dear. We have much to discuss, but you will need time to process all you have learned.” She hesitated. Was that an order or a suggestion? Her body screamed for rest, for a moment to breathe and process the sheer impossibility of what had happened. But the logical part of her mind, the part that still clung to reason, knew she wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Maybe not ever. With a deep breath, she nodded. “I… I think I need to sit down.” Aro’s smile widened, his crimson gaze gleaming with something unreadable. “Then allow me to extend my hospitality, dear one. You are, after all, family.” And as the doors to the chamber closed behind her, she knew with unsettling certainty that her life would never be the same again.

[theskywithin]

🌙 Your Natal Moon Phase in The Houses

🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

🌑 New Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House You are the beginning itself. A life written in fresh ink, a presence that stirs things without trying. Your identity isn’t fixed, it’s unfolding, instinctual, and undefined. You don’t wear a mask. You are the raw material before the face is formed. People feel your becoming even before you do.

2nd House You begin again through your worth. Each desire, each possession, each thing you hold becomes part of the foundation you’re learning to build. You weren’t handed self-worth, you’re here to grow it from the soil up, learning to trust your value not because it’s proven, but because it exists.

3rd House The beginning lives in your voice. Words carry sparks. Thoughts arrive like first breaths, not yet shaped by the world. Your emotional rhythm is tied to how you speak, connect, question. You’re not here to echo, you’re here to name things for the first time.

4th House You carry emotional roots still searching for soil. Family may feel like an unfinished chapter or one you’re rewriting from the start. Home isn’t something you come from, it’s something you become. Your private world holds the blueprint for everything that will one day feel whole.

5th House You begin through expression, not performance, but creation. Joy feels new every time you touch it. Love, too. There’s something unpracticed in how you give your heart, as if every time is the first. You’re here to discover what lights you up, not to master it, but to marvel at it.

6th House You begin through service, through routine, through the small sacred things. Your emotional rhythm aligns with daily devotion, not to others, but to balance. You’re not here to fix. You’re here to care. For your body. Your rhythms. Your quiet revolutions. This is how you root your purpose.

7th House Every relationship feels like a mirror freshly wiped. You weren’t born to repeat stories, you’re here to write new ones with others. Connection comes with a soft urgency. You want to begin something together, to build from shared silence. You learn who you are each time you say “we.”

8th House Your emotional beginnings often feel like endings. You start where others stop, in the deep, the hidden, the unseen. Transformation isn’t a phase for you. It’s an origin. You came here to begin again after collapse, to claim intimacy not handed to you, to rise from what you release.

9th House Your new beginning lives in the unknown. Truth isn’t something you inherit, it’s something you chase, question, and become. You learn by living, not by reading. Belief is born inside your body. The more you move, the more you remember who you are. Faith is your compass, even when lost.

10th House You are here to begin again in the light. Not to repeat success stories, but to build a new legacy from your own emotional truth. Recognition may come later but what you build carries the emotional signature of someone who started with nothing but vision. You were born to rise without a script.

11th House You begin in the future. The way you dream, the way you gather, the way you belong, it all feels like you're building something that hasn’t been seen before. Community is your rebirth space. You teach others how to care differently. And you remind them that hope is still possible.

12th House Your beginning is invisible. It lives behind the veil, between dreams and memory, between lifetimes. You carry the ache of something forgotten and the whisper of something not yet born. Solitude holds your keys. And in your silence, whole worlds are being rewritten.

🌒 Crescent Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You carry the face of someone still stepping into themselves. Confidence comes in whispers, not declarations. You wear your becoming like a second skin that doesn’t quite fit yet, not because you’re broken, but because you’re not done unfolding. There is beauty in the hesitation. Power in the pause before the roar.

2nd House

You were born with your hands half-open, wanting to hold something real, but unsure what counts. You crave stability and mistrust it at the same time. Your worth lives underground, blooming in slow, unseen ways. There’s tension in the soil, a quiet push to believe you are allowed to have more than just enough.

3rd House

Your voice holds the sound of unfinished thoughts. You question everything, even yourself, and sometimes get lost in the maze of your own meaning. But there is brilliance in your wondering. You are the in-between, the conversation that bridges silence and revelation. Every word you speak is an act of becoming.

4th House

You were born with echoes in your blood. Family may feel like a story told in a language you’re still learning to understand. You long to feel safe, yet part of you always hovers just above the ground. Home is something you grow into. Emotional roots come slow, like trust, but once they take, nothing can shake you.

5th House

You chase joy like it’s always turning a corner just before you reach it. Creativity, love, expression, they call to you like a melody you almost remember. You fear your light and crave it in the same breath. But when you allow yourself to shine, even just a little, the whole room changes shape.

6th House

You carry a quiet war between control and surrender. You try to hold it all together, but some part of you knows the cracks are holy. Perfection is your armor, tenderness is your truth. You are learning that devotion doesn’t have to mean depletion. You don’t need to be flawless, just real.

7th House

Every relationship feels like a mirror in mid-polish, reflective, but a little blurry. You want connection that feels safe, but also transformational. You may hesitate to give too much, fearing you’ll disappear inside it. But every time you meet someone halfway, you bring more of yourself into focus.

8th House

You were born in a place where most people end up only after they've broken. You sense the undercurrents, the motives behind the words, the grief beneath the smiles. Intimacy feels like a labyrinth. But you are not here to avoid the dark. You are here to move through it and come back with gold.

9th House

You carry a compass that trembles even when you stand still. Belief doesn’t come easy, but you crave it like water in a desert. You are drawn to things that challenge you, not because you need answers, but because the questions make you feel alive. One day, you’ll look back and realize: you were the path all along.

10th House

You feel called to rise, even when you don’t know where “up” leads. You measure yourself by visions you haven’t reached yet. Legacy haunts you like a promise, both gift and burden. But you are here to build slowly, truthfully. What you create will not be loud but it will last.

11th House

You long to belong, not just anywhere, but somewhere that feels real. Crowds can feel like static. Friendships, like questions. But your soul knows how to find the others. The ones dreaming, doubting, building something better. You don’t just fit in, you form what others will later follow.

12th House

You were born in the in-between, part dream, part memory, part sky. There’s something unfinished in your spirit, like a story you’re still trying to wake from. You carry the ache of other lifetimes, and the medicine for this one. Your solitude isn’t a prison, it’s a portal. And one day, it will open.

🌗 First Quarter Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You are the storm before the identity settles. There’s a fire in your presence that doesn’t ask for permission, it dares you to choose. Every time you look in the mirror, there’s a different question waiting. You weren’t born to be consistent. You were born to be becoming, especially when it’s loud.

2nd House

You fight for what you call your own, not with fists, but with endurance. Value doesn’t come wrapped in comfort here. It comes through tension: between having and losing, between craving and claiming. The world won’t always give you permission to feel secure. So you build it yourself, brick by brick, with hands that remember lack but refuse to live in it.

3rd House

Your thoughts are torn between silence and sharpness, too full to hold, too electric to ignore. Words become weapons, questions become quests. You weren’t born with peace of mind, you were born to disrupt, to reframe, to ask the thing no one else dares to name. Language is your battle cry. Truth is your war.

4th House

You are the crack in the foundation that lets light through. Home was never just comfort, it was confrontation. You carry family like a stormcloud in your chest, half memory, half resistance. The past is both anchor and burden. But your roots were made to split the ground open and grow something new.

5th House

Your light has teeth. Joy isn’t gentle here, it’s defiant. You don’t create to please, you create to survive. Love feels like a dare. Expression, like a revolution. Every time you open your heart, something breaks. But every break reveals more color than the world knew it could hold.

6th House

There is a war between your soul and your schedule. You want control, but your spirit keeps interrupting you with aches, with dreams, with the kind of unrest you can’t pencil in. You battle for balance daily. Not because you’re weak, but because you care enough to keep trying. Healing isn’t a task, it’s a threshold.

7th House

You don’t fall into relationships, you collide with them. There’s friction in your “we,” a push-pull of devotion and defiance. Love asks too much. Love gives too much. You live in the tension. But in that fire, you shape a new kind of union, one that doesn’t silence the self to keep the peace.

8th House

You are the pressure in the room that no one can name. You’ve been handed other people’s pain and told to alchemize it without a map. Intimacy shakes you. Power draws you. Nothing is neutral. Your emotional growth begins where others are too afraid to dig. You weren’t born to play it safe. You were born to rise from the wreckage, holding gold in your teeth.

9th House

You challenge gods with your questions. You rip apart old truths just to feel the thrill of rebuilding them in your own language. Faith and freedom pull you in opposite directions, but you refuse to choose. Your journey is one of rebellion and return. Of burning the map and drawing a better one.

10th House

You are ambition dressed as resistance. The world sees strength, but underneath, there's a constant negotiation between visibility and vulnerability. You crave to be seen, but not claimed. To lead, but not lose yourself in the process. Your legacy will be born from this tension, not in spite of it.

11th House

You walk into rooms and feel the electricity of what could be. The future isn’t a concept, it’s your battlefield. You don’t just want to belong. You want to redefine belonging. To build a kind of community that makes room for contradiction, for wildness, for truth. You are the friction that wakes the collective from its sleep.

12th House

You fight invisible wars. There is a restlessness in your soul that even dreams can’t quiet. You carry what others bury, their ghosts, their guilt, their unfinished prayers. But your solitude isn’t weakness. It’s where your strength is forged. You’re not here to escape the world. You’re here to remake it from the inside out.

🌔 Waxing Gibbous Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You walk through the world half-formed, but already performing. People meet your surface, but never see the editing process underneath, the constant shaping, refining, correcting. You’re not trying to impress. You’re trying to arrive, fully, finally, and in your own image. Every glance feels like a mirror. Every step, a rehearsal for the version of you that might feel just right.

2nd House

You fine-tune your relationship with stability like a musician tuning an old string, listening, adjusting, listening again. What you call yours is never just a possession. It’s a reflection of effort, discipline, proof. But the weight of needing to be enough can make everything feel conditional. You are learning to trust value even when it’s silent.

3rd House

You don’t just speak, you craft. Every word you choose is weighed against what it could’ve been. Thought becomes obsession, conversation becomes performance. There’s an ache for clarity, a hunger to get it exactly right. You aren’t here to echo. You’re here to distill the noise into something unforgettable.

4th House

Your inner world is under constant renovation. Childhood, family, memory, you return to them like unfinished canvases, repainting scenes until the ache softens. You seek emotional precision in a place built from chaos. There is something magical in the way you try to heal what no one taught you to hold. The roots are tangled, but you water them anyway.

5th House

You love like a sculptor, chipping away at fear until beauty is revealed. Joy isn’t reckless for you. It’s curated. Carefully opened, slowly shown. There’s pressure behind your passion, a quiet voice saying “make it worth something.” But when you let go, when you create for no reason, that’s when the magic stops hiding.

6th House

Your days are choreographed, not to impress, but to manage the tension you carry in your spine. You notice every crack, every flaw, every missed step. Self-worth becomes entangled with output. But beneath the task list is a soul trying to align itself with something meaningful. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to feel like you matter.

7th House

You approach relationships like architecture, carefully constructed, constantly adjusted. You see every imbalance, every shift in tone, and you feel it in your chest. The tension isn’t fear, it’s devotion. You want the connection to work, to evolve, to mean something real. But not everything needs to be fixed. Some things just want to be held.

8th House

You want to understand what lives beneath the surface, but only if you can name it. Intimacy becomes a map you keep trying to redraw. Emotional depth doesn’t scare you. Losing control of that depth does. You peel back layers like someone afraid of what they might not be able to put back. But you were never meant to stay intact.

9th House

You challenge every belief you hold the second it feels too certain. Your faith is always under review. Your truths, rewritten. You learn best on the edge of contradiction, refining not just what you believe, but why. There’s pressure to know more. But your wisdom lies in how you carry the not-knowing.

10th House

You build yourself in public. Every choice feels like it echoes. Every success, a step toward some invisible standard. There’s pressure in the legacy, not to rise, but to rise correctly. You want your story to be flawless. But the truth is, the cracks are what make it worth reading.

11th House

You long for a community that doesn’t just include you, but gets you. And yet, every group feels like a test. You adjust, observe, refine your role like a shapeshifter trying to get it just right. But you weren’t born to blend. You were born to bend the blueprint. To offer a better version of belonging, even if it doesn’t exist yet.

12th House

Your soul is under quiet construction. Behind your silence lives a pressure most people can’t name, the urge to understand the unspoken, to purify the ache. Your inner world is like smoke in a jar: too full, too subtle, too sacred to describe. You don’t just carry emotion. You refine it until it becomes medicine.

🌕 Full Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You live in full exposure. There’s no hiding in you, only contrast, contradiction, and an ache to be fully known. Your identity flickers between performer and witness. Every glance feels like a confrontation. Every day, a stage. But you weren’t born to fade. You were born to reflect the world back in its truest light even when it stings.

2nd House

You measure your worth in moonlight, shifting, honest, unable to lie. You feel the pull between abundance and fear, between needing and deserving. Security is never neutral. It either glows or it aches. You’ve seen both. And still, you choose to stay, to build, to believe you are enough even when the light casts shadows.

3rd House

Your mind is a theater of mirrors. Thoughts bounce. Words echo. Conversations hold weight, even when whispered. You process life out loud, but every sentence contains a secret. Communication is your emotional arena, not to perform, but to reveal. You think in full volume. You speak like truth is trying to get out before the silence wins.

4th House

You carry the full moon in your ribcage. Home isn’t a place for you, it’s a reckoning. Family casts long shadows. Emotion doesn’t sit quietly in the corner, it floods the room. You remember too much. You feel it all. But this emotional intensity is not a flaw, it’s your compass. The pain and the love both point home.

5th House

You love like it’s always the last time. Your joy burns bright, sometimes too bright to hold. Expression feels both freeing and terrifying. Every time you show yourself, it feels like you’re offering your heart in full bloom, no thorns, no guards. But you weren’t meant to dim. You were born to be seen, not for approval, but for truth.

6th House

Your daily life holds deep emotional weather. Every task is tied to something sacred. You don’t just organize, you feel your way through structure. The pressure to hold it all together meets the awareness that something inside is always shifting. The body becomes the battleground for the soul’s intensity. But even chaos becomes ritual when tended with care.

7th House

You see yourself most clearly in the eyes of another and sometimes, that’s the hardest part. Relationships reveal what you hide from yourself. Love feels like both a gift and a mirror. You crave connection, but it often reflects back every wound you thought you buried. Still, you show up. Still, you choose intimacy. That’s your light.

8th House

You feel everything under the surface magnified. Desire. Grief. Power. Loss. Your soul lives at emotional high tide, always sensing what others can’t name. You don’t seek transformation, it finds you. The truth terrifies you and pulls you closer. But what you reveal in darkness becomes someone else’s way out.

9th House

Your beliefs were born in fire. You don’t just have truths, you collide with them. Question them. Illuminate them. Your emotional intensity spills into your philosophy. Faith shouts, sings, wanders. You seek meaning like it’s air. And in doing so, you become the revelation you’ve been chasing.

10th House

You wear your heart in public. Every move feels like a statement. Every role, a stage. Success carries emotion here, pride, pressure, vulnerability, exposure. You crave to be seen fully, not just for what you do, but for who you are beneath it. Visibility is a risk. You take it anyway.

11th House

You carry the weight of the collective in your chest. Friendships aren’t light. Hope isn’t passive. You feel the future calling, and it’s loud. There’s tension between standing out and fitting in but you’ve always been the one who glows at the edges. You don’t just imagine change. You feel it coming through your bones.

12th House

Your soul is a moonlit ocean. Emotions move like tides, pulled by memories you don’t always remember. You live at the threshold of dream and reality, where nothing is fully yours and everything passes through you. Still, you hold space for the unseen. You illuminate what others try to forget. And in the quiet, you become the light.

🌖 Waning Gibbous Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You wear wisdom like weather, visible, shifting, felt before it’s spoken. People sense a story behind your eyes, something that came before this version of you. You are here to reflect more than just personality. You are a walking lesson, a visible truth even when no one asks for it. Being seen is never just about image. It’s about transmission.

2nd House

You carry knowledge that doesn’t need to be proven. It lives in your touch, in what you value, in the way you stay grounded when everything shakes. Others seek what you seem to simply hold. You teach through stability by being the one who doesn’t crumble. Your worth is your message, even when you don’t speak it aloud.

3rd House

You’ve been talking your whole life but it feels more like translation. There’s something old in your voice, something inherited, repurposed, made new. You pass on what you’ve gathered, not just as fact but as echo. The way you speak changes the shape of what’s being said. Your words don’t end. They spread.

4th House

You carry the past like a story you didn’t write but still have to tell. Emotion, lineage, memory, they all live in your bloodstream, asking to be understood. You weren’t born to escape your roots. You were born to transmute them. Your quiet becomes someone else’s healing. Your softness, a legacy.

5th House

You don’t just create, you give birth to meaning. Every love you’ve lost becomes a line in your art. Every joy, a sermon. You teach people how to feel again by showing them what it looks like to burn with beauty. Your creativity is ancestral. Your play is survival. And your presence is proof that light never disappears, it just moves through new forms.

6th House

You carry sacred instructions in your bones. It shows up in the way you tend to what others neglect. In your rituals. In your work. In how you notice what hurts and keep showing up anyway. You don’t need a spotlight, you’re here to offer something usable, something lived. Your wisdom is practical, but that doesn’t make it any less holy.

7th House

You teach people how to love. Not in theory, in practice. In pauses. In presence. In the way you hold space during conflict and still choose softness. You’ve seen what imbalance does. You’ve felt what it takes to rebuild trust. You carry that knowledge into every partnership, and even when it costs you, you leave others wiser than they were before.

8th House

You’ve seen behind the veil. You carry truths that most avoid, emotions that others hide, endings that became beginnings. Your very presence can stir what’s buried in others. You don’t force it, it happens. You are the reminder that nothing hidden stays that way forever. What you’ve survived becomes someone else’s permission to transform.

9th House

You speak in philosophies that feel like memories. People think you’re wise but it’s not about intellect. It’s instinct. You’ve been here before, somehow. You carry a flame that belongs to seekers, teachers, wanderers. You don’t just teach what you know, you ignite what others forgot they believed in.

10th House

You lead by remembering. Not just your story, but the pattern. The reason. The lesson. You don’t chase success, you sculpt it into meaning. People look to you for structure, but what you really offer is clarity. You don’t build empires. You build examples. You show others what integrity looks like in motion.

11th House

You dream in blueprints. You see the long game, the bigger picture, the shift that no one’s ready for yet. You offer visions, not commands. Hope, not certainty. You don’t belong to any one group but you leave every circle better than you found it. Your presence says, “There’s more than this.” And people listen.

12th House

You speak the language of what’s unspoken. You move through emotional realms like a librarian of forgotten dreams. People don’t always understand you but they feel you. Your wisdom isn’t loud. It’s woven. Felt in the spaces between. You don’t teach through facts. You teach through presence. And even your silence heals.

🌗 Last Quarter Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You were never meant to stay who you were. Your identity peels in layers because you’re shedding what the world told you to be. There’s tension in your image, rebellion in your reflection. You weren’t born to be recognized. You were born to be remembered for how deeply you changed mid-scene.

2nd House

You don’t crave stability. You question what it’s built on. Money, value, belonging, none of it feels real unless it’s rooted in your truth. You release definitions of success that were never yours, and let your worth grow wild in the spaces where certainty once stood. You came to break the idea that you have to earn what you already are.

3rd House

You rewrite the language you were given. Words don’t sit still in you, they argue, evolve, demand to be redefined. Thought is your battleground. You question what others accept. You leave behind inherited scripts and carve meaning from contradiction. You don’t just speak, you dismantle.

4th House

You carry a home inside you that doesn’t match the one you came from. Family may feel like a story told through cracked windows. You’re here to break the emotional lineage, to end what’s been repeated, to love without reenactment. Your roots are not your cage. They are your compost. You grow from what you buried.

5th House

You don’t create to entertain, you create to revolt. Art becomes a reckoning. Love, a risk. Joy, an act of rebellion. You challenge the idea that pleasure must be polished, that expression must be palatable. You light fires inside the things meant to make you smaller. And when you dance, the ground remembers how to move.

6th House

You question every routine. Structure becomes a skeleton you rebuild with care. Work, wellness, obligations, they’re not just tasks. They’re systems. And systems are meant to be interrogated. You’re here to rewrite what service means. To undo the martyr narrative. To heal in ways that don’t hurt.

7th House

You don’t do partnerships quietly. You challenge the contract. You question the balance. You burn the rules if they ask you to disappear. Love doesn’t scare you, compromise does. But in the undoing, you create space for something real. You’re not here to keep the peace. You’re here to redefine it.

8th House

You are the disruption in the underworld. The one who says, “This ends with me.” You transmute pain into awareness, not just for yourself, but for every story buried beneath the surface. Intimacy, power, secrecy, they all unravel in your hands. You’re not afraid of endings. You live for what begins after them.

9th House

You tear holes in belief systems like skylights. Truth, for you, is not a doctrine, but a journey. You unlearn dogma. You dismantle certainty. You ask better questions than anyone else dares to. Your wisdom isn’t about knowing. It’s about what you’re brave enough to let go of.

10th House

You climb ladders only to ask why they were built. Achievement holds no weight if it requires your silence. You don’t just want success. You want alignment. You’re here to undo the legacy that demands perfection, and write one that honors truth. The world may call it rebellion. You call it responsibility.

11th House

You walk into communities like a controlled burn, clearing space for something better. You don’t fit into systems. You deconstruct them. You aren’t here to follow the vision. You are the revision. The one that says: we can do this differently. Hope is your resistance. And change follows your shadow.

12th House

You dream in dismantling. Behind your softness is a soul that remembers too much and refuses to let it repeat. You’re here to unravel karmic threads, to break invisible contracts, to choose consciousness over comfort. Your solitude isn’t retreat. It’s reconstruction. And your healing is ancestral.

🌘 Waning Crescent Moon Phase in the Houses

1st House

You are the shadow before dawn, the softness before identity forms. People sense something ancient in your eyes, not sadness, but stillness. You weren’t born to be loud. You were born to fade gently into your own truth. Your presence doesn’t scream, it echoes. You show others how to exist without forcing shape.

2nd House

You are learning to release attachment to what can be held. Ownership means little when the soul remembers lifetimes of letting go. Worth, for you, is memory. You aren’t here to gather more. You’re here to simplify, to find wealth in stillness, and to remember that nothing truly belongs to us except what we become.

3rd House

You speak like someone who already knows the ending. There’s a softness in your words, a wisdom in your silence. You aren’t here to argue. You’re here to whisper truth. Thought for you is not linear, it’s circular, dreamlike, threaded with memory from other lives. Your voice is a farewell and a seed at once.

4th House

You are the final echo of your lineage, the one who came to make peace with all the ghosts. Family may feel like both burden and blueprint. But you’re not here to fix the past. You’re here to bless it, bury it, and build something sacred from its ashes. Home is not behind you. It’s what you’re preparing the next soul to remember.

5th House

Your joy comes wrapped in nostalgia. Love, for you, often feels like a goodbye in disguise. You express not to be seen, but to preserve a memory, a feeling, a flicker of truth. Your art is elegy. Your heart, a sacred archive. And when you share it, something eternal awakens in everyone who watches.

6th House

You serve quietly because your soul knows the weight of tending. You move through life like a caretaker of sacred routines. Your healing is not flashy. It’s ancestral. You make space for others to exhale. And though the work is heavy, you carry it like someone who remembers why it matters.

7th House

Your relationships are ceremonies, quiet spaces where something old is laid to rest. You may feel like every connection carries more than just this lifetime. And you’re right. You didn’t come to fall in love. You came to release love from its conditions. To show what it means to choose another soul gently, without needing to hold on.

8th House

You were born with one hand in the underworld. You feel the endings before they begin. Transformation isn’t your arc, it’s your starting point. Death, rebirth, surrender, it’s all familiar. You carry karmic memory in your bones, and your greatest offering is your ability to let go without turning away. What you release, you redeem.

9th House

You’ve walked these roads before. Your beliefs are layered with echoes, not certainty. Faith is a return. You aren’t here to convert or convince. You’re here to share the last page of a truth you’ve carried for lifetimes. Your journey is less about discovery and more about closure. A final breath before the next beginning.

10th House

You were born to complete a legacy. What you do in the world echoes with finality as if tying a thread that others before you couldn’t finish. Success, for you, is sacred closure. You lead not to build something new, but to honor what’s already ending. Your presence is the punctuation mark in a long ancestral sentence.

11th House

You gather people like stories. Each one reflects something your soul remembers, something that needs witnessing before it fades. Your vision for the future isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Subtle. Like smoke curling from a candle that’s just gone out. You’re here to leave a message for the next dreamers. Not to lead them but to bless their beginning.

12th House

You are the veil. The final breath. The dream dissolving into light. Everything about you feels like a farewell, not tragic, but sacred. You were born to return to something beyond form. To carry out the last karmic task. You don’t need to do much, your presence alone completes a cycle. You are not the storm. You are the stillness after it.

🔗 Birth chart breakdown, all in one book :)

[mandoalorian]

echoes of hydra [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: Bucky comes face-to-face with Ross, uncovering a sinister truth that threatens to pull him back into the past he swore he’d never return to. But as he fights to hold onto his freedom, an unseen threat is already closing in. When he returns to your apartment, something is very, very wrong.

Word Count: 3300

Tags/warnings: 18+ employer x employee. no smut in this chapter -- wow, first chapter with no smut, but lots of plot! lots of development. hopefully lots of jaw-dropping moments. please let me know if you enjoy it!

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

The gala was in full swing by the time Bucky arrived. Dressed in a sharp black suit, he walked through the grand ballroom, ignoring the whispers and curious glances thrown his way. He knew what people were saying — most likely talking about the assault and his “rumoured” lover. He wasn’t exactly a welcomed guest in circles like these, but that didn’t matter. Even if Bucky played his card right, his past meant that he would always be an outlier when it came to politics; and that was down to an unforgivable system. Bucky denied a champagne flute and slipped past the few people who made an effort to talk to him. After all, he wasn’t here to make friends.

Ross was the centre of attention, surrounded by political figures, military officials, and wealthy benefactors. Bucky scanned the room, catching sight of Tara, who was eyeing him with thinly veiled suspicion. She wore a sleek, emerald green dress, hugging her curves and her honey blonde hair bounced off her shoulders. It was the first time he’d seen her since Tokyo. Tara offered Bucky a smile, followed by a small wave, but the Congressman just nodded his head in polite acknowledgement. Slipping through the crowds of people, Bucky made his way toward the hallways leading to Ross’ private office.

Two security guards stood outside the door, tall and straight. But they were nothing that Captain America couldn’t make quick work out of. Once the guards were down and hidden, Bucky and Sam slipped into the unoccupied room.

Sam kept watch while Bucky hacked into Ross’ computer. The files he found made his stomach drop. A black budget project—one that used to belong to SHIELD before Hydra infiltrated it. Except now, it was active again, and Ross was making financial transactions straight to Hydra remnants.

Bucky clenched his jaw. Hydra wasn’t dead. It had just changed its face.

And Ross was funding it.

Bucky scrolled through the files, his breath coming out heavier the deeper he dug. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Sam leaned over his shoulder, brows furrowing. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “It’s worse.” He tapped the screen. “These transactions—they’re going directly to Hydra cells. And look at this—” He pulled up another document. “It’s a classified super soldier development program. This is exactly what they did to me, Sam. They’re doing it again.”

Sam exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is bigger than we thought.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists. “We have to shut this down. If Ross is making deals with Hydra, then—”

A noise outside the office made them both go still.

Sam shot him a look. “Time to go.”

Bucky copied as much of the data as he could onto a flash drive before ejecting it and slipping it into his pocket. “We’re not done here,” he muttered.

Sam gave him a knowing look. “Yeah, no shit.”

With that, they slipped back into the gala, acting like nothing had happened—while knowing damn well that everything had just changed.

The gala was a spectacle of excess—golden chandeliers dripping with light, champagne flowing freely, and Washington’s elite mingling in hushed, calculated conversations. Bucky barely had time to scan the room before Tara was on him, again.

“Congressman Barnes,” she greeted smoothly, her voice warm, familiar. Like a trap he hadn’t seen springing shut.

She was stunning in the green silk, the dress skimming her frame effortlessly. There was something about the way she looked at him—soft, concerned, like she wasn’t the same woman who had just weeks ago been flirting with him behind closed doors.

“Tara.” He kept his tone neutral.

She sighed, giving him a small, almost exasperated smile. “Are we really doing this? The cold, distant thing?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Not sure what you mean.”

Tara tilted her head. “You’ve been avoiding me. And don’t tell me you haven’t, because I know when you’re keeping me at arm’s length.”

He exhaled sharply. “I’ve been busy.”

“I know,” she murmured, stepping closer, her fingers grazing his wrist. “That’s why I’m worried about you.”

That caught him off guard. His eyes flickered over her face, searching. Her expression seemed genuine, but now Bucky was unsure about everything. Tara was actually hired by Ross to be Bucky’s campaign manager. He called her “the best in the business”, noting her as a favour to Bucky, but now that Bucky couldn’t trust Ross, he was even more hesitant when it came to his overly flirtatious employee. 

Tara took the opportunity, slipping her hand into his and tugging him gently toward the dance floor. “Just one dance. For old times’ sake.”

He should have said no.

But Tara was good at this—at keeping him on the hook just enough to make him doubt his instincts. She had always been a little too good at reading him, at knowing exactly how to manipulate a situation without making it obvious.

Best in the business.

So, against his better judgment, he let her pull him into a slow waltz.

“You’re good at this,” Tara beamed, her eyes sparkling.

Bucky shrugged. “We did this type of thing a lot back in the 40s.”

“Seemed like an easier time to live in,” Tara replied.

“During the war?” Bucky knotted his eyebrows together. “It was hell. People dying around you and nothing you could do about it, my soldiers… my men…”

“That’s right, you were a Seargent weren’t you?” Tara said. “Strange to imagine you in the whole get up.” She gestured her hands down his body, referring to his militia uniform. “Bet you looked good.”

Bucky scanned the room, looking for Sam, and looking for a quick exit. He didn’t have time for this. 

“Hey, Tara, how would you like to take some time off?’ Bucky proposed.

“Seriously?” Tara choked back a laugh. “I’m your campaign manager, and not to be blunt, but your campaign, if we can still call it that,  is in roaring flames right now. I don’t think I have ever had to deal with such a mess before.” Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, and she peered up at him with something that almost looked like sincerity. “I mean it, Bucky. I’m worried about you.”

He scoffed, keeping his grip firm but careful. “Since when?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Since you started getting reckless. Since you stopped trusting the people who actually want to help you.”

“Help me?” His brows furrowed. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“I know you think I’ve been working against you, but I haven’t,” she insisted, lowering her voice. “If I wanted to ruin you, I could have done it a long time ago.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So why haven’t you?”

Tara swallowed, gaze flickering over his face before she spoke, quiet and careful. “Because I care about you.”

Bucky’s grip on her waist twitched.

She leaned in just a fraction. “And her.”

His breath caught.

Tara took advantage of the hesitation. “I know you think she’s in danger because of me. But it’s not that simple. You and I both know there are bigger players in this than Ross.”

Bucky’s stomach tightened. “What do you know?”

Tara hesitated, then dropped her gaze for a moment, as if debating something. When she looked back up, she was the picture of conflicted loyalty. “I’ve heard things. Things I don’t like. And if you keep digging, you’re going to find yourself in a hole you can’t crawl out of.”

He searched her face, but she was good—so damn good at this. At making him question everything.

Still, his gut told him she wasn’t lying about one thing: whatever was going on, it was bigger than just Ross.

Tara exhaled softly like she had made some kind of decision. “Let me help you, Bucky. I can get you access to things you can’t reach on your own. I can feed you information.”

His fingers curled tighter against her back. “And why would you do that?”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she might actually be telling the truth when she said, “Because I don’t want to see you lose.”

The music swelled around them.

Bucky stared at her, weighing his next words carefully.

Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he murmured, “Fine.”

Tara smiled, squeezing his hand as the song came to an end. “Good.”

As she stepped back, she let her fingers graze against his one last time. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

And then she was gone.

Bucky stood there, pulse hammering, knowing he had just walked into something much more dangerous than he’d realised.

When he turned, Sam was already waiting for him by the bar, arms crossed.

“She’s playing you, man.” He sighed, handing Bucky a glass of whiskey. 

Bucky exhaled sharply. “I know.”

Sam lifted a brow. “Then what’s the plan?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“We let her think she’s winning.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The phone rings a second time, and you hear Bucky’s gruff voice on the other end. He sounds tired, strained.

“Yeah?” he mutters, his tone rough, but there’s a hint of relief.

“You didn’t answer my messages, Bucky,” you snap, unable to hide the frustration in your voice. “You were gone all night, all day… I… I was worried.”

There’s a brief silence on his end. You can hear the faint rustling of paper or something else in the background. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, softer.

“I’m sorry. It was... it was complicated,” Bucky replies, his words measured. “But I’m fine. I’ll explain later.”

You’re not buying it. “No. I need answers now, Bucky. Where were you?” You feel the anger bubbling up, a mix of betrayal and confusion. “You didn’t even text me back.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he finally says, voice low, almost apologetic, but his words still have a cold edge. “But trust me, you wouldn’t want to know the truth about last night.”

Your chest tightens as you hear the unease in his voice, but you can’t understand why he’s being so distant. “Why wouldn’t I? What’s going on, Bucky?”

He’s silent for a moment too long. “I’ll tell you when I can, okay? Just... don’t get involved in this. Please. It’s not what you think.”

The way he says it, the quiet urgency, sends a pang of fear through you. “What are you not telling me?”

“I’m doing this to protect you,” Bucky’s voice cracks ever so slightly, and then he quickly adds, “I have to go.”

Before you can protest, he hangs up, leaving you alone with your racing heart and mounting frustration.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The tension in Ross's office was thick, nearly suffocating. Bucky stood in front of the massive desk, his jaw clenched tight as he stared down at the man who had orchestrated so much of the chaos in his life. Sam was there, close by, but this conversation was one Bucky had to handle himself. Ross was always a master at twisting people, at manipulating them, and Bucky wasn’t sure he could trust anyone else to see through the layers of lies that surrounded him.

Ross finally broke the silence, a calm smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Bucky, I had a feeling you’d come. You've always been a determined one, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t come here for your games, Ross,” Bucky growled, his fists tightening at his sides. “I know about Hydra. I know about the program you're running.”

Ross didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, the dim light from his desk lamp casting a shadow over his face. “Hydra? What do you think we’re doing here, Bucky? It’s bigger than just that. Hydra has a vision, and I’m merely… facilitating it. Helping them with something far more important than the petty battles of the past.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives,” Bucky shot back, his voice low and menacing. “Neo-Hydra is recruiting soldiers. They're testing them, just like they did with me. You’re funding them. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Ross’s eyes flickered with something Bucky couldn’t quite place. He remained calm, however, swirling the ice in his glass of water. “I’m not the one testing anyone, Bucky. I’m keeping the peace. Hydra is out there, and they’ve offered me a way to contain my… condition.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “Your condition?”

Ross’s lips twisted into a small, knowing smile. “Yes, Bucky. My condition. The one that your friend, Sam, knows all too well. I’ve been dealing with gamma radiation poisoning for years now. It’s a little… problematic. But Hydra’s been helping me manage it. They’re giving me medication to keep it under control.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted as he realized the implication. “You mean the serum… the one that turned you into… that?” The last word came out with disgust, referring to Ross’s transformation into the Red Hulk.

Ross shrugged, uncaring, as if the transformation into the Hulk was just another side effect of life. “Yes, that’s the one. I’m not as lucky as you, Bucky. I can’t control it. The medication Hydra provides keeps me from losing control. If they take that away, I’ll die—or worse, I’ll destroy everything in my path.”

“So you’re working with them because you’re afraid?” Sam spoke up, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You’re really willing to sell out for some pills? To let them control you like this?”

Ross’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I have a choice. Hydra is playing their game, and I’m playing mine. They want you, Bucky. They want the Winter Soldier back. They want the ultimate weapon, and they want you to lead their new super soldier program. You’re their golden ticket. You can either join me and help lead it—or you’ll be a liability. A threat.”

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. “You’re telling me they want me to go back? To be their soldier again? I’d rather die than let them have that control over me again.”

Ross’s smile returned, but it was cold, calculating. “That’s the choice you have, Bucky. You either step up and lead Hydra’s army, or they’ll go after everything you care about. I can’t stop them from doing what they want. But you… you can save yourself. And them. If you help us.”

Bucky’s heart pounded. “I’ll never be your weapon again, Ross. Not for you. Not for Hydra. Never again.”

Ross leaned in, his voice lowering, his tone deadly serious. “Then I guess you’ll have to live with the consequences. And trust me, Bucky, they won’t be pretty. I suggest you go pay a visit to someone you care about. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to her… after all, she’s so important to you, isn’t she?”

Bucky’s gut twisted at the insinuation. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ross’ expression hardens. “HYDRA is already watching you. They’ll come for you, and they’ll come for her too.”

Bucky stiffens, the mention of you sending a flash of panic through him. “Touch her, and I’ll burn everything down.”

Ross smirks, knowing he’s hit a nerve. “Then you’ll have to make a choice, Barnes. Help us, or watch everything you care about crumble.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Bucky’s footsteps echo in the hallway as he approaches the door to the apartment. The familiar scent of the place—your perfume, the faint trace of coffee, the warmth of your presence—hits him as he twists the doorknob. He’s been gone longer than he intended, but the mission is far from over. Sam and him are still on the trail, but Bucky can’t shake the feeling that something is off. His mind races with what Ross said—about you being a target. He pushes the thought away, hoping it’s nothing.

The door swings open with a soft creak, and Bucky steps inside.

The apartment is eerily quiet. The usual comforting hum of city sounds outside the window is muted, and the silence wraps around him like a heavy blanket. The first thing he notices is that the apartment feels... empty. Too empty. The familiar clutter of your things—your books, the shoes scattered near the door, the coffee mug on the counter—are all in place, yet something is missing.

You’re not there.

A cold shiver runs down Bucky’s spine. He steps further inside, his heart pounding louder with each footstep. His eyes scan the apartment, his breath caught in his chest.

The bed is unmade, sheets tangled as though you were abruptly pulled from it. The sight of it sends a rush of panic through him. His hand instinctively reaches for his phone, checking for messages, but there’s nothing. Just a string of texts he never answered.

Bucky’s fingers tremble as he scrolls through the messages from you—texts that were sent when he was with Sam, the ones he had ignored. A low growl escapes his chest when he sees the last one: Where are you? Why didn’t you come back last night? I’m worried.

He swipes the screen off, his mind spinning. Something’s wrong. His body moves on autopilot, the adrenaline already kicking in. He checks the bathroom, the kitchen, each room, but finds nothing out of place. No signs of struggle. No indication of what happened, but the absence of you feels deafening.

His gut tightens, and the gnawing fear is undeniable now.

Bucky strides over to the nightstand, his hand brushing across your belongings—a necklace you’d left there earlier, the book you were reading. His fingers curl around the edges of the book, but he can’t shake the unsettling thought that something’s been taken. Something more than just your presence. Something vital.

She’s gone.

He rips the front door open, his breath quickening. He steps out onto the landing, looking down the hallway like he’s expecting you to be there. But there’s no sign of you. No sign of any struggle. No broken locks, no shattered glass.

She’s been taken.

The realization hits him like a brick. His pulse thunders in his ears as he rushes back into the apartment, his eyes wild as he scans every inch, desperate to find something—anything—that could explain where you are. But there’s nothing. Only emptiness.

Bucky’s chest tightens, his throat closing up as a knot of fear and fury builds inside him. The darkness of what’s coming bears down on him like a wave, suffocating him. He can feel it—the icy grip of HYDRA’s influence. He’d been too late. He’d been reckless. And now, they’ve got you.

“Dammit!” Bucky slams his fist into the wall, the sound of impact reverberating through the quiet room. His mind races, trying to piece everything together. Who would have taken you? Why? Was it Ross? HYDRA?

His thoughts turned to Tara. She’d been at the gala. She had known where he was. She had acted innocent, but Bucky’s gut told him that something was off. The pieces of the puzzle begin to click into place, and he felt a cold rage boil within him.

But none of it matters now. The only thing that matters is finding you.

Bucky takes a deep breath, forcing his pulse to slow down, but the adrenaline won’t stop pounding in his chest. The room spins, and he knows time is running out. They’ve taken you. And he’s going to make sure they regret it.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and dialing Sam’s number, his voice gruff and urgent when he picks up.

“Sam, it’s happening. She’s gone. HYDRA has her.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

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[alohajix]

Marked by Midnight [1]

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight's Masterlist

Summary: in the fog-drenched town of Willowridge, [Y/N] has always felt the pull of the supernatural. She doesn’t know why—only that it thrums beneath her skin, whispers in her blood, and haunts her dreams. She’s spent her life searching for answers, for meaning in the symbols and shadows that call to her… and then she meets him.

Harry Styles is the last living heir of a bloodline the world believes to be extinct. A hybrid born of vampire and wolf, he’s lived in silence, hidden behind the iron gates of Styles Estate, a crumbling estate thick with history, power, and curse. He doesn’t take mates. He doesn’t fall in love. Not anymore.

But fate doesn’t care for rules.

When she stumbles into his world, a bond awakens between them—raw, ancient, irreversible. What begins as curiosity spirals into obsession. And as secrets unravel and darkness rises, one truth becomes terrifyingly clear: she was his long before they ever met, and now… she may never leave.

[Chapter One] Warnings: this chapter contains mild psychological unease, including feelings of being watched, supernatural elements like a mysterious sigil and unseen presence, implied tampering with personal belongings, a subtle fear of the unknown, and emotional isolation as [Y/N] navigates these events alone.

[Chapter One] Words: 4,519

***

Chapter One — The Sigil

The house was quiet. It usually was in the mornings, especially before my aunt woke up, but today it felt different—like the walls were holding something in, or maybe waiting for me to notice. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and maybe I wouldn’t have, if everything else hadn’t felt so normal.

I wrapped both hands around my coffee, the chipped mug warming my fingers. The glaze was cracked near the handle, but I couldn’t bring myself to use anything else. I made it when I was a kid—my aunt still had the matching one, though hers didn’t have the lopsided base or the faded blue streaks that never quite came out right. It was one of those things I held onto, like the books on the shelf or the music I played through the same half-broken earphones. Little things that didn’t matter to anyone else, but kept me steady.

I moved through the morning like I always did, careful not to make too much noise. My aunt liked to sleep in when she could, and I liked having the house to myself for a little while. I opened the window just a crack, letting the cold air curl in and wake me up more than the coffee did. It was colder than yesterday, with that edge of late-autumn that always made the mornings sharper. Familiar. Easy.

I sat where I always did, tucked into the corner near the bookshelf, legs curled under me, notebook in my lap. The pages were half-full of notes, scribbles, thoughts from class or things that stuck with me after reading too long at night. I studied what most people didn’t take seriously—occult sciences, old symbols, the kind of history no one talked about out loud. But it never felt strange to me. If anything, it made more sense than the rest of it.

I didn’t open the notebook right away. I just sat there, earphones resting in my lap, letting the morning settle. The house was still, no creaks from the floorboards or sounds from the street. Just quiet.

But it didn’t feel right.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, or maybe I was just listening harder. I glanced over at it, then to the small table by the window. The photo frame was still face down, exactly where I’d left it. I didn’t need to flip it over—I knew the picture by heart. My aunt, younger then, standing next to my mom. My parents. It’s the only photo I have of them together. I never met them, not really—just stories and that one image, frozen like they’re still here. Like the world hadn’t already taken them before I had the chance to know them.

Some days I wondered if they’d get it—the way I was drawn to things that didn’t make sense to anyone else. The symbols, the old texts, the strange pull I couldn’t explain. My aunt didn’t talk about them much, not more than she had to, but I always felt like there was more she wasn’t saying.

I shook the thought away and finally flipped open the notebook.

It wasn’t where I’d left off.

There, in the corner of the page, just beneath some half-finished notes from class, was a mark I didn’t remember making. Sharp lines, layered in a way that looked deliberate, too precise to be random. I stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the paper, like maybe it would feel familiar if I touched it.

It didn’t.

But still, there was something about it—something I couldn’t pull away from.

I stared at the mark, waiting for something to click. It wasn’t the first time it had shown up—this wasn’t new. I’d seen it before, tucked into the margins of my notes, half-formed in dreams I couldn’t fully remember when I woke up. Sometimes, I thought maybe I’d drawn it without realizing. A nervous habit, a strange piece of something I’d read that stuck. But it wasn’t just a doodle. It never had been.

This time, it felt sharper. Closer.

I ran my fingers over it, slower now, tracing the edges without meaning to, like I was trying to pull something out of the paper. It was still ink, still flat—but it didn’t feel like it. Something about the lines felt… deeper, like they weren’t just written. Like they’d been waiting.

Why now?

I didn’t remember putting it there, not today, not ever. And it wasn’t just the mark. It was the feeling that came with it—this low hum in the back of my mind, steady and constant, like a sound just out of reach. It hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and I was only hearing it now.

The air shifted. Not cold, not sudden. Just… aware. Like the room wasn’t empty anymore, even though I hadn’t heard a sound.

I looked up, eyes flicking to the hallway, then the window. Nothing. Just the same soft light, the same stillness pressing in from all sides. But my skin prickled, and I held my breath without realizing it, waiting for something to move.

Nothing did.

I glanced back at the notebook, but the sigil didn’t change. It just sat there, dark against the page, like it was watching me. Like it had been waiting. Like it knew me.

A sharp pulse ran through me—not fear exactly, but something close. Recognition, maybe. Or the edge of it. Something about the mark stirred a memory—not a clear one, more like a feeling. Like I’d seen it somewhere else, maybe before I ever picked up a pen, maybe in one of those half-formed dreams that slipped away the second I opened my eyes. A place I’d never really been. A voice I couldn’t quite remember. I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt it. Deep. Heavy. Like a name I’d forgotten but was still mine.

Maybe I was overthinking. I did that sometimes—let my mind get ahead of me, especially when things didn’t add up. I wasn’t one of those people who believed in fate or signs, not really. But the longer I stood there, the harder it was to believe this was just… nothing.

The air felt heavier now, pressing against my skin like humidity, though it wasn’t hot. A tightness coiled at the base of my neck, the kind that came just before a storm. The light through the window seemed duller, like the house itself was holding its breath.

My aunt used to say that some things don’t make sense until they already matter. That by the time you ask why, it’s already too late. I’d always thought she meant people, choices. But now I wasn’t so sure.

I shook my head, trying to break the weird weight that had settled over me. This wasn’t anything. It couldn’t be. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I needed to get out, get some air, shake it off before I lost the whole day to whatever this was.

But part of me didn’t believe that. Not really.

I told myself I could leave it here, forget it, just walk away like it didn’t matter. But the thought sat wrong, like a stone in my chest, too heavy to ignore.

I closed the notebook, slower than I meant to, and stood. The floor creaked under my feet—normal, expected—but the sound still made me jump. I told myself it was fine. Just nerves. Just the quiet getting to me.

Still, I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, the old denim one I always wore when I didn’t want to think too hard about what I looked like. The notebook went into my bag without a second thought, the page still burning in the back of my mind, even with it closed.

I lingered by the door longer than I meant to, hand tight on the knob. If I left now, it would be easy to forget. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. But part of me knew, as soon as I stepped out, that nothing was going to be the same when I came back.

I tightened my grip on the doorknob, heart knocking louder now, as if leaving would answer something I wasn’t ready to ask. One step, just one, and I could forget the way the mark still pulled at me from inside the bag. But as I stood there, the house seemed to shift again—not loud, not obvious, just a faint creak behind me, like it had exhaled.

Or like something in it had finally let go.

I stepped outside before I could change my mind.

The air hit me differently than I expected. It wasn’t colder, not exactly, but it bit sharper against my skin, curling down my spine like it was looking for a place to settle. I paused at the edge of the porch, pulling my jacket tighter around me, the weight of the notebook pressing against my hip through the canvas of my bag. It didn’t feel distant now—it felt like it was still open, still pulling.

I hadn’t meant to go anywhere. I told myself that as I took another step, and another. I just needed air. Just a little space. But the pull didn’t ease up. If anything, it got stronger the further I moved away from the house.

I followed the narrow path that curved around the back, past the old fence that never stayed upright for long, and into the edge of the woods. My feet knew the way, but nothing about it felt familiar now. The trees seemed taller, like they’d grown overnight, their branches heavy and close enough to scrape against each other with every shift of the wind. Only… the wind didn’t follow me here. It stopped somewhere behind me, like it wasn’t allowed past the line I’d just crossed.

I glanced back, half-expecting to see something, but the yard was still. The house stood quiet, exactly as I left it, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore.

I turned back toward the woods and kept walking.

The sound changed first. My footsteps didn’t crunch like they should have—not on the leaves, not on the soft dirt that had always marked this trail. Everything dulled, like the world was closing in around me, muffling every step, every breath, every reason I had to turn back.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The path wasn’t clear anymore, but my feet still found it, like it had always been there, waiting for me to follow.

I passed trees I should have known, the ones I used to see every time I came this way, but now they looked older. Worn in a way I couldn’t explain, like they’d been watching for a long time. The air thickened as I moved deeper, the kind of weight that didn’t press from outside but from within, settling into my chest with every step.

I tried to tell myself this was nothing. That it was just a walk, just a way to clear my head. But I didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

A memory flickered—something I’d read once, a line from one of the old texts I kept meaning to return to. “Paths chosen by the heart, not the eyes.” I didn’t remember where I’d seen it, but it stuck now, sharper than before, like it belonged here.

The deeper I went, the quieter it became.

No birds, no wind, not even the rustle of leaves beneath my feet. Just the steady beat of my pulse in my ears and the low hum that hadn’t left me since I’d seen the mark. The kind of quiet that felt deliberate, like something had made it so.

I stopped, hand resting on the rough bark of a tree, trying to catch my breath. I could turn back. Right now, before I went any further. Nothing was stopping me. But even as I stood there, the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Like I’d be missing something. Like I’d already gone too far to pretend I hadn’t.

The trees ahead shifted, pulling back just enough for the path to open wider, and there—just beyond the line where the light didn’t quite reach—I saw it.

The gate.

It wasn’t grand, or new, or even fully intact, but it rose from the ground like it had grown there. Twisted iron, dark and worn, wrapped in ivy and shadow. My breath caught, not from fear, but from recognition. I didn’t need to see the center to know what was there. I could feel it already, humming through the air the same way it had in my notebook.

Still, I stepped closer.

The vines tried to hide it, curling tight through the bars, but the sigil was there. Carved into the metal, sharp and perfect, like it had been waiting for someone to see it. For me to see it.

I reached out, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t have a choice. My fingers brushed the iron—cool, rough, alive—and the hum deepened, wrapping around me like a second skin. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t comfort, either. It was knowing. The kind that didn’t need words.

Something was waiting on the other side.

I stopped again, this time longer, my breath catching in my throat like something wanted to push its way out. The air around me was thick, the kind of thick that made it hard to move, like I was wading through something invisible, heavy. I pressed my hand against the nearest tree, grounding myself, trying to shake the feeling that I was being drawn forward—not by choice, but by something older than thought.

The path ahead darkened slightly, not with shadow, but with stillness. Like light didn’t want to go there. Like sound had already given up.

I could still turn back. My feet hadn’t crossed yet. I could leave this—all of it—pretend it was a mistake, a strange dream I hadn’t fully woken from.

But I didn’t. Because even though I didn’t know what was ahead, part of me already knew it was meant for me.

And that scared me more than anything.

The gate opened without a sound.

No creak of iron, no rust flaking off the hinges—just a slow, smooth shift, like it had never really been closed to begin with. The vines pulled back as if by their own will, loosening their grip just enough to let me pass, then settling again, wrapping tight around the bars like they hadn’t moved at all.

The air on the other side was different. Heavier, but not oppressive. Warmer, like the sun had reached here even when it hadn’t touched the rest of the forest. I stepped through before I could think too hard about it, and the moment my foot crossed the threshold, the quiet deepened. Not empty, not hollow, but full. Like I’d entered into something alive.

Ahead, through a thin mist that clung low to the ground, the manor came into view.

It wasn’t ruined, not like I expected from something buried in the woods. The stone was dark, but whole. Vines crawled along the outer walls, creeping up the sides as if the house had grown up through them, not the other way around. The roof was steep, shingled in black slate that shimmered faintly even in the muted light, and the windows—tall and narrow—were intact, though most were clouded over by dust and time.

It stood waiting.

Not abandoned, not forgotten. Just… paused.

I took another step, my boots sinking slightly into the softened path, no longer gravel or dirt, but something in between—stone worn smooth by years, maybe centuries, of footsteps just like mine. The trees here were set back, their trunks arching like ribs over the path, and the air didn’t move. Even the mist seemed to hold still, wrapping the ground in quiet.

Every instinct I had told me to be cautious. But something else—something older, something deeper—told me to keep going.

The front steps were worn, but solid, leading up to a heavy wooden door framed by black iron hinges that spiraled outward like roots. I paused at the bottom, eyes tracing the carvings along the edge of the doorframe—symbols, almost like the one I’d seen, but different. Older. More complex.

I didn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Instead, I stepped off the path, moving slowly along the side of the manor, my fingers brushing against the stone wall, cool beneath the ivy. The silence followed me, but it wasn’t empty. It was expectant. Like something was waiting for me to reach a place I hadn’t yet found.

The windows here were lower, some of them open just a crack, as if someone had left them that way on purpose. I leaned in closer to one, trying to peer inside, but the glass was too warped to see through, just shapes and shadows behind the smear of age. Still, I felt something stir beyond it—a shift, faint, like breath.

I pulled back, heart thudding harder now, but not in fear. Not exactly.

It felt like I was supposed to be here. Like every step I’d taken had led to this, even if I hadn’t known it until now.

A faint sound caught my ear—a rustle, soft, like fabric brushing against stone, just beyond the corner of the house. I didn’t move at first, listening, holding still as the air seemed to pull tight around me. The sound came again, a little closer, a little more deliberate.

I rounded the corner, careful, eyes scanning the garden that opened behind the manor. Overgrown, but not wild—flowers still bloomed here, though faded, their colors muted beneath a layer of dust and time. Stone benches sat in a half-circle around what must’ve once been a fountain, now dry, its basin cracked but not broken.

The air thickened again, almost humming. The sound came again. I turned toward it, breath caught, and froze.

A figure—just for a second—half-seen through the mist near the edge of the garden. Tall, still, watching.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The figure didn’t move.

Then, like smoke in the light, it was gone.

I stood frozen, the silence roaring back around me, but it wasn’t empty anymore. It pressed in, full of something I couldn’t name.

I stepped forward, slowly, into the garden’s center. My hand brushed the edge of the fountain’s stone lip—it was cold, rough, but whole. The moss that clung to its sides felt damp, alive, as if time had passed differently here. As if this place had never truly been abandoned.

A breeze lifted, soft but insistent, carrying a weight with it, curling around my shoulders like it meant to turn me back. And then—the voice. Not loud. Not whispered. Just there.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The words hit like stone, dropping into the silence between my ribs, heavy and sure, like they belonged to this place more than I did.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t fear. It was something older, deeper—inevitable. A truth I hadn’t known I was walking toward, but now that I’d heard it, I couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t step away from it.

I turned, breath tight, searching the garden’s stillness—but there was no one. No shadow. No shape. Just the weight of knowing I’d crossed into something I wasn’t meant to touch. But it had touched me now.

The silence stretched, thick and full, long after the voice faded.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every part of me felt like it had been caught in something unseen, held tight not by force, but by the weight of knowing—something old, something certain.

The air shifted again. It wasn’t just around me now. It was behind me. I turned slowly, every breath sharp in my throat, eyes scanning the space I knew was no longer empty.

He was there. Not in the shadows this time. Not half-hidden by mist or distance. Just… there. Standing at the edge of the garden, where the stone met the trees, his frame still, his gaze fixed—on me. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. It was him. I knew it, somehow, the same way I’d known the mark, the same way the gate had opened for me like it was always meant to.

He stepped closer, not fast, not threatening, just enough to pull the space tighter between us.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said again, softer this time, but no less heavy.

I swallowed, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to.”

A flicker of something—pain, regret, I couldn’t tell—crossed his face before it settled into something harder.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The wind stirred behind him, catching the edge of his coat, pulling at the leaves that lay scattered across the stone path. But he didn’t move. His eyes never left mine.

“Who are you?” I asked, the question barely more than a whisper.

His jaw tightened. “That’s not what you need to know.”

“Then tell me what’s happening. Why I’m here. Why—why this keeps pulling me back.”

He looked past me then, toward the manor, toward the trees that held the garden in their grasp. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, threaded with something almost like sorrow.

“You were supposed to stay away. You were supposed to stay safe.”

I took a step forward, heart pounding, the cold of the air forgotten now beneath the heat rising in my chest. “Safe from what?”

He didn’t answer—not right away. He only watched me, as if searching for something in my face, some reason to turn away. But he didn’t.

“They’ll know you’re here soon,” he said, quieter now, as if the trees might listen. “And when they do, I can’t stop them.”

I stared at him, heart racing, every nerve screaming for me to move���to run, to speak, to do anything but stand here waiting for the rest of a warning that didn’t make sense. But I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.

“You keep saying I shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “But I am. I didn’t plan this—I didn’t even know this place existed. So stop talking in circles and tell me why it’s pulling me. Why you are.”

His eyes flickered, something behind them sharp and sudden, but it wasn’t anger. It was something heavier.

“I don’t want this for you,” he said, the words barely more than breath, but I felt them, like they landed beneath my skin.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

I took another step toward him, the space between us narrowing. The closer I got, the more real he became—not just a figure in the mist, not a voice out of nowhere. Flesh. Breath. And something more.

“Then tell me,” I pushed, desperate now, the weight of everything pressing in. “What is this?”

His gaze dropped for a moment, his hand flexing at his side like he might reach for me, but didn’t.

“It’s already started,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The mark wouldn’t have called to you if it hadn’t.”

My throat tightened. “The mark… you know what it is?”

He nodded once, slow, reluctant. “It’s not just ink. Not just something you dreamed up. It’s a bond—an old one. One that shouldn’t have touched you.”

“But it did.”

“Yes.” His voice hardened, like it hurt to admit it. “And now, you’re part of something you can’t walk away from.”

The silence stretched again, thicker now, not just between us, but around us—as if the air itself was listening, waiting for me to understand something I hadn’t yet seen.

“I might not have a choice,” I echoed, voice lower now, steadier. “But neither do you.”

His jaw tightened again, the muscles working like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to deny it—but something in his eyes shifted. A flicker of something raw. Familiar.

For a breath, we just stood there, caught in the tension that wasn’t fear, wasn’t curiosity. It was something else. Something deeper. Something that felt like it had always been there. I didn’t know him. But I knew him. And he felt it, too.

I stepped closer, the space between us barely there now. The air pulsed once, low and strange, like it recognized us before we did. He didn’t step back. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for me—but still, he didn’t. His eyes never left mine.

“Why does it feel like this?” I asked, the question no longer about the manor or the mark or the warnings. Just this. Us.

His breath hitched, barely.

“Because it’s not just starting now,” he said, voice rough, like the truth cost him. “It’s been happening longer than you know.”

A shiver ran through me—not from the cold, but from something deeper, something I couldn’t name yet. I could feel it in my chest, in my hands, in the air between us, like a string pulled tight. Like I’d waited a lifetime to find him. And maybe… he’d been waiting, too.

The space between us felt fragile, like one more word, one more breath, might tip it into something we couldn’t take back. I could feel him, not just near me—but in the pull that hummed low under my skin, in the way the air seemed to bend around us, waiting. His eyes darkened, like he felt it too. Like he didn’t want to.

“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered, the words falling between us, unsteady but true.

He did. I saw it in the way his hand finally lifted, hesitating, hovering just near mine—but not touching. Not yet.

“You’re not ready to know,” he said, voice barely there.

But just as the air tightened, just as the moment stretched too full—the ground shifted. A sound cracked through the trees—sharp, wrong. Like something tearing through the quiet that had held us.

His head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing, body coiled.

“They’ve found you.” And just like that, the pull between us snapped. “Run.”

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk199o @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[hazbinhotei]

find a way.

warnings: murder, descriptions of both alastor's and reader's deaths, mentions of bones breaking, alastor being a little shit, mentions of cannabalism (thanks rosie!), slightly yandere!alastor if you squint hard enough

word count: 3111

summary: Dying before you're able to reveal the truth of the Bayou Butcher, you find yourself somehow back in your late lover's arms (potentially with the murderous help of your very lover).

alastor x detective!gn!reader. thank you to the anon who requested this story—i might have gone a little off the rails with this one. sorry if the tones are all over the place, i really tried keeping this as short as i could (but i really could have written a multi-chapter story with a prompt like this)! hope you all enjoy!

The air in New Orleans always carried a humid weight, thick with the scent of damp earth, magnolias, and the faint decay of something best left unnamed. It clung to your skin, soaked into your lungs, but tonight, it felt heavier than usual. Or maybe that was just your grief making everything feel just a little harder to bear.

It had been twenty-eight days since Alastor died.

A ridiculous death for a man so utterly drenched in theatricality. Gunned down in the woods by some jittery hunter who mistook him for a deer, of all things. If only they knew what had really been skulking through the trees that night—what kind of predator had truly stalked those woods. What kind of smile had stretched across his face as he buried yet another body beneath the gnarled roots of the swamp. How he had likely still been grinning when the bullet tore through him, the joke of it all too delicious to resist.

You had spent those twenty-eight days trapped in a haze of grief, your mind slipping between fond memories of him and the horrifying suspicion that had taken root long before his untimely demise.

The Bayou Butcher.

A string of disappearances, bodies found days later carved up with something far too precise to be called mindless brutality. You had been on this case for months, following the trail of carnage through the underbelly of the city, through the murky swamps and dimly lit backstreets. And the closer you got, the more you realized that the pieces of the puzzle looked disturbingly familiar. The sharp, clean cuts. The haunting laughter some witnesses swore they heard in the distance. The overwhelming sensation that the killer was playing with you, leaving breadcrumbs just for the fun of watching you chase after them.

Then suddenly, Alastor died; and the murders stopped.

You weren’t a fool. You knew. You had known for some time. But knowing wasn’t the same as proving, and some foolish part of you—some lovesick, desperate part of you—wanted to be wrong. Wanted to believe that you hadn’t spent years sleeping beside a monster, that the hands that held you so gently weren’t the same ones that had carved up bodies in the dead of night.

Which was how you found yourself here, wandering through the bayou with nothing but a lantern, a revolver at your hip, and the gnawing certainty that he was still watching you.

The swamp was eerily quiet, save for the occasional croak of a bullfrog or the distant splash of something unseen breaking the surface of the water. Spanish moss hung low, ghostly fingers stretching toward you, swaying with a breeze that didn’t quite exist. The lantern’s light flickered, casting long, shifting shadows that played tricks on your weary mind. You swore under your breath as the sudden movement of a beetle caused you to jump in fear, your voice shaky as you cursed Alastor’s entire existence.

The deeper you went, the more the world seemed to close in around you. The trees loomed taller, their branches like skeletal limbs reaching for you. The mud sucked at your boots, thick and unwilling to let you pass unscathed. You could practically see Alastor's crescent smile in the moon shining brightly above you.

Then, a whisper of movement. A trick of the wind… or something more?

You turned sharply, the beam of your lantern slicing through the darkness. Nothing but trees and tangled roots. The reflection of a pair of red eyes—

No. Just the glint of light against stagnant water.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, an almost rhythmic thumping. Like laughter, distant and familiar, curling around the edges of your thoughts. You shook your head quickly, trying to dispel the chills creeping up your back.

“Ah, detective,” the memory of his voice purred. “Still chasing ghosts?”

You gritted your teeth and pressed forward. If there was anything left of Alastor’s secrets, they’d be here, buried beneath the cypress trees, hidden in the mud where he had left his victims to rot. Maybe, just maybe, you’d finally find the proof you needed. Maybe, just maybe, you could finally let him go.

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, carrying with it the faintest echo of laughter. It sent a shiver down your spine, a primal warning that you were not welcome here. That you were trespassing in a graveyard of his making.

You stumbled upon a clearing, the earth disturbed, something recently unearthed or perhaps never properly buried to begin with. The stench of decay slithered into your nostrils, thick and undeniable. You knelt down, brushing away the wet leaves, the lantern’s glow illuminating the unmistakable sight of bone.

Then, the ground shifted beneath you.

Your foot caught on something—an exposed root, gnarled and treacherous. The world tilted, the lantern flew from your grasp, and you barely had time to register the sharp crack of your neck meeting unyielding wood before everything went black.

Silence.

And right as your consciousness slips, your very soul leaving your body, you hear it. A chuckle—low, amused, dripping with that ever-present jollity you thought you’d never hear again. As your chest heaved for the last time, you stared up at the trees.

Red eyes blinked into existence, shifting and swirling in the dark like embers catching fire. A shadowed figure loomed just beyond the veil of death, the air thick with something unseen but unmistakable. A presence. A voice, silk-soft and brimming with delighted cruelty.

“Now, now, darling,” it cooed. “I do hope you weren’t expecting a peaceful end.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath. A final, shuddering exhale as the cold crept in and the world faded to nothing but his laughter, ringing through the trees like a death knell.

And then his whisper, curling in your ear, seeping into the marrow of your bones like the inevitable rot of something long since claimed by the bayou.

“Oh, darling,” he drawled, voice lilting with amusement. “You didn’t really think I’d let you leave me, did you?”

The last thing you felt was the curl of phantom fingers tracing your jaw. A lover’s touch. A predator’s claim.

“Damn you, Alastor,” you wanted to say.

But the swamp had already swallowed your voice whole.

Rosie had surprisingly gotten to you before Alastor did.

Her thick New York accent rang through your ears as your senses struggled to adjust, the overwhelming sight of varying shades of red making your head spin as you slowly opened your eyes. Everything was red—the sky, the streets, even the very air seemed to hum with a crimson glow. Your vision swam as you tried to make sense of it all, your equilibrium thrown completely off.

"Oh dear, let’s get that fixed," Rosie said, her clawed hands suddenly gripping your face. Before you could react, she tilted your head with a loud 'krrrck!'. Your spine jolted, the sensation somewhere between relief and pure agony. "You must've died hitting your neck with the way your head was all screwed up! Ain't that better."

Your hands shot up to grasp the side of your head, your mind still catching up with your body. Had that really just happened? You swallowed, testing the movement. No pain. No resistance. It was as if she had snapped everything back into place with the casual ease of someone used to handling broken bones.

You blinked up at the woman in front of you, the full realization creeping in like a slow, sinking weight. You were dead. And judging by her... unsettling appearance—wide, hollowed-out eyes, sharp-toothed smile, a presence that reeked of something both inviting and ominous—you could only assume the worst.

"Where... where am I?" you asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it aloud.

Rosie grinned, amusement dancing across her face. "Oh honey, where do ya think? Welcome to Hell!" She spread her long arms out as if presenting a grand prize, her voice laced with something between mirth and menace. "Surprised ya ain't screamin'. Most fresh meat ain't this calm!"

You exhaled sharply, mind racing. You had no idea how you were supposed to react, but screaming felt pointless. You had spent the last month chasing a ghost—and now you had become one.

Rosie seemed to take your silence as a good sign. "Nice to meet you sweetheart, I'm Rosie. Think of me as the mayor of this part of the ring." She hummed to herself, placing a pointed nail at her chin as she inspected you. 

"So, ya know anyone down here who might lend ya a hand? Get ya settled? Mother, father, old boyfriend perhaps?" The empty voids of her eyes seemed to glisten with amusement at your bewildered eyes, your reactions delayed as you tried to make sense of what she just said.

Before you could even realize it, a laugh bubbled past your lips, humorless and breathless. ‘Know anyone down here’? You practically had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at her words. You knew deep down that murderous lover of yours was down here with you, since there was absolutely zero chance of him seeing the pearly gates. Sighing softly, you reply: "I’m sure a man named Alastor Hartfelt is somewhere around here."

Rosie’s hollow eyes widened, the jagged grin stretching further across her face as recognition dawned. "You know Al? My, my, that boy's been down here for a month and he's already makin' headlines."

Of course, he was. This time you couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling, a pinch of unsurprised annoyance in your chest at the mere thought of him already trying to make a name for himself in this wretched realm. He was Alastor Hartfelt, after all.

Rosie wasted no time ushering you forward from your spot on the ground against a tree, leading you through the streets of what she called 'Cannibal Town' (you were too scared to ask if she meant it in a literal sense) until you reached a gaudy, vibrant storefront—Rosie's Emporium. The moment you stepped inside, you were hit with the scent of something sickly sweet, like sugar masking something far more rotten beneath. The shop was cluttered with all sorts of strange oddities, from towering shelves of canned goods labeled with unfamiliar names to displays of pastries that looked suspiciously human-shaped.

She plopped you onto a plush chair and clapped her hands together. "Now, sit tight while I ring up your ol’ pal. He'll wanna hear about this."

As she turned away, you glanced around, trying to push down the nausea creeping up your throat. Your gaze landed on a tray of delicately arranged cookies labeled "Lady Fingers."

Too literal.

Rosie caught the look on your face and burst into laughter, slapping the counter with one clawed hand. "What, not a fan of homemade treats? Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get used to the way things work around here soon enough."

You swallowed hard, forcing down the disgust as you leaned back in your seat with a small nod. Despite your horror at your new permanent residency in Hell, Rosie had been a surprisingly very accommodating host. She was in the middle of explaining the whole power system of Hell, explaining the different Overlords who ruled over ‘Sinners’ when the bell above the door jingled. Rosie turned with a gasp of delight. "Well, speak of the devil!"

You straightened slightly, wiping your (now very inhuman looking) hands on your pants. You were oddly nervous, blaming your newness to everything as the reason why you felt out of place. You barely had a second to clear your throat before Rosie flung open the front door with a flourish. And there he was. 

Alastor stepped inside, exuding that same lively confidence he had carried in life, his grin ever-persistent. Though, this time, his teeth had become sharp yellow spikes, your throat closing at the way his appearance was so close to being human yet so horrifyingly demonic. A pair of fluffy red fur—were those ears?!—lined the top of his head, his previous brown curls now red with black ends. His once deep skin now morphed into a muted gray, his honeyed eyes now a glowing bright red that matched basically the rest of his very red, very Hellish appearance. He greeted Rosie with his usual polite enthusiasm, but the moment his eyes landed on you, the entire atmosphere of the emporium shifted.

A record scratch blared through the air, so sharp and sudden you winced.

A quiet moment passed by before you shot him a flat look, fiddling your fingers behind your back as you fought back the nerves of seeing him after a whole month; this time in an entirely new world. "...Please tell me you didn’t develop some sort of weird demonic radio powers."

Alastor blinked, then let out a burst of laughter—a static-laced, warped sound, as if spoken through a microphone. "Oh-ho! My dear, how delightful it is to see you again! And so soon!" He stepped forward, eyes roaming over your new Sinner form, his grin stretching impossibly wider. His eyes seemed to narrow imperceptibly at your neck, your mind wondering if it was clear you died from a fracture. "My, my, death has done quite the number on you. But oh, how I missed you!"

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "Cut the act. Let’s get this over with." Your voice was sharp, defensive, though your heart was betraying you with its erratic beats. "You were the Bayou Butcher, weren’t you?"

Alastor tsked, amusement flickering in his red eyes. "I always knew you would be the one to figure it out!" He let out a theatrical sigh. "Tell me, did you tarnish my name? Did you flourish in watching my legacy turn to ash as you revealed all my secrets?"

Your mouth twitched in embarrassment, a shameful blush dusting your cheeks as you paused for a moment. "I died before I actually could."

Something unreadable crossed his face, but his grin remained steady. A knowing sparkle danced in his eyes, one that made your stomach twist. "Ah, what a shame," he murmured, the faintest hint of satisfaction in his voice as the radio static that surrounded his voice oddly disappeared. (You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped at the familiar sound of his raw voice, your cheeks warming even more at being so close to the man you loved dearly and hated so much at the same time.)

You narrowed your eyes, a suspicion creeping in that you didn’t dare voice. You remember the chills on your body that night in the bayou right before your death, something unseen watching you from the shadows. In the center of the emporium, Alastor watched as the gears slowly churned in your head, his eyes watching you like a hunter watching his prey walk into the trap he layed out.

Before you could dwell on it, Alastor took your hand in his, lifting it to his lips. "But what luck! You’re here now! Right back at my side where you belong."

Your fingers curled slightly, a frown tugging at your lips. "You sound way too happy about this."

His gaze softened ever so slightly, a rare glimpse into something deeper, almost tender beneath all the showmanship. A sight you hardly saw, but knew all too well what it meant. "And why wouldn’t I be?" he purred. "After all, did you really think I'd simply let death do us part?"

You let out a deep breath, exhaling all the stress and loneliness of the last few weeks into the warm air. You looked at him, watching him rub the back of your hand with his soft velveteen hands. Your heart clenched, twisted, but you couldn’t deny the warmth creeping through you at his words. As much as you hated to admit it, some twisted part of you was glad to see him, to hear his voice, to be near him once again.

Alastor chuckled, tilting his head as he observed you, his expression lingering between smug and affection. "Oh, I do believe I’m seeing that little smile! Admit it, you missed me."

You rolled your eyes, but the ghost of a smirk betrayed you. "I missed my peace and quiet, that’s for sure."

Alastor gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "How cruel! And here I thought our love transcended such petty grievances."

Raising a brow at him, you continued with your waveringly indifferent tone. "Oh, please. You were probably prancing around Hell long before I got here, already charming your way into some demon’s good graces."

His grin widened as he leaned closer, his voice dipping to something more intimate as he rested his forehead against yours, his spine curling to meet your height. "Ah, you know me so well, cher." He closes his eyes for a moment, his grip on your hand becoming so gentle, so tender, as if he was worried this was all just a figment of his imagination. "But none of them compare to you, dearest. You were always my favorite dance partner."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of irritation and something far too affectionate settling in your chest. You huffed, lightly shoving his shoulder with your free hand. "Still as dramatic as ever, I see."

He caught your hand before you could pull away, spinning you in place with an effortless twirl, as if he were leading a ballroom dance. "Why of course! Have you already forgotten the man you fell in love with?" He gasps with faux offense, pulling you tightly to him.

His glowing red eyes sparkle with that dangerous frivolity you recognize from all those years together, his mouth morphing into an impish grin as he looks down at you. You felt his clawed fingers hold your waist tighter, his eyes scanning your face to remember every single detail of your new demonic appearance. You could only look back at him in slight amusement, surprised to find him eyeing you with such intensity. His lips pulled tightly together as he fought the urge to shadow you away from all of Hell, somewhere private where he could spend this new eternity with you—and only you. 

You glanced down at his parting lips, time slowing down as he opens his mouth to say something to you without the accompaniment of radio static once more. You were certain that if you had a heart left in that dead chest of yours, it would have skipped a beat at his next words.

"You know, for you, dearest, I’ll always find a way to have you back at my side."