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mydearestbeloved · 6 months ago

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Chapter 10 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

You paced around your domain, anxious thoughts swirling in your mind. Despite your butterflies’ best efforts to calm you, the mounting concern for what lay ahead in the Demon Castle wouldn’t ease. Jinwoo was strong—very strong—but the risk of becoming a burden weighed heavily on you.

Your mana stones were a reliable aid, but they wouldn't be enough to match the challenges ahead. The image of the castle lingered in your mind, pulling at fragmented memories of the manhwa. Something about it… contaminated mana. Yes, that was it. Inhabitants brimming with corrupted energy—but if mana was plentiful, maybe you could use that to your advantage.

A thought began to take shape: you needed a system that could function as a self-sustaining cycle, requiring minimal upkeep from your own reserves. Contaminated or not, the mana saturating the castle’s demons and undeads could potentially fuel a process to debuff them, slowing their movement and stamina so that your butterflies could use and drain them more easily.

A medium, you thought. Then, a cool breeze shifted your attention toward the garden outside your window, where flowers bloomed in quiet elegance. Plants were efficient—absorbing carbon dioxide, converting it to oxygen—a near-perfect cycle. Perhaps you could craft something similar, a way to absorb the ambient mana and use it to sustain a field spell. If you could channel contaminated mana into a converting field, your butterflies would be able to drain the demons’ energy at a manageable rate and use them after. It would also mean that they could function without constant energy input from you.

Yet, this method came with challenges. It would take time for your butterflies to fully drain each demon. The Demon Castle’s floors were likely to hold innumerable enemies, which meant progress would be slower and more methodical.

The enchanted field also would require high maintenance. As long as you focused on supporting Jinwoo and his shadows, you’d be able to manage the upkeep; but any direct offense from you would divide your attention, weakening the field’s effect. You could already feel the strain it might put on your mana reserves, especially considering the higher floors.

The real concern, however, was the contamination itself. Without a beast or specimen to experiment on, you were left to speculate. The effect of corrupted mana could potentially be as dangerous as a poison spreading through the flowers’ roots, disrupting the delicate balance of energy that made your powers work. You made a mental note to craft a few protective charms in case things turned toxic.

Your butterflies circled back around you, their light flitting movements a quiet reminder of what you had to prepare. The risks were there, yes, but with proper caution, this plan could help Jinwoo conserve his energy for the battles that mattered most.

You stilled your pacing at last, glancing toward the enchanted blooms. “It’s a gamble,” you murmured, brushing a fingertip over a petal. They’d form the basis of your spell, a network that could repurpose the demon’s energy.

Placing a hand over one bloom, you murmured an incantation, feeling mana pulse from your fingertips into the petals. The flower’s color lightened, and you sensed a faint but steady flow of power within it, pulsing in a rhythm that matched your own heartbeat.

“But with this, maybe we’ll stand a better chance.”

---

The sound of your knuckles tapping against Jinwoo’s apartment door echoed faintly in the quiet hallway. You shifted from foot to foot, mentally running through the negotiation tactics you planned to use. The stakes were high; you knew that the system would pull every trick in its arsenal to complicate your upcoming mission in the Demon Castle. A single week wasn’t going to cut it, no matter how confident Jinwoo was.

The door opened, revealing Jinwoo’s familiar figure. He leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow at you. “(Name)? This is unexpected.”

“Got a minute?” you asked with a casual smile, slipping past him into the apartment before he could refuse. Jinwoo sighed but didn’t protest, closing the door behind you.

“Alright,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “what’s this about?”

You turned to face him, your expression serious. You needed to convince him, no matter what. “We need more time for the Demon Castle raid. One week isn’t enough. I’m thinking… a week and a half, at least. Maybe two.”

Jinwoo blinked, his brows furrowing. “Two weeks? Are you trying to turn this into a vacation?” His tone was light, but his eyes remained cautious. He clearly wasn’t on board with your suggestion yet. “That’s overkill. I’m confident we can clear it in less.”

“Hey, if I wanted a vacation, I’d pick somewhere with sunshine and no murderous demons,” you quipped. In fact, locking yourself in your domain for a few weeks sounded like the perfect vacation actually. Jinwoo had been dragging you to his supposedly solo raids almost daily recently.

Your expression sobered. “I don’t doubt your strength, Jinwoo. But the system’s not going to make it that simple. You know it loves to pull unexpected stunts. A little extra time gives us room to adjust our strategies.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for the hidden meaning behind your words. You could tell he was trying to figure out why you were so insistent. “And what are you not telling me?” he asked softly, his voice losing its edge. “You know something, don’t you?”

“…”

He sighed. “I’ve handled everything it’s thrown at me so far. Why would this be any different?”

Ah, you were prepared for that. Time to employ the sub-skill you'd honed through your many encounters with stubborn enemies while trying to test out your <Language> skill. Your <Communication> was maxed out, after all—if you couldn’t haggle a bit of extra time out of Jinwoo, what good was it? You sighed dramatically, putting on your best negotiating face.

“Alright, let’s break it down,” you said, raising four fingers to count off your points. “One: we don’t know how deep the dungeon goes. Two: if the system decides to change the conditions mid-quest, we’re screwed if we’re on a tight schedule. And three: wouldn’t you rather be over-prepared than scrambling at the last minute?”

Jinwoo’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s point four?”

“Point four,” you said with a sly smile, leaning in closer, “is that I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Jinwoo let out a reluctant chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really something, you know that?”

“I’m persistent,” you corrected, your smile widening. “So, are we good with extending the trip to a week and a half?”

After a long, tense pause, Jinwoo’s posture relaxed slightly, his sigh one of reluctant acceptance. “Fine. A week and a half, but that’s it. No more extensions,” he agreed, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but I’ll trust you—for now.”

“—And if we end up with too much downtime, you owe me.”

“Deal,” you replied, your eyes twinkling. The system might have its tricks, but you had your own ways of leveling the playing field—like charming one particularly stubborn Hunter into giving you more time.

---

Jinah popped her head around the corner, watching the negotiation unfold while still staying hidden enough. Though she’d been quietly ‘eavesdropping’, she couldn’t catch all the exact words of the conversation, only murmurs. She really wanted to get closer, but it was hard when your brother’s senses recently amped up, it was like he gained eyes in the back of his head or something.

Despite being exempt from the details, she was thoroughly entertained by the seemingly back-and-forth and the faces Jinwoo made throughout. In fact, she felt like she’d be missing out if she didn’t witness firsthand how easily you could sway her usually stubborn brother.

If she were any less polite, she might have grabbed a bowl of popcorn.

Her curiosity only grew once she found out Jinwoo would be spending the next week and a half with you. Her mind buzzed with questions she planned to bombard him with once you left, and she was already grinning at the thought. But she stayed quiet, content for now with the food and books you'd brought her—a thoughtful mix tailored to her interest in medicine, showing how considerate of a person you were. That alone sealed you in Jinah’s good graces.

The food was heavenly too, and a bit familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Where had she tasted something like this before?

You even promised to bring her a souvenir as you said your goodbyes.

When you finally departed, Jinwoo saw a bright-eyed Jinah looking up at him with a smirk that spelled trouble. The glint in her eyes that told Jinwoo he was in for another barrage.

In her mind, you were flawless. Her brother, however, was a prime candidate for interrogation.

---

If Jinwoo had a nickel every time he ended up in this situation because of his recent plans with you, he’d have… well, not a fortune. But two nickels was still enough to be memorable and bizarre, especially considering how it had happened back-to-back.

First, there was Jinho. Jinho was on his third glass of soju, and the flush in his cheeks was evidence enough that he was already tipsy. As Jinwoo mentioned he’d be out of contact for a while—and that you'd be going with him—Jinho’s reaction was instant. His eyes widened dramatically, the implications of the words clearly firing off into a direction Jinwoo had not anticipated.

“Hyung, you and Noona… are you two… eloping?”

Jinwoo nearly choked on his drink, coughing as he tried to process the absurdity of Jinho’s statement. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

He tried to wave Jinho off, chalking it up to too much soju or an overactive imagination. But Jinho wasn’t having it. “Oh, come on, Hyung. Don’t be shy! If you’ve made up your mind, I’ll support you. Just let me be your best man, alright?” Jinwoo had to practically pry himself away from his friend, stars were practically dancing in Jinho’s eyes.

Jinwoo sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jinho, it’s not like that at all,” he insisted, but it was no use. Jinho had already convinced himself otherwise and was now too invested in his new theory. And after another round of drinks, Jinwoo gave up trying to explain, hoping Jinho would pass out before he could push further.

And that was just the beginning.

Jinah was the next obstacle. As soon as you left his apartment, Jinwoo turned back, only to find her waiting in the hallway with an expression that said she’d been planning her line of questioning since the moment you arrived. She crossed her arms, a knowing glint in her eye, and Jinwoo had the uncomfortable realization that his sister had inherited their mother’s tenacity when it came to digging for details.

“So,” she started, voice heavy with implication, “a week and a half, alone, with (Name), huh?”

Jinwoo groaned inwardly. “We need the extra time. It’s just to be safe.”

Jinah wasn’t buying it. “Uh-huh. Sure. And I’m the Queen of England,” she replied with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “You’re taking her on a long trip, away from everyone else. You’re basically taking her on a getaway, right?”

He sighed, knowing his sister well enough to recognize that trying to brush this off would only invite more questions. “Jinah, it’s… it’s a dungeon raid. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

But his sister was relentless. “Oh, really? A whole week and a half, though?” Her eyebrow lifted, her smirk only growing wider. “I mean, it’s not every day that you disappear off-grid with someone. Have you… told her how you feel yet?”

Jinwoo, ever patient, felt his patience tested. “There’s nothing to tell, Jinah.”

Jinwoo tried to dodge it, giving her vague, simple answers. But Jinah, ever the sharp one, was unrelenting. She started throwing pointed questions his way, and each one felt like another barrier crumbling under her tenacity. She asked him everything. Every. Single. Damn. Thing. Her smirk grew with every evasion and half-answer Jinwoo gave, as if each word was confirming all her suspicions.

“Alright, alright,” she said in a tone that clearly indicated she wasn’t done. “But should I be prepping a maid-of-honor speech? Or maybe I should look into flower arrangements. Ooh, would it be butterflies or roses? Maybe both?”

By the time her questioning tapered off, Jinwoo felt as though he’d waded through a mental dungeon, one even his high stats couldn’t have prepared him for. Jinah’s grin was wide and smug as he escaped to his room, but he knew it wasn’t over. She'd keep this interrogation up the minute he returned.

But in true Jinah fashion, her smile softened at the end, clearly pleased with Jinwoo’s flustered state, an answer she didn’t need to hear but could now safely assume for herself.

---

Yet that wasn't the strangest part. Because now, Jinwoo was left alone with his own thoughts... and for once, they were nearly as relentless as Jinho and Jinah combined.

As he was going through his inventory to ensure they had all the supplies they would need before the dungeon, he was hit with a vision so vivid it stopped him in his tracks.

You were standing in a grand hall, under soft candlelight, wearing a wedding dress, though it wasn't quite the traditional white. In his mind's eye, the gown was two-toned, an elegant mix of black and white. While the white gleamed like moonlight filtering through mist, the black somehow mirroring the shifting tendrils of his shadows.

Jinwoo could see it all too clearly: the way the shadows would curl protectively around you, as if even they had accepted you.

Butterflies, your butterflies, danced around you, forming a veil that draped over your shoulders. Their delicate wings catching the light, creating a mystical aura around you that contrasted beautifully with the darkness of the gown.

In your hands, you held a bouquet of red spider lilies. The sight of the crimson flowers sent a pang through Jinwoo’s chest, evoking memories of his countless near-death experiences. The spider lilies symbolized his rebirth, the way he had clawed his way back from the brink time and time again. He’d been “reborn” when he received the system, and because of that—

Jinwoo’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the scene unfold in his mind. So clear, so tangible, that it left him breathless.

—he was able to meet you.

His face flush hot, and he rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. How had his mind gotten there of all places?

And as he forced himself to refocus, he decided to treat the image as nothing more than a momentary lapse.

But when he finally met you on the day of the mission, the scene in his mind surged back as soon as he saw you. It didn’t help that you looked so composed and determined, your butterflies floating around you in their usual silent watchfulness. One of them—one of the red ones, the ones that somehow seemed to reflect your calmest self—drifted down and landed delicately on your eyelashes.

Your eyes closed softly at the butterfly’s touch, a serene look spreading across your face as if in meditation, and for a second, Jinwoo could almost see the veil around you, framing your face in soft lace. The entire image from his mind threatened to come to life, and he felt the flush rising to his neck and ears.

You noticed his silence, your brows drawing together as you asked, “Are you all right? You look a little… flushed?”

Jinwoo cleared his throat, looking anywhere but directly at you. “It’s nothing,” he managed, though even he knew how unconvincing he sounded. But you only tilted your head, curiosity lingering in your eyes, genuine.

Not for the first time, he was thankful you couldn’t exactly read his thoughts, despite how you seemingly know him too well.

“Let’s just… focus on the dungeon.”

---

You knew the system would pull something like this the moment it let you into the Demon Castle without a barrier. Still, a vein practically popped as you glared at the quest interface floating before you.

‘Jinwoo was supposed to collect 10,000 demon souls, not 20,000!’ Your gaze narrowed, watching Jinwoo swiftly clearing out the first waves of demons. His level was clearly way above the demons on these early floors, but that didn’t mean you weren’t annoyed.

Of course, the system had doubled the soul requirement. And just when your powers were at a disadvantage, too, thanks to the demon-and-undead-ridden environment. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. Now wasn’t the time to get too frustrated. ‘At least I prepared for this... It’s a good thing I had Jinwoo agree to extend this run to a week and a half instead of one.’

With a thought, you brought up your inventory, mentally ticking off your supplies: plenty of food, and lots of mana gems you’d crafted in advance. If the system counted any kills you made as Jinwoo’s, you might as well help thin out the weaker hordes so he could save his strength for the higher floors. With a flick of your finger, you dispatched a sneaky demon behind you, your butterflies swooping in to devour its remnants.

You stepped forward, catching Jinwoo’s attention. “Save your energy for the tougher enemies on the higher floors,” you advised. “I want to try something.”

With that, you began to chant, letting your power seep into the ground. Glowing flowers bloomed in your wake, their petals pulsating in unison, creating rippling shockwaves that staggered the demons nearby. Your butterflies took the cue, flitting from demon to flower and back, draining each one with methodical precision.

Your powers thrived on life force, sure—but they didn’t stop there. Demons and undead were reservoirs of condensed mana, enough to fuel your abilities even in this dark domain.

“I figure the lower floors’ demons should be weak enough for me to handle with my own powers,” you explained, keeping your focus on sustaining the field. “It might be slower, but my butterflies can still devour them, even if they’re undead.”

You offered Jinwoo a graceful curtsy, a fond smile playing on your lips. “So, I’ll be in your care for now, Jinwoo. Shall we ascend?”

Jinwoo was just about to extend a hand to help you up onto the ice bear he’d summoned—ready to barrel through the demons like a living tank—but found you already floating beside him, butterflies swirling around you like a graceful aura.

“Try to keep up,” you teased, zooming past with a grin.

The ice bear, as if inspired by your daring, charged into the horde with Jinwoo on its back. He blinked in surprise before breaking into a determined grin, chuckling under his breath.

“Alright, Tank,” he murmured, naming the bear on the spot, “let’s catch up.”

End Note:

Unfinished Draft of [25/10/2024] -

Alright, this is the last decent draft I can post for now. This might seem rushed because it is the latest draft, you've been warned.

I'm not gonna post chapters like this for few months now. Though, I'll still answer short asks and comments. <3

Last Edited: [14/11/2024]

Okay, I was exaggerating when I wrote those end notes. I am taking a break, but not for months. I'll still update drafts and or post something with few days of rest in between. I just don't have a fixed schedule.

#solo leveling #solo leveling imagine #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x reader #yandere sung jinwoo #only i level up #solo leveling jinwoo #fanfic #solo leveling fanfic #fanfiction #fem reader #x reader #reader insert #sung jin woo

411 notes · View notes

antinousletmehit · 5 months ago

Text

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 5 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

୨୧┇Pairing: Telemachus x Fem!reader

୨୧┇so far Aphrodites Gamble is the most popular name for this series but the poll lasts for a week so we’ll see if it actually wins. Also readers lowkey a bitch in this.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The palace grew quiet as night fell, the cacophony of the Suitors giving way to the soft rustle of wind through the corridors. In her room, Y/N sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her, as it often did. The day’s events still lingered in her mind. The discovery of the passageway, her brother’s antics, and, of course, the furious little wolf himself, Telemachus.

A sly smile tugged at her lips. She had rattled him, and the memory of his flustered face amused her endlessly. But amusement wasn’t enough to stave off her boredom. Her gaze drifted toward the statue of Athena, now slightly askew from where she had struck it earlier. The hidden passageway loomed in the back of her mind, tempting her. Y/N swung her legs off the bed and stood, grabbing her torch. “Why not?” she muttered to herself. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

The mechanism clicked again as she shifted the statue, the floor panel sliding open to reveal the dark passageway. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls as she descended, swatting away cobwebs with practiced annoyance. She moved more confidently this time, her steps quieter, her movements deliberate. The descent felt shorter now that she knew where it led. Soon enough, she found herself at the bottom of the passage, staring at the trapdoor that opened into Telemachus’s room. Y/N grinned to herself as she pushed the door open and climbed up into the room, careful to keep her movements silent. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the window. Telemachus was fast asleep, sprawled awkwardly on his bed with one arm flung over his head. His brow was furrowed, even in sleep, as if his dreams offered no reprieve from the burdens he carried during the day.

Y/N took a moment to observe him, her smirk softening into something closer to curiosity. She didn’t often see him like this. Unguarded, vulnerable. It was almost endearing. Almost. But boredom was a powerful motivator, and Y/N wasn’t here to admire the young prince. She crouched by his desk, her eyes scanning the scattered scrolls and notes. Most of it was mundane lists of supplies, ship maintenance plans, a few hastily scrawled maps.

Then something caught her eye: a small wooden carving of a horse, tucked away in the corner of the desk. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. The craftsmanship was rough, but there was something oddly charming about it. She glanced back at Telemachus, still sound asleep. “Little wolf,” she whispered, smirking as she set the carving back in its place. As Y/N’s curiosity got the better of her, she wandered closer to the bed, the soft sound of Telemachus’s breathing filling the room. He looked peaceful…Well, as peaceful as someone like him could manage. His messy hair fell across his forehead, and his mouth was slightly open as he mumbled something incoherent in his sleep.

She crouched beside him, tilting her head as if studying a particularly interesting artifact. “You really are such a dumbass, aren’t you?” she murmured to herself. The temptation to disturb his slumber proved irresistible. She reached out, running her fingers lightly along the curve of his jaw, tracing the faint outline of his features. His skin was warm beneath her touch, and she could feel the subtle flutter of his pulse at his neck “Soft,” she muttered, her smirk returning as she tapped his nose lightly.

Her touch, however, had consequences. Telemachus stirred, his brow furrowing before his eyes shot open. The moment he saw her leaning over him, her hand still hovering near his face, his entire body tensed.

“What in the name of Zeus?!” he yelped, scrambling upright and nearly falling off the bed in his panic.

Y/N burst into laughter, sitting back on her heels as she watched him flail. “Good evening, little wolf,” she said with a smirk. “You sleep so stupidly. Honestly, how do you even breathe like that?”

“What—what are you doing here?” Telemachus stammered, his voice loud enough to echo slightly in the room. His face burned crimson as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, as if it could shield him from her audacity. “You—Flagitious woman! You’re unbelievable! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Kill you? Hardly,” Y/N replied breezily, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Though you do look rather dramatic when you panic. I might come back just for the entertainment.”

“You’re a pervert!” he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “A—a man-eater! That’s what you are! Sneaking into my room in the dead of night, touching me while I sleep—gods, you’re deranged!” Y/N tilted her head, clearly enjoying his outrage. “Man-eater? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?” she said, standing up and brushing off her tunic. “And really, Telemachus, if you didn’t want people sneaking into your room, maybe you should lock your doors. Or, you know, not have a secret passage leading here.”

“That doesn’t excuse you!” he retorted, his voice cracking slightly. “I should call for the guards—or better yet, my mother! You wouldn’t be laughing then!”

“Oh, please,” Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Do you really want to explain to your mother why you were screaming like a frightened lamb in your own room? She’ll think you’re even more pathetic than the Suitors do.”

That shut him up, though his glare only intensified.

“Relax,” Y/N said, stepping back toward the desk. “I was just bored. You should be flattered, really—there are dozens of idiots in this palace I could torment, but I chose you.”

“That’s not flattering! That’s horrifying!” Telemachus snapped.

Y/N lingered by the desk, her fingers idly tracing over the scrolls and trinkets scattered across it. Telemachus, still beet faced and clearly overwhelmed, kept his wide eyes fixed on her as if she were a feral animal ready to pounce.

“What are you doing now!?” he demanded, his voice rising in pitch.

“Oh, just… exploring,” Y/N said airily, picking up a quill and twirling it between her fingers. She tilted her head, pretending to scrutinize his writing on a half finished scroll. “Hmm. Your handwriting could use some work, little wolf. It’s barely legible.”

“Put that down!” Telemachus barked, but he didn’t dare leave the bed to stop her. Y/N ignored him, turning her attention to a neatly stacked pile of notes. With deliberate slowness, she shuffled them out of order, flipping one upside down for good measure. “Stop touching my things!” Telemachus shouted, his voice cracking again.

“Why? Afraid I’ll find your love letters? Or maybe a letter to that father of yours who left your family high and dry?” Y/n teased, opening a small drawer and rifling through it. She pulled out a dull, half carved piece of wood. “Oh, what’s this? Another one of your little crafts? A hobby to pass the time while the Suitors mock you?”

Telemachus jumped to his feet, his frustration finally outweighing his embarrassment. “I’m serious, Y/n! Leave it alone!” But Y/n wasn’t done yet. She picked up a small inkwell, holding it precariously over the desk. “What would happen if I just… spilled this?” she mused aloud, tilting it ever so slightly. “Don’t you dare!” Telemachus yelled, lunging forward.

Y/n set it down with a grin just as his hand reached for hers. “Relax, little wolf. I wouldn’t ruin your precious plans. Not tonight, anyway.” Before he could say anything else, she moved to the bed and gave the blankets a playful yank, sending them tumbling to the floor. “You sleep like a mess, your bed might as well match.”

“Are you done?!” Telemachus shouted, his face now an alarming shade of crimson. Y/n stepped back, pretending to consider it. Then, as a final act of mischief, she plucked a scroll from the desk, unfurled it, and stuck it into the waistband of her tunic. “I think I’ll keep this. A little souvenir from our late night chat.”

“Give that back!” Telemachus cried, scrambling after her as she darted toward the trapdoor. But Y/n still wasn’t done. She moved back to Telemachus’s desk, her fingers dancing over his belongings with careless curiosity. She uncorked another small vial of ink and sniffed it before setting it down just close enough to the edge to make him flinch. “Would you stop already?” Telemachus snapped, standing rigidly by his bed. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one night?”

“Oh, little wolf,” Y/n said sweetly, grabbing another scroll and unfurling it with exaggerated care. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you don’t enjoy my company. Tragic, really.” She leaned against the desk, picking up a polished figurine a miniature of a ship. It was intricately carved, and its detail caught her eye. “This is nice. Did you make this, too?”

“That’s my father’s!” Telemachus barked, his tone turning sharper. Y/n’s smirk faltered slightly. She turned the figure over in her hand, her curiosity outweighing her sense of caution. “Your father, huh? The great Odysseus. Bet he never expected his son to spend his days failing to chase off Suitors and hiding in his room.” Telemachus bristled, his hands balling into fists. “Put. It. Down.”

“Relax,” Y/n said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m not going to break it—”

Her sentence cut off with a sharp crack. The ship slipped from her hand, striking the edge of the desk before shattering on the floor. The silence that followed was deafening. Y/n froze, staring at the broken pieces, while Telemachus’s face twisted in a mixture of shock, fury, and disbelief.

“You—” His voice shook. “Do you have any idea what you just did?!”

“It’s just a figurine,” Y/n said quickly, her tone defensive.

“It’s not just a figurine!” Telemachus shouted, his voice echoing in the room. “That was his! My father’s! He carved it himself before he left for Troy!”

Y/n opened her mouth, but no words came. For once, her usual confidence faltered.

Telemachus’s eyes burned with anger as he stepped toward her. “Did Antinous put you up to this?” he demanded, his voice low and venomous. “Did he think it’d be funny to send you here, to—to ruin the one thing I have left of my father?!”

“What?” Y/n blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “No! Antinous doesn’t even know about this passage!”

“Then why are you here?!” Telemachus roared, his frustration boiling over. “Why do you keep pushing and pushing? What do you want from me?!”

Y/n stepped back, her smirk long gone, replaced by something unreadable. “I didn’t mean to break it,” she said quietly, her voice lacking its usual mocking edge.

Telemachus stared at her for a moment longer before turning away, his shoulders tense. “Just go,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t care what you think you were doing. Just leave.”

Y/n hesitated, glancing between him and the broken pieces on the floor. For the first time, she didn’t have a quip or a teasing remark. She simply nodded, slipping back into the passageway without another word.

As the trapdoor clicked shut behind her, Telemachus sank to his knees, gathering the shattered fragments of the figurine with shaking hands. His chest tightened, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel the weight of everything he’d been holding back. Telemachus sat on the cold floor of his room, his hands trembling as he tried to piece together the remains of the shattered figurine. The ship’s broken hull seemed to mock him, a reminder of everything that had been lost. His father, his home’s dignity, and now, even this small fragment of connection to the past.

His vision blurred, and he angrily swiped at his face, but the tears came anyway, hot and unrelenting. He clutched one of the larger fragments in his hand, the rough edge pressing into his palm.

“I hate them,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I hate them all.”

The words tumbled out in a torrent, each one weighted with years of frustration and grief. “The Suitors… those drunk, selfish bastards. They take everything. My food, my dignity, my mother’s peace. They treat this house like it’s theirs. Like I’m nothing. Just some useless boy who can’t stop them.”

His breathing hitched as he tightened his grip on the fragment. “And her,” he spat, the thought of Y/n igniting fresh anger. “She’s just like them. Always mocking, always taking. She thinks it’s all a game, doesn’t she? Sneaking in here, laughing at me, ruining the one thing I had left of him.” He choked on a sob, bowing his head as the tears fell freely now. “They all do. Antinous, Y/n, all of them. They don’t care about this place. About me. They don’t understand what it’s like.”

His voice dropped, soft and bitter. “What it’s like to wait. To wonder if he’s ever coming back. To hold onto anything that proves he was real, that he’s still out there.” The room was silent except for his ragged breathing and the occasional drip of tears onto the floor. Telemachus looked down at the fragments in his hand, his grip loosening. “I can’t do this anymore,” he murmured. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. It’s not. It’s never been fine.”

He sat there for a long while, his anger and sorrow swirling together in the quiet of the night. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t try to push the feelings away. He let them consume him, if only for a little while.

#antinous #epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #epic telemachus #telemachus x reader #telemachus #aphrodites gamble

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blackcat-star · 1 month ago

Text

Lost Spirit.

Sung Jinwoo x Ghost Reader

« Chapter 6 ✭Chapter 7: Jinah's teacher.

________________________

"Where are we going?"

"To the bank. I need to check the amount of money I have, then we'll go shopping a little."

The first place Jinwoo and his friend went after leaving the house was the bank. He was curious about the money he got from the mana stones.

'I don't have the time to check it.'

Jinwoo left the management of the magic cores to Jinho. The boy said that the magic stones after each raid were sold out, and the money earned was transferred to Jinwoo's account. But he didn't discuss the specific numbers.

'Jinho, this kid. Always reports everything clearly. It seems like he doesn't care much about money.'

Perhaps it was also due to his life circumstances, but Jinho rarely cared about financial matters. The topics of conversation only revolved around raids, celebrities, music, or movies. It was the kid who started the conversation, but Jinwoo just nodded silently.

'Hmm, that's strange...'

Recalling the times he heard the 'storyteller' Jinho confide, the kid had never talked about his family.

Before he could think more, Jinwoo was already standing in front of the bank.

'Such a day...'

Today, all the ATMs were under maintenance.

Jinwoo and you couldn't do anything else. He picked a number and sat there waiting. Meanwhile, you kept complaining about how he had interrupted your revenge.

"Really, if you had let me play a little longer, I could have earned some more money for me."

Jinwoo's face was blank. "Really? It looks like you're constantly losing. Besides, where would shadow soldiers get money from?"

You laughed innocently, "Aren't they your soldiers? The money came from your wallet. As a good master, shouldn't you pay for them?"

Jinwoo: >:0????

"Not that easy!"

Finally, after a 'not too long' time, he was able to go to the counter. "Hello!"

A clerk with short hair and a bright smile. She bowed to him and asked back. "How can I help you?"

"Could you please take a look for me?"

"Of course!"

The clerk took the notebook from Jinwoo's hand with a smile. He looked around the bank while waiting. Even though it was a weekend afternoon, there were still quite a few people coming to do transactions. Meanwhile, the bank clerk was extremely surprised when he looked through Jinwoo's notebook.

'Oh my god!'

[Account Balance: 1,482,920,000]

She carefully read it again, counting each zero, yes, it was definitely more than a billion. And this book was not a savings book. According to the transaction history, all the money was earned in the past week.

'He's so young, how could it be?'

Jinwoo was also surprised that he could earn so much money.

Meanwhile, you looked at the amount of money Jinwoo had, your smile gradually losing its humanity. 'Hehehehehehehe, he's rich! I heard the food in the mall is quite good.' You rubbed your hands together briskly, clasped your hands and made it look like you were formulating some kind of plan or scheme.

Suddenly, Jinwoo feels an icy chill run down his spine, an unease that settles in his mind and grips him with an icy chill. He had a bad feeling about something, related to his money.

Jinwoo turned to you, seeing your eyes looking at the passbook as if it were a piece of premium Wagyu beef sprinkled with gold and a 'free' flag.

"Y/N," he leaned in, his voice wary, "what are you thinking?"

You smiled, sweet as honey. "Nooooooo~ thinking nothing~ I'm just admiring your hard work!"

Jinwoo narrowed his eyes. "The kind of admiration where you rub your hands together like you're about to buy a three-floor mansion?"

"You're wronging me!" You clasped your hands together, then muttered, "But, a mansion doesn't sound too bad..."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing!"

Jinwoo sighed, taking the passbook back from the clerk who was still reeling from the numbers. "Thank you."

"Ah, yes, yes...have a nice day!" The clerk bowed quickly, thinking to herself 'He must be a hunter! Only hunters can make much money like that!'

Leaving the bank, you walked beside Jinwoo, your heart still as light as the sky.

"Jinwoo," you began in a coaxing tone. "I want a bank account too.."

Jinwoo looked at you, doubtful. "For what?"

"So I can be independent! Financially independent! Have a place to...to...send my monthly salary!"

"You don't work?"

"You can pay me!" you said. "I can support you when you fight, I'll clean your house, and I'll be your roommate and emotional manager for the shadow soldiers. Doing three jobs at once, no pay is against the labor law!"

Jinwoo: "..."

You: ":)))"

"What kind of labor law is that?"

"Law....Shadow Associate! Makes sense right?"

"..."

"No."

"Come on-"

"No."

"You're really... stifling the dreams of youth!" you said sadly.

"You're an adult!"

"Oh no, I'm the one who died but half alive again... but I still don't have my ID card, so you have to raise me!"

Jinwoo: "............"

Why don't I leave you in the tree?

____________________________

After failing to seduce Jinwoo, you gave up on your 'dream'.

"Can I at least buy something to eat at the mall?"

"...Just a little."

You saluted. "Yes sir."

After withdrawing the money, Jinwoo took you to a nearby shopping mall. At first, he only intended to buy a formal suit to meet Jinah's teacher. But things took a different turn from the moment you entered the first store.

He didn't expect that after he got a haircut and bought a new suit, your eyes would suddenly light up dangerously, forgeting your purpose of eating.

"You look so handsome!"

"...Thanks?" Jinwoo was a bit doubtful, instinctively taking a step back.

"Come with me!" - you pulled Jinwoo's hand and rushed into the fashion store chain as if you had a speed buff.

"Wait a minute, we're just going to buy one outfit and then go to Jinah's parent-teacher meeting-"

"No, since we're here, we have to try everything on!"

And so...

30 minutes later, Jinwoo sat absent-mindedly on the bench, next to six different bags of stuff. Jinwoo looked at the pile of bags beside him and then looked up at you – who was busy choosing another long coat, your eyes shining like LED lights from inside. He sighed.

"We have to go to Jinah's school," Jinwoo muttered, but you didn't seem to hear him.

You turned around, holding the coat and trying it on Jinwoo, tilting your head in thought. "Hmm, it's kind of outdated. Right? For a parent-teacher conference, you've got to dress a bit more formal."

"But we don't have to try on, like, eight coats."

"Don't be so stingy," you nudged Jinwoo. "We're living in the age of images. If the teachers see you dressed sloppily, they'll think Jinah isn't well-groomed."

Jinwoo was silent. It made sense. But that reason made him wait for another twenty minutes, with a total of twelve bags.

Finally, when you decided you had enough clothes, the two of you decided to leave the mall. Jinwoo lazily threw all the bags into his storage.

You walked beside him, singing and whistling like a free spirit, occasionally turning to look at Jinwoo with sparkling eyes.

"Are we going somewhere tomorrow?"

"No."

"We can call it bonding time! Like teammates!"

"No."

"Come on~"

"...I think I should buy some noise-canceling headphones."

You laughed loudly, then nudged Jinwoo's arm. "Nevertheless, you will listen to my words."

Jinwoo shook his head but the smile in his eyes was not hidden.

"Alright, I'm going to see how long I can last."

____________________________

Jinwoo stopped in front of a store when he saw his new reflection in the mirror. It looked pretty good. 'At the least, it assures no negative impression would be made or left behind.'

He glanced at his wristwatch, saw that the hands were at 4:20.

'Jinah told me to be there at 5...'

There was still plenty of time.

There was no need to rush, Jinwoo and his friend hailed a taxi and leisurely headed to school. Jinah was waiting for him in front of the gate.

"Hey Jinah!"

The girl didn't notice Jinwoo approaching.

"Oppa?"

Jinah stared at him with a bewildered expression.

"Excuse me, where's my oppa Sung Jinwoo?"

"Don't tell me you don't recognize your oppa?"

Jinah looked him up and down again and exclaimed with undisguised surprise.

"You look completely different!"

"So you think I'm wearing a T-shirt and slippers to meet the homeroom teacher?"

"Wow..."

Jinah was surprised by her usual simple brother. Then she noticed you standing next to him.

"Who is this? Oppa, do you have a girlfriend?"

Jinwoo hit Jinah on the head. "This is Y/n, and she's not my girlfriend."

You happily went over and held Jinah's hand. "I'm Y/n, nice to meet you! I'm Jinwoo's associate, and for whatever reason, I'm crashing at your place for a little while. Hope that's cool with you!"

Jinah smiled happily. "It's okay, I'm happy to have another sister. Living with my brother is not fun at all."

Jinwoo rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'm going in first."

The two of you ran after Jinwoo. He had studied here 5 years ago, so everything was already familiar. Jinwoo knew that the meeting would take place in the conference room, not the homeroom teacher's office. He walked in that direction. His pace increased as he walked.

"Oppa, wait for me!!!"

Jinah also hurriedly ran after her brother.

"Hello, teacher!"

"Oh, hello!"

On the way, Jinwoo and you bowed to each teacher. But everyone was quite surprised when they greeted him back.

'Who is that?'

'Is that a former student? I don't remember there being such a student in the school.'

'Is he a new teacher?'

And it wasn't just the teachers who turned their heads.

"Whoa...so handsome!!!"

"Who is he?"

"Why is Jinah walking next to him?"

"Who is the woman that walks beside him?"

'...'

The whispers rang out. Jinah felt extremely excited. She listened to everything with a proud expression, then nudged Jinwoo's side with her elbow.

"Oppa, look at how everyone admires you!!!"

"Jinwoo is so famous" you teased him.

But Jinwoo didn't seem to mind.

"But don't betray Y/n unnie, or I'll hit you!"

Jinwoo didn't let the little girl off this time, he pinched her cheek. "I told you, Y/n isn't my girlfriend."

"Ah, I'm sorry..."

Jinwoo let her go. Jinah rubbed her red cheeks. You giggled.

While walking and arguing, they arrived. Jinah turned around before pointing at the room.

"It's here, oppa, unnie..."

As she was about to enter, Jinwoo suddenly turned to her sister.

"What about you?"

"Only the guardians and teachers are talking to each other! My mission is over here, goodbye oppa and unnie."

You wondered, "I can come in too?"

Jinwoo nodded, "It's fine, I can't leave you outside anyway."

"I heard that Jinah's brother is a hunter, right?"

Her eyes became serious.

"Yes, teacher!"

"If Jinah goes through the awakening stage, do you want her to become a hunter?"

"Definitely not"

Never.

Jinwoo answered decisively, and definitely without thinking. As if he had known the question and had prepared the answer. Her face fell slightly.

"As I expected..."

The teacher was hesitating, and Jinwoo gave her a skeptical look.

"Do you mind if I ask you for a favor?"

________________________

To be continue.

_________________________

Chapter 8 »

________________________

tag: @weaponxgames @sky2lar @snowy-violet @joannthebish @fackeraccount @tanspostsblog @perkypeony @ssolarsystm @winter-soldier-101 @delusionillusion3322 @o-qi-shisme @soft-dots @snowlycanroc

(let me know if I forget to tag anyone)

Everything I write is fiction and for entertainment purposes, please don't take anything seriously

#sung jinwoo x reader #jinwoo #solo leveling #sung jinwoo #sung jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo x y/n #solo leveling x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo sung

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yourheart-inmyhands · 2 years ago

Note

I got one for you. Reader with long hair. Yan zhongli, Childe and Pantalone adore brushing it out or washing it for you, putting pretty (but not pointy) decorations in it. but you HATE them touching it. So one day, maybe when they slip up and leave smth sharp in your abode you grab it and lop off as much as you can before they come back (or stop you if they’re in the room when you do it). What happens afterwards?

Cannot wait to see what you cook with this, I adore your takes.

ah tysm! sorry it took so long to get to this, i took a little bit of a different twist from my normal writing style and did some headcanons and a short blurb! hope you enjoy :D

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including implied being held against will, mentions of reader almost being hit, zhongli being a softie, delusional behaviors, obsessive behaviors, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Yandere!Pantalone would be furious, as someone with hair of a decent length himself, he knows the time and dedication it takes to grow it out so long.

He also knows how much maintenance it took, which is why he never fussed about helping you with it, often insisting to do it for you.

He saw it as a bonding moment between the two of you, something to help him wake up in the morning as he did your hair and something to unwind to at night as he’d undo the intricate styles he had done it up in that morning.

You cutting off your hair with a letter opener that he’d left in the room by mistake hurts him, upsets him to the point he almost strikes you. To him it’s as if you had cut him, making a statement that you’d rather give up on something you’d dedicated years to, than to allow him the comfort and satisfaction.

Pantalone can’t even bear to look at you for the next few days, sleeping in another room or in his office.

“How could you do something so despicable? Do you even care how this made me feel?” The way Pantalone speaks almost makes it seem like you’d given him an impromptu haircut. With the gorgeous hair that used to reach down the length of your back now sitting in choppy piles on the floor, it almost felt like you had in a way. Your hair was uneven, lopped off sporadically in case he tried to interrupt. You’d just taken off the last few locks when he had noticed the absence of his letter-opener, intending to merely pop into your shared bedroom to grab it. Instead he was met with the grueling sight of you, kneeling before the full length mirror, hand clutching the letter opened as your opposite hand released a fist full of hair, letting it float down to the piles that had formed below.

Yandere!Zhongli would be conflicted. Part of him is upset that you’d make such a hasty decision, not even weighing the outcomes and taking away something from not just yourself but from the both of you.

The other side of him is hurt that you didn’t come to him first. That you didn’t feel comfortable expressing your discomfort with his actions and had taken it to the extreme instead. His heart aches at both thoughts.

You’d managed to pry a sharp piece of stone off the walls of the cave, using it to hastily take off chunks, only for Zhongli to catch you mid way through. His contempt at the situation settles with a sigh as me approaches you, gently prying the rock from your hands before disappearing, leaving you to sit on the floor, half of your hair lopped off just scattered around you.

He returns a short bit later though, bringing with him a large mirror and a sharp pair of scissors. Setting the mirror in front of you, he gently begins correcting your hazardous hack job, carefully trimming off all the missed areas to even it all out.

While his work wasn’t great, it certainly looked a little better than how it had started. Your hair now sitting a few inches above your shoulder, a simple all around cut that was, mostly, even.

Zhongli didn’t say a word as he approached, looking down at you with a blank expression, his calm eyes staring deeply into your wide ones as he gently pried the rock from your hands, leaving you to wallow in a pile of your own hair as he disappears. Upon his return, he places a large, ornate mirror in front of you. It was typically kept in the living room as a decorative piece but he required it’s services here. Pulling from his pocket a pair of sharp scissors, he gently angles your head to be straight before reaching for the areas you hadn’t gotten to yet. Quickly shedding the length of those pieces he gets to work on straightening the rest out, doing an ok job at making it all match up and look decent. “If you wanted me to leave your hair alone you could’ve always asked darling, you know I only want to make you happy in this life of ours.”

Yandere!Childe manages to catch you before the act. You had thought you were sneaky, tiptoeing out of bed early in the morning over to his work clothes that had been hastily shed after his return last night.

You knew he kept a couple different blades on him, having shown you them before. Yet as you checked every pocket, every hidden loop, all the little places he’d shown you that he could be keeping them, you continued to turn up with nothing.

Over and over you checked, an almost pleading in the way your hands silently searched through the crumpled clothing, desperate to find anything even remotely sharp at this point.

You could feel the frustration as well as tears welling up in your eyes, why couldn’t anything ever go your way? First you get stuck with that crazed lunatic, and now that he’s practically taken over your hair you can’t even take some control and rid yourself of it.

As you search, you failed to hear the bed creak, or the soft patter of footsteps behind you. The only two things that tell you he’s awake are his voice whispering in his ear and his hand flaunting the exact thing you’d been looking for.

“I thought you might go looking for this, so I hid it under the pillow. A little cliche but I thought you’d be too stupid to look there, guess I was right~” Childe’s voice comes out in a sing-song tone, almost as if he was bragging about outsmarting you. He could tell from the moment he took an interest in your hair that it made you uncomfortable, just another button of yours to push as he slowly molded you into the perfect spouse for himself. His nimble fingers twirled the simple knife around, flaunting it to you. You could try to grab it, lunge for it even, but it was no use. You wouldn’t be able to get even a strand shortened before Childe would have it back in his possession, especially when the distance between the two of you was so short. Short enough that you could feel his chest pressing against your back, his breath on your neck, and his soft strands of hair brushing against the back of your head.

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greenglowsgold · 2 years ago

Text

The List.

Based on the Cass Apocalyptic Series.

The first part of this has been rumbling around in my brain ever since that Super Sad Scene a month ago, but yesterday’s update gave me the other side of the coin, so to speak, and finally pulled it all together.

@somerandomdudelmao thanks for the fuel, friend

-----

Donatello’s days have become a series of checklists, as of late.

No, that’s not exactly true. His days have always been about lists: what he’s done, what he can delegate to someone else, what still needs doing. But these days he’s been doing less and listing more, piling tasks from the first category onto the second as fast as he can manage, hoping he has enough time to empty the queue.

The full catalog is written out in a series of files, reorganized for accessibility to the layperson and meticulously up-to-date as of yesterday. He meant to run through it again this morning, ensure all the relevant instruction manuals were attached to each item and double check his protocols, but he wasn’t… he couldn’t…

He’s going to die tonight.

It irritates him, his own miscalculation of the timing more than the stark presence of his oncoming demise. The latter has been inevitable for quite some time, long enough that he’s gotten used to the idea. But he thought he had another week or two, and he doesn’t like being proven wrong. He wonders if his brothers know.

Probably not. They know it’s bad now, obviously, because they’ve piled him with pillows and blankets and surrounded him on all sides, and Leo has finally gone quiet. But they trust him, they’ve always trusted him, even when they shouldn’t, so if he swears he’ll last a few more days, they’ll believe him. He thinks. He’s pretty sure. If they knew it was tonight, he doubts they would choose to sleep through it. Donnie thinks about waking them up, but only for a moment. He’d like to say it’s a noble act, to leave them in peace a little bit longer, but the truth is he’s just too fucking tired to move.

There’s something settled bone-deep in his chest, a heaviness that sits on him like a stone, a peine forte et dure pressing him down and down, stopping his voice and his breath and his heart. He wonders if this is what dying usually feels like, or if it’s unique to the Kraang. Raph would know.

He cranes his neck to the right, to catch Raph’s face out of the corner of his eye. Raph’s working eye is half-open, staring down at the floor. Donnie could ask him. (He won’t. Let him fall asleep.) The movement of his head is so slight it doesn’t even catch Raph’s attention. He’s too tired for anything more. He’s so goddamn tired.

His lists are out of reach at the moment, with his physical interfaces back in the lab and his ninpo locked behind a wall of oh-god-it-sounds-too-exhausting-to-even-try, but he memorized them all long ago.

Raphael: Maintenance (delegated to Casey, who has it well in hand). Plans (tucked away in a dedicated folder, long term, but someday they’ll have the materials, and Raph will have a proper body again, someday). Honey (yes, he passed that along last week).

Raph has access to the tracking programs, so he can keep an eye on everyone himself, even when Donnie can’t pull up locations or vitals for him anymore. He has his own space in the base once more, somewhere to close a door when he needs to (he insists he doesn’t, but Donnie isn’t a fool). He has more excuses to spend time with Casey, who’s taking over his upkeep. Donnie hopes it fills in some gaps for both of them.

He runs through the list, double checks each item. It’s his last chance to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything important.

He looks down, finds Mikey.

There’s a stockpile of the anti-aging serum in his safe, the formula in his database, plans for the permanent solution clearly labeled. As long as they have his lab, his systems, Mikey will be as young as his years. He’s walked him through the greenhouse, even if most of it is controlled by the computer system. Mikey misses the world being green; it’ll do him good to spend more time around the plants. He has his tea, his candles. He has Draxum, who by now should have received a — mildly — threatening message warning him not to pull any disappearing acts anytime soon. He has their ancestors, just a short call away.

Donnie’s sure Mikey will call on him soon. He doesn’t plan to stray far.

Up a bit. To the left. Leo.

The arm — Leo knows how to take care of it, as does Casey.

The passwords — reset, something even Leo will be able to remember without resorting to blackmail.

The schedule — reshuffled for the next few days, he’ll have a hard enough time sleeping as it is.

The photos — everything they have, even the embarrassing ones. He even managed a couple of prints, and one precious shot from their pre-apocalypse days, something for Leo to tuck into a pouch and carry with him, when they’re not around.

Raph, Mikey, Leo. He doesn’t think he’s missed anything. Donnie lets his head fall back, too exhausted to hold it up any longer.

Is it enough?

His mind stretches further out. He’s unraveling.

What about April? Her prescription is up to date, they just checked a month ago. She has the latest in his combat tech, which has kept her safe in the field this long, so he has no reason to think it will falter now. He’s leaving her a few extra pieces, since he won’t be able to use them anymore. Leo will find the time for a movie night once in a while, he’s certain, even if his taste in Jupiter Jim movies is horrendous. They still have coffee; he’d die before he let that particular supply run out. He will, actually.

Casey. Fuck, Donnie’s gonna miss his birthday. But he did plan for this, his protocols will kick in. The mask is finished, everything is in place. He’s reconfigured his workstations, fit them for a tiny human instead of a seven-foot turtle. Casey has a better head for mechanics than any of his brothers ever did. Kid likes to be useful, so Donnie’s left him as much use as he can. He’s taught him everything Casey can learn and left instructions for more, when he’s a little older and wiser. His family will take care of him, they’ll make sure he gets there.

The base. It has to hold, to give them somewhere safe. The infrastructure is sound, and they have people to manage repair work. Supplies are decent, the most critical items in stock, everything that can be made renewable is. Their allies — Leo handles interpersonal issues and leadership, but Donnie’s checked the list with a pragmatist’s eye, left notes and rankings for priority. Security is the largest concern, but he’s spent nearly half his time with his assistants since his self-diagnosis (he could have spent it with his family), running them through the programs and adjustments, trying to bring them up to somewhere in the realm of his own expertise (a fool’s errand, but still). They’ve been rigorously instructed, they understand that the little things like sleep are secondary concerns. It has to hold.

Is it enough? For them to be okay?

He’s done everything he can. He can’t do any more. So it has to be enough.

Donnie blinks, and for a moment isn’t certain his eyes will open again at the end of it. But they do. At least one more time, they obey him.

Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Home. He rolls back through the list. It’s his last chance. He can’t miss anything.

Mikey’s hand tightens unconsciously around his wrist, fingers meeting easily on either side. Donnie feels only the echo of the pressure.

Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Home.

Something bright sparks at the edges of his vision before it fades. The last gasps of a dying brain, he supposes. Synapses firing one last time before they’re snuffed out.

Raph.

Mikey.

Leo.

April.

Casey.

Home.

Light.

There’s light.

It hurts.

He thought dying would stop the pain, but it’s risen to a fever pitch instead. His brother’s arms are gone, but the disease wraps around him in their place, consumes him. It rages like a wildfire, burning through his center until pieces start to flake away like ash.

Oh, this is what it does, what it was built for. The Kraang could have killed him in a lot of different ways. He’d wondered why they chose this one.

He hasn’t planned for it. This is something he didn’t even know to fear.

It’s bright and it hurts but it’s quiet as he crumbles, folds in on himself like a black hole in the utter silence of outer space. It’s quiet enough that the voice that breaks through does so clear as a bell.

His head turns to follow the sound, instinct. He’s lost half his field of vision, but what’s left is enough. He looks, and finds Casey.

Casey looks at him, at him, not the body. Donnie opens his mouth to ask a question — What are you doing here? How? Why? — but something else sloughs out instead. Not blood. He doesn’t have that anymore.

Casey calls his name once more and starts running.

Donnie’s questions fold back into his mind. His mouth clicks shut, he swallows back the putrid rot and pushes himself up. His arms are shattered but they’ll have to hold him. They have to. Because Casey is here and he needs something, which means Donnie missed something, which means he isn’t done.

His spirit disagrees with him, doesn’t see the logic. His arms don’t hold.

Casey reaches to catch him as he falls, and the touch ruptures him instead. He scatters. Into the air and the ground and Casey. For a moment, he’s just pieces, fumbling around and latching onto anything that welcomes them, and Casey does that. They flow into him. They’re him. They’re…

He’s…

Casey, he’s…

Donatello pulls himself back together. Most of himself, anyway. The infection hasn’t followed him but the damage persists. He’s run through with cracks and crevices, shaking bits away into infinity with every movement. But there’s more of him here than not.

Unexpectedly, Donnie is not gone. He’s still dead, but that’s fine, he planned for that one.

Casey has him now. He wraps himself around Donnie in layers, helps hold him together with a kind of sheer will that makes up for any lack of mystic knowledge in spades. Casey asks him to stay, and Donnie takes up the task like Sisyphus sizing up the hill. This time, this time I’ll do it right.

Even better, Casey has taken him to another time, one where all of Donnie’s long-term plans are now completely-fucking-reasonable plans. Casey’s going to fix it, so Donnie can fix everything else. Whatever else needs it. He hasn’t really asked. And he knows he’s missed something, but he doesn’t think too hard about what, not yet.

First thing’s first: he needs a body.

It’s so simple to accomplish that it seems like the universe is mocking him. Just a quick 1-2-3, ticking off the list. It feels almost stupid, like running back through the early levels of a video game after unlocking all the ultimate weapons and burning through enemies and obstacles, laughing, shit, did I used to think this was hard?

In no time at all, his own face has formed in front of him.

In no time at all, he’s gasping.

It’s only been a few hours since he last breathed air, but he’s missed it.

Another thing he’s missed? Functional musculature. Casey slams into him and Donnie is startled to find that it doesn’t knock him over. His arms and legs look like actual limbs again, not fragile little sticks disguising themselves as such. He stands, dragging Casey along without a second thought. The weight barely registers. It’s amazing.

The power trip is heady, but it only lasts a few minutes before reality kicks it in the ass and pulls him back down to earth.

We lost, Casey says.

They’re dead, Casey says.

It wasn’t enough, Casey does not say, but Donnie hears it just as clearly.

All those plans, the preparations, the precautions and protocols, they only borrowed a year or two before they fell apart. He sees the timeline spiral out before him, tighter and tighter until it collapses in on itself, rendered all the more insignificant from his own point of perception. He was alive yesterday. His family is dead today.

Everything he did, it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. He was stupid to think otherwise.

(Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Casey’s still here. It was enough for him, at least.)

It cuts at him a little, to have been so wrong. But he’s strong again, now. He can take the wound. More importantly, he has another chance to get it right.

Donnie breathes. His chest expands smoothly, easily. The air doesn’t rattle in his lungs. He’s alive, he’s a genius, he can fix anything.

He pulls up a list.

#rottmnt #cass apocalyptic series #Rise of the TMNT #fic I write #*looks at the word count* haha. anyway. i'm normal.#Donnie's expressions when he looks at his family one last time are so fuckin good they're so clear #I looked at him and I was like 'oh cool I can literally read his mind'#which may or may not be true (you tell me) but holy shit was it effective #(please @god let the formatting of this post hold)

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fannedandflawless · 28 days ago

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🧽 How Did That Cloak Stay Clean?

Let’s talk about the real magic here—not wandwork, but wardrobe maintenance.

Severus Snape wore a floor-length robe that swept across stone corridors, dungeon floors, and Merlin knows what else. Realistically? It should’ve been filthy. But in the films—and in our collective imagination—it remained pristine. Always. Not a speck of dust on the hem.

And that’s not just aesthetic. That’s intention.

Because this is Snape we’re talking about.

If you told me he cast a mild repelling charm into every seam, I’d believe it. If you told me he invented an enchantment to keep the wool sharp, the silhouette intact, the cloak billowing just high enough to avoid dirt—I’d say of course he did.

Maybe that’s why he walked like that. Tall. Sharp. Cloak in mid-air, swirling before it touches the floor. It wasn’t just drama.

It was preservation.

You don’t survive years in the dungeons, stalking from cauldron to corridor, without making your clothing part of your discipline. He didn’t wear that robe.

He commanded it.

And you can bet your last galleon—if a single scuff ever appeared, it didn’t last long.

Because Severus Snape was many things.

But unkempt? Never.

And if we really want to go there—think about what a Potions Master deals with daily: powdered roots, dried beetle shells, splashes of unicorn blood, droplets of armadillo bile. All of it airborne, all of it staining. A cloak that dragged without defence would look like a tapestry of disasters within a week.

So maybe it wasn’t just a repelling charm. Perhaps, it was something older. Older magic. Something stitched by hand and sealed by intent.

Because that cloak wasn’t just clean.

It was untouchable.

A moving shadow that said: “Try me.”

—

✨ Of course it never stained. It wasn’t just clothing—it was control, defiance, presence.

→ Read more: The Uniform Was Armour

#not even gravity touches him #he dry cleans with disdain #dirt saw him coming and fled #severus snape #snape meta #snape analysis #potions master #wizard fashion #magical textiles #dark academia #hogwarts staff #harry potter meta #fanned and flawless

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fayes-fics · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 1 - Sous le ciel de Paris

MASTERPOST | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Welcome to the start of my new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Please note that while I do have a plotted outline, I will be posting chapters as I write them, and I expect that process to take quite a few months. Please bear with me! This first chapter sets up the story - reader moving to Paris in the summer of 1939 and bonding with her new flatmate, Eloise Bridgerton. Please note that Benedict won't be turning up for a couple of chapters yet. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

August 1939

Emerging from the underground Trocadero metro stop, you round the corner of the recently completed, gleaming Palais de Chaillot and stop dead in your tracks. There before you is the most iconic landmark of Paris. Perhaps all of France.

La Tour Eiffel.

Breathtaking in its metallic magnificence, glowing in the setting sun. A sight that buoys your travel-weary soul seven days after you left New York: boats and trains finally bringing you to this wondrous spot. A light breeze even dances over your neck in greeting, a balm from the cloying subterranean heat of the metro.

It's a light elbow check to your arm that pulls you back from a state of reverie.

“A beautiful sight, but one you’ll get used to,” your uncle Robert chuckles, shaking your heavy leather case to indicate it's time to move along. “In fact, I've been told you will be able to see it from your appartement…”

He has accompanied you to Paris and will see you settled into your new adventures before continuing on to visit friends in England. He spent the roaring 20s living right here in the 16th arrondissement himself and, indeed, has arranged for you to share living quarters with a young British lady, a relative of his English friends. It's a comfort to know you’ll have at least one English speaker to chat with as you dive headfirst into learning proper French as you go.

Robert leads you away from the amazing sight and into the bustling streets, alive with cars, trams, bicycles and pedestrians buzzing in all directions. It's all at once like New York City, but yet so different as well, cafe terraces filling the wide pavements with all manner of people gathered to sip robust cafe au lait and refreshing limonade.

Within minutes, you are on a quieter side street and stopping outside a handsome honey-coloured stone facade with wrought iron window balconies and window guards, teaming with colourful, fragrant flowering pots. The number 14 gleaming white on a traditional navy blue tile. Your uncle pushes the enormous wooden door open, beckoning you into a cool whitewash wall corridor with mosaic floor tiles.

“Ahhh, Robert!!” a sophisticated middle-aged lady bustles from a nearby doorway and greets your uncle warmly, kissing both cheeks. It would appear they are friends of old.

“Y/n, this is Madam DuLac, your landlady,” he explains as you offer a handshake, admiring her boucle jacket and chic bun.

“Qu’est-ce?” she signals with a good-natured frown, obviously finding your polite greeting lacking, pulling you into a hug and two-cheeked kiss. She smells like Chanel perfume, cigarettes and baked goods. “You are in Paris now, ma chérie; this is how we greet one another,” she counsels in heavily accented but perfect English.

“You speak English?” you sigh, relieved, your French decidedly lacking.

“Bien sûr,” she smiles. “And please call me Solène,” she adds with a friendly smile.

“Eloise should be home from the library maintenant; the perfect time for you to meet,” she gestures towards an elevator cage surrounded by a sweeping grey marble staircase.

“I think I would prefer to take the stairs,” you admit, nerves flaring at the idea of such a contraption.

Your uncle laughs. “Well, I am taking it; I am not hefting this case of yours up five flights of stairs,” he adds dryly as you gaze up the swirling stairwell.

“Five storeys?” you squeak.

“The view is the best from the top,” Solène advises as she rattles back the cage entry and steps in, looking at you expectantly.

Reluctantly, you follow, all three of you and your luggage crammed into the metal cage as it jerks to life and begins its ascent.

“You will get used to it,” Solène smiles as she reads the apprehension on your face, your vice-like grip on your small vanity case and handbag.

Luckily, the lift reaches your destination safely. One shudder before it stops, and the door concertinas back in Solène’s hand to reveal a sweeping hallway with doors left and right.

“Ici,” she signals, the last door on the right-hand side.

But before you can knock, the door peels open, and a pretty, petite brunette jumps in surprise, dropping the book she is holding.

“Pardon,” she offers in perfect accented French, and you wonder for a split second if it is the correct apartment.

“Eloise, this is y/n,” Solène gestures.

“Ohhh, hello,” she grins, and the whiplash back to a plummy British accent is momentarily confusing. “I was about to go read in the courtyard, thought you might not be turning up today. Anyway… come in, come in!”

You shake her proffered hand as she ushers you into the apartment. Instantly, you feel a warmth spreading in your belly, like you have come home. It's light and airy, with large windows looking out across the Parisian rooftops, and yes, to the left is indeed the Eiffel Tower, still gleaming in the fading evening light. But the place also feels homely, that sort of messy that is lived in, comfortable. A large velvet sofa with tumbling stacks of books around it, a little kitchenette awash with colourful enamel cookware, and a jumble of art deco posters and random paintings adorning the walls.

“Solène, I don't suppose you've baked any more of those rather delicious madeleines, have you? To welcome my new housemate?” Eloise pipes up with a chipper, conspiratorial wink your way.

You already like her.

“Effronte!” Solène exclaims with fond exasperation before pausing. “There may be some…”

“I remember those!” your uncle adds with a tinge of nostalgia as he drops your suitcase. “You are in for such a treat, y/n.”

“Well, while our landlady decides if she’s willing to share the treats she has obviously baked but is being coy about…”Eloise raises a pointed eyebrow at the woman before returning to you. “...let me show you your room, then maybe a drink? I'm sure it's been a long journey.”

You nod and, with an exchange of grins, follow her down a corridor. She sweeps open the door to a lovely room, a large double bed with matching bedside tables and a dresser. But best of all, french doors onto a Juliet balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard filled with a riot of birch trees, their leaves gently rustling in the evening breeze.

“Mostly, it’s pesky pigeons down there, but you do get the occasional blackbird singing in the morning,” Eloise smiles as if intuiting your thoughts.

You spend some moments wandering the room and checking out the various fixtures, running idle hands over the furniture, already feeling remarkably at home with your new housemate and, indeed, your new home for the next twelve months.

“I'm just next door,” Eloise reveals, pointing a thumb over her shoulder.

Your uncle appears in the doorway to announce that he and Solène are off to catch up as you unpack and suggests you all reunite for dinner later at a local bistro. It all sounds so very Parisian chic; you cannot wait.

“So tell me about yourself,” Eloise flops onto your bed, already wonderfully casual in your presence, as you open your case and the wardrobe to unpack.

“I’m y/n. I'm from a little town on Long Island called Patchogue, about fifty miles outside New York City. I'm 22…”

“Me too!” she interjects, then signals for you to proceed.

“I wanted to see the world before I settled down. And I’ve dreamed of living in Paris since I was a little girl...” You feel your eyes misting at the fact it's now finally coming true as you continue. “So my parents agreed to pay for me to come to Paris for a year. Under the strict agreement, I get married when I return…”

“You have a fiancé?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. Stanley. We practically grew up together, and we’ve been going steady since we were eighteen.”

“Going steady? That's so American,” Eloise chuckles.

You nod with a giggle, then continue. “He hasn't proposed formally yet, says he is saving up for a ‘real nice’ ring, but it will happen. He is the son of my dad’s business partner. They run a construction company. So, while I'm here, they are building a home for us to live in when I return. We will get married next summer and move right in.”

“You don't mind?” Eloise frowns.

“Don’t mind what?” you query as you hang up your favourite dress.

“That your future is so… plotted out. I couldn't bear the idea. It's why I think my mother let me move to Paris. She was so fed up with me refusing to settle down.” Eloise laughs, idly flicking through the magazine you were reading on your journey.

“I suppose I've never really expected anything else,” you shrug, pausing as you put away your hosiery, but her words make you contemplative. “You don't have a boyfriend back home?”

“God, no. Too many pretty Frenchmen to entertain me here,” she winks. “I’ll introduce you to some, just in case you change your mind,” she breezes, climbing off your bed and drifting to the door. “Wine?”

“Oh… well, why not? When in France, etc,” you agree and close the drawer on the pile of cardigans you have just safely stacked.

“That's the spirit!” she effuses over her shoulder as you follow her back into the living room, the Eiffel Tower still glittering in the dusk.

“This place is so lovely,” you sigh, transfixed by the view as she wanders over and hands you a glass.

“It is a pretty magical view,” she agrees, staring at the skyline with you, watching as each window seems to illuminate in soft yellow with the dying light.

“And the decor, too; I see you love books as much as me,” you smile, tilting your head to the piles before taking a sip of red wine. It's the perfect balance of refreshing, mellow fruitiness and tart tannin coating your tongue, so much better than any wine back home.

“Oh god, yes! I work in the library. I can bring home as many as I want,” she enthuses.

“So, are there actually any left on the shelves?” you jest, lightly, savouring your drink and wandering to take a closer look at a smaller painting that catches your eye. It's very different to all of the others.

“My god, this is beautiful,” you breathe, hugging your wineglass to your chest as you stare transfixed at the art. It appears to be a large country house, probably British, bathed in the warm pinkish light of dawn.

“That's home. Aubrey Hall in Kent. I think the family made me bring it in the hopes it would make me homesick,” Eloise deadpans.

“It’s a wonderful piece,” you breathe, fingers reaching out to lightly trace over the heavily oiled brushstrokes. Something about it is so captivating and intimate.

“I'll be sure to let the artist know,” she smirks. “Although I'm reticent to give him any more praise, seeing as, unfortunately, he is my brother.”

“Your brother painted this?” taken aback by the revelation, assuming it an heirloom.

She nods and comes to stand next to you. “Yup. Benedict. Second eldest. I'm fifth of eight, by the way. Hence ‘E’ for Eloise. It's a thing,” she rolls her eyes.

“Wow. Big family. I just have one brother...”

“Lucky you. Although, as much as he is irritating, if I could only keep one sibling, it probably would be him,” she admits, taking a swig of wine.

“I love art,” you sigh, finally tearing your gaze from the canvas but already knowing it is something you will return to again and again. A pull you can’t quite understand.

“Oh, then I know the perfect job for you! There’s a gallery around the corner from the library, and I saw a sign saying they wanted an English speaker to assist international visitors! You would be perfect!”

“I would love that!” you extol, even as a tiny part of your brain lingers on the idea that it would be too good to be true if it all worked out, that fleeting sense of foreboding in paradise.

“Excellent!” Eloise’s enthusiasm pulls you back to the immediate. “So let’s get your glad rags on! It's time to hit the town for your first night in Paris!”

And thus, you find yourself being bundled back into your room to refresh and change for your first night in the city of your dreams. Indeed, as you find yourself being led by Eloise, arm looped in yours, through the bustling evening streets to a little bistro, your uncle and Solène already waiting at a table with smiling faces and drinks in hand, you can't help but feel this really is the only place in the world you could ever want to be…

Your adventure is just beginning.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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seat-safety-switch · 1 year ago

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One of the things that nobody tells you about automotive repair is how much of the job involves cleaning. Brake cleaning. Contact cleaning. Interior cleaning. Wiping off pounds of mud so you can even see. Some fixes, you spend more time cleaning off the area than you do actually doing the work.

There are two schools of thought on this issue. Not everyone believes what I do, which is that clean cars run better than dirty cars. Some part of the immortal machine spirit smiles upon you for having treated it well. I will swear as I am being lowered into the ground that a car wash picks up, like, a quarter of a horsepower.

A couple years ago, I went out mudding in my buddy's Isuzu Impulse which had been inexplicably converted to a dune buggy. He tells me that some kind of entity came to him in the woods and told him to do it, but I'm pretty sure it must have been some stoned kids on spring break. Either way, it's very satisfying to pop the pressure washer and hose off five pounds of mud from each of the seats after we're done playing. It's by far my favourite kind of maintenance: done from afar, indiscriminately, with power tools.

Of course, there are limits to my love of the clean. For instance, my old Impala has a hole in the floor big enough to catch a mid-sized dog inside. Road salt and the oil leaking out of the engine make a huge mess in the interior. Cleaning it is futile until I've fixed the hole, and I can't fix the hole until I've cleaned it well enough to get a weld down on what's left of the metal. So instead, it's got some stolen hotel towels duct-taped over the hole. When one becomes too rancid, I put it in my neighbour's trash, and wear my hotel-maid outfit to go get a new one.

Don't worry; I do a little bit of tidying-up while I'm in there. Otherwise that towel cupboard would be so cluttered. How could anyone see what they're doing in there? Super dangerous to the workers, they should be paying me.

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thewhumpcaretaker · 7 months ago

Note

do you think sébastien lacroix has went into torpor against his will and had to relive some distasteful memories of being in a war as a young adult

Why yes! I do. Be forewarned, I had a long week and got a little overzealous so this is like 90% hurt and only 10% comfort, oops. I was BRUTAL.

Image Source | TW: claustrophobia, starvation, war PTSD, animal death

⚜ FAILED INVASIONS ⚜

The attempt on the Paris crown was the first real mistake LaCroix had made in his unlife. More than a mistake – a whole misadventure.

Things had gone decently up until that point. He had travelled widely, networking all the while. He’d accumulated allies, and leverage, and servants, all of whom were formidable but none of whom he trusted, as was only wise. But this city was too big a leap in power too soon, even for him. He made one too many enemies in addition to all those friends, and his little coup was revealed. In the end, the would-be Prince of Paris was separated from his followers and forced to flee, hunted through the catacombs under the city for two nights and days. The local Nosferatu knew those tunnels better than anyone, of course, and he never really stood a chance.

It was only because of one particular Nosferatu’s bitterness towards him that he happened to survive. The man found him already wounded and nearly bloodless, cowering against a wall. He seemed to enjoy hauling Sebastian around by the frills of his collar (the height of fashion at the time) while he begged desperately. “Non, non, je ne t'épargnerai pas. Mais vous êtes un véritable fléau avec vos intrigues depuis une demi-décennie maintenant. Ce ne serait pas amusant de te livrer à une mort finale rapide et agréable. [No, no, I won’t be sparing you. But you’ve been such a pest with your scheming for half a decade now. It would be no fun just hand you over to a nice quick Final Death.]” And, grinning wickedly with his uneven fangs, the man threw LaCroix into a secret side tunnel, and locked the entrance.

So there he was, trapped. He was in total darkness, but by feeling his way along the walls, he could tell he was in a narrow, claustrophobic, low-ceilinged tunnel, hardly more than a crawlspace between two larger rooms. The doors on either end were heavy slabs that could only be lifted by an apparatus on the other side. A few hours of examining the walls told him with more or less total certainty that there was no way out. Even trying to dig would be futile, as the walls were solid stone. The ceiling was too low to permit standing to his full height, yet there was nowhere comfortable to even lie down for the day, just dusty, cold cobblestones.

Well, no matter – he had no real desire to sleep anyway. His dreams lately had been even worse nightmares than usual, no doubt intensified by the stress of his plans. And now all that stress had been for nothing, too. He sighed, settled gingerly onto the floor with his knees curled against his chest, and waited.

It’s alright, he tried to tell himself. It won’t be long. People are coming for me. Definitely. Some of them are backstabbers, but someone must be loyal.

But as the hours turned to what must be days, he felt a creeping dread take hold. There were no markers of time down here, but it certainly felt too long. Maybe that man had told everyone he was already dead. Maybe he’d shown off some random heap of ashes and said it was LaCroix. Or even told them that he was alive and locked up, and they all thought it was a good joke. Times came when the frustration and humiliation inside him burned so terribly that he just started flinging himself at the door, threatening whoever might be outside that if they’d didn’t let him out soon they’d – they’d…they’d what? He was totally powerless, and eventually sank down again, defeated. Other times came when he just couldn’t take it anymore – the total darkness, the closeness of the walls, the abject misery. He pounded against the doors then too, begging for release, promising anything in return.

But it seemed that this area of the catacombs was not commonly frequented even by the Nosferatu, or else they heard him and didn’t care. There was never even the smallest sound in answer to his.

A bigger problem was already at hand: he was getting hungry. He hadn’t fed in a while even before this whole debacle began. And now the ache in his stomach was turning to an ache in his veins as his body spent up its blood on healing his own starvation. He felt sluggish. Tired. He would have slept but his mind was so frazzled that he didn’t think he could take the awful dreams it would produce. By that point, he’d been awake for many, many days. He just needed a drop of blood for energy, just a drop. He would eat absolutely anything, he thought.

What was most maddening was that he could hear things moving around him in the dark, squealing and skittering, presenting a plentiful source of blood. Rats. They smelled foul. They seemed to come from the door on the north end of the passage, from a small crack in the stone that they were just tiny enough to squeeze through (lucky bastards). They came and went as they pleased, and he was alternately disgusted and tempted by their presence.

He was quick enough to grab one once, and even held it up to his fangs, mouth open. But it smelled so repugnant he was almost sick just from the scent, and in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to bite. He just let it patter its way back through that little crack. With a whine of disappointment, Sebastian slumped over onto his side and let himself cry. Or he almost cried. There was no water left in him, he realized. He was just making pitiful, dry-throated keening noises without tears and he was too miserable to care.

In the last hours of his awareness, he was still lying there, on his side, staring into the blackness. His muscles had already ceased to cooperate, lacking enough blood flow to flex as they should. Something about being this hungry made the cold of his undead bones seem even more unbearable. A memory flickered through his mind, a familiar bone-deep cold... Such an unpleasant memory that he shied away from it physically, managing to jerk his head slightly. Don’t think about that. Not now. Please. Think about warmth. Anything for warmth in his veins… He almost wished his undead body would shiver, and eventually it did – from fear.

Torpor was almost upon him, he could feel it. He’d never experienced it before, nor talked to anyone in detail about what it was like. Would it be dreamless? He hoped so…

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

No dream had ever been as vivid as this. No nightmare. There were no distractions. His body was not at the edge of his consciousness grounding him, waiting to welcome him back again. No, there was only the memory, encompassing him on all sides. It was ancient and familiar and forever. Some part of him always lived in that time…

It was cold, a cold that painted itself across the horizon in icy blue-grey as the sun descended over the retreating Russian campaign. Where the black trees gave out onto white fields, sky and snow merged into one along that horizon. And why shouldn’t they? Why should the Earth and heaven be separated when so many of the sick and starved and freezing hovered on the point of crossing over? Didn’t he too, hover on the point of crossing over? It was cold, and Sebastian was so hungry, and not for the scraps of half-rotten smoked meat on which he had been surviving for so many weeks now. He felt the hideous weakness of his body driving him towards some survival frenzy. No, no, I am not on the point of death. Defiantly he turned his eyes to the sky, half grateful that the tears froze on his lashes before they could fall. I will be a general. A general does not die like this. I will be important. Too important to die.

He struggled with the terrible feeling that rose up in response: a feeling of just wanting to lie down somewhere warm and be held. He didn’t feel at all like a general. He was barely 18. Two years ago, he was a schoolboy at the École Militaire, marveling at history paintings of old battles. His Maman wouldn’t have wanted this for him, even as she wished him glory. She didn’t know. He didn’t know. How could anyone comprehend this without experiencing it?

But here he was, and there was nowhere warm to lie down for a hundred miles, and no one to hold him. Already, he had been promoted when his own commanding officer fell in Smolensk, and again when the next officer above him fell in Moscow. He was alive, and they weren’t. That was what mattered. His determination, it was all because of his own determination. Because of that, he had a horse and they didn’t. There weren’t many horses left in their column. Most had been eaten in desperation for food. But Sebastian had one, because he was high enough ranked, and so he kept his strength instead of marching.

It was then that a shot exploded from the distant trees. Chaos. Everyone scattered, screaming. “Cossacks! Cossacks!” There was hardly any hope of returning fire. They were already so devastated, and the Cossacks knew the terrain perfectly. He had to take cover.

But Sebastian couldn’t move. He was facing the open, white sky. He didn’t know how he got there. But his horse was sideways, on top of him. In a moment, he realized it wasn’t moving either. He’d been thrown a little ways into the snow, far enough that his legs weren’t fully crushed, only an ankle. But he couldn’t feel any pain. Some sort of total shock had dulled everything. He dragged himself out, wondering why he was shaking now, when his shivering had stopped hours ago. Wondering, as he sometimes did during battles, if any of this was real. He couldn’t hear himself speaking as he shouted at the mare to get up, shaking worse by the second.

It’s not enough to earn a place on a horse. It’ll be shot out from under you the moment you allow yourself to enjoy it. It’s not enough to attain power. One must maintain it, too. He came to himself and staggered away from the mare, shouting orders now. Leading. Miraculously, he was not hit today. Not yet. But it was coming. He knew it was coming if he let his guard down for even a moment.

Onward they marched, scattered and vulnerable on the open plain, into the blank of winter without end.

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There was blood in his mouth. Warm, fresh, real, honest blood. Someone was pressing it to his lips, hand-feeding him. Sebastian felt the heat seep gradually through his limbs. Even when his body felt strong enough to move, the relief, the gratitude, and the lingering horror that still lurked at the edges of his mind overwhelmed him, and he lay limp against the rock, with someone’s enormous hand resting gently on his shoulder.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, he would see five drained blood bags scattered around him. He would learn that he’d been in a torpor for over a month, reliving the horrors of the Russian campaign again and again while his rescuer secured a complete map of the catacombs and then searched them systematically, refusing to believe he was dead. That person was an associate he had met during his travels, one of many he employed and the only one who did not defect from him when the coup failed. And he would one day be LaCroix’s new Sheriff.

The man could have killed him. He could have brought LaCroix’s shriveled body to the Prince of Paris, and earned a handsome reward. Instead, he lifted LaCroix in his huge, tree-trunk arms like a precious doll, snuggled him safely into the folds of massive coat, and carried him safely through the catacombs, out of the city, and out of the country to begin the next chapter of his life in London.

There were so few moments in which Sebastian LaCroix ever felt that the world might show him mercy, that anyone at all could keep him safe if he late his guard down. But that rescue was one of them. A part of him would always live in that moment, as eternal as any memory of hunger and cold.

#did ya'll ever have those history assignments where you had to write a diary entry as if you were in that war/disaster/etc.?#Because writing this felt exactly like that lmao. I'm pretty sure I had one on the French Revolution and I went WILD with it.#sebastian lacroix #vtm bloodlines #vtm fanfic #vampire whump #nightmare whump #whump fic

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therogueflame · 3 months ago

Text

The Bronze Reign Chapter 3 - Yellow Roses

hello my darling readers,

i went back through my chapters for the first time last night to proofread but my computer is broken bc the maintenance people dropped their drill and broke my monitor so i cant do any real editing until it’s fucking fixed so please excuse any brevity and errors. anywhoosies, i think these chapters might just get longer and longer. :D love you bye

The song for this chapter is Pink in the Night by Mitski

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Summary: A dream lingers, but the day waits for no one. Words are exchanged, alliances tested, and expectations pressed upon shoulders already burdened. In the great hall, a move is made—a challenge set. The court watches. A shadow lingers.

WC: 9.8k

Warnings: 18+, Daemon Targaryen, Slow Burn, Angst, Viserys is literally just doing his best yo

previous chapter

MDNI!

Vysaria woke slowly, pulled from the depths of restless sleep by the soft glow of morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. The warmth of her bed was tempting, but her mind lingered in the haze of half-remembered dreams, tendrils of something formless and unsettling curling at the edges of her thoughts.

She exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead as she blinked away the remnants of sleep. It had been nothing—just a dream. And yet, it clung to her, leaving behind a strange unease that refused to fade entirely. Pushing back the covers, she sat up, willing herself to shake it off. The day had begun, and she had no time for foolishness.

Breakfast awaited, and with it, her family.

She moved through the motions of dressing, allowing the familiar routine to settle her. Her maid worked in silence, fastening the clasps of her gown, smoothing the fabric, combing through the waves of her silver hair. The castle beyond her chamber doors was already stirring, the distant hum of voices and movement a quiet reminder that life did not stop, even in grief. By the time she was ready, the lingering traces of her dream had dulled, though not entirely disappeared. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped into the hall, making her way toward the morning meal.

The corridors of the Red Keep were busier now, servants moving with quiet efficiency, their voices hushed but steady. The early morning light streamed through the high windows, casting long beams across the stone floors, illuminating dust motes that swirled with each passing step.

Vysaria walked with purpose, though the heaviness of sleep still clung to her limbs, her mind lingering in the haze of her dreams. She could not remember them clearly—only flickers of heat, the sensation of something just beyond her grasp.

She forced the thoughts away.

By the time she reached the private dining chambers, the scent of freshly baked bread and spiced tea drifted through the air, mingling with the richer aroma of roasted meats. A servant stepped forward to push open the doors, and she entered without hesitation.The table was already occupied. Her father sat at the head, his expression lighter than it had been the night before, though the ever-present weight of kingship had not left him. Across from him, Aemma looked well enough, though there was still a paleness to her skin, a lingering fragility from her ordeal. Further down, Rhaenys and Corlys were engaged in quiet conversation, their ease with one another an unspoken testament to their years together.

And then, of course, there was Daemon .He lounged in his chair with the same effortless ease he carried everywhere, sipping from his goblet, his sharp violet gaze flicking toward her as she entered.Vysaria met his gaze briefly before turning her attention elsewhere.

“Good morning,” she murmured, dipping her head slightly toward her father and mother before taking her seat.

Viserys nodded in greeting, and Aemma offered a small smile. “You look as though you barely slept.”

Vysaria reached for her goblet, tipping it just slightly before taking a sip. “It was nothing.”

Her mother’s gaze lingered, as if she might press further, but Aemma only nodded, returning to her meal.

Across the table, Daemon smirked over the rim of his cup. “Nothing, is it?”

Vysaria did not look at him. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

Rhaenys chuckled under her breath, though she made no comment.

Daemon, undeterred, leaned forward slightly, the corner of his mouth still curved in amusement. “You seemed troubled last night when you left.”

Vysaria set her goblet down with quiet precision. “Perhaps I was tired of your company.”

Daemon only laughed, taking another sip of wine.

Viserys exhaled, shaking his head. “Must the two of you start this early?”

Vysaria reached for a piece of fruit, cutting into it with measured patience. “I wasn’t the one who started.”

Daemon grinned, but Rhaenys, seated beside him, finally cast him a pointed look. “Leave her be, Daemon. At least until she’s finished eating.”

Corlys smirked but said nothing, clearly content to let his wife handle the matter.

Daemon lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Very well.”

Vysaria took a slow bite of her fruit, letting the conversation move on, though she could still feel Daemon’s gaze lingering on her. The meal had only just begun.

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter matters—idle talk of the day ahead, the expected arrival of new ships from Driftmark, the quiet hum of court life resuming its rhythm. Rhaenys and Corlys spoke of Velaryon affairs, their voices low but steady, while Viserys listened with mild interest, nodding on occasion as he tore off a piece of bread.

Vysaria focused on her plate, methodically cutting into the fresh fruit before her, willing herself to settle into the familiar comfort of routine. The remnants of her dream still clung to the edges of her thoughts, but she pushed them aside, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

Daemon, however, had never been one to let things rest.

“So,” he mused, lifting his goblet once more. “What will you do with your day, niece? Aside from brooding, of course.”

Vysaria didn’t look up. “Not all of us have the luxury of idleness.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Oh? And what great duty demands your attention?”

She speared a piece of fruit with her fork, chewing deliberately before answering. “I’ll be walking the gardens.”

Aemma, who had been mostly quiet, glanced at her with a small, knowing smile. “With Lady Alicent?”

Vysaria took another sip of her drink before offering a curt nod. “Yes.”

Daemon arched a brow. “Ah. Mending bridges, are we?”

Vysaria’s grip on her goblet tightened slightly, though she did not react otherwise.

Rhaenys, who had been idly slicing into a cut of roasted meat, hummed in amusement. “If Lord Otto has his way, there will be no bridges left to mend—only ties to tighten.”

Vysaria turned to her, intrigued. “You think that’s his aim?”

Rhaenys gave a small, knowing smile. “Otto Hightower does not waste his time with things that do not benefit him.”

Aemma’s lips pressed together slightly, though she said nothing.

Viserys, on the other hand, exhaled, setting his goblet down with a soft thud. “Otto’s daughter is a sweet girl, nothing more. There’s no need for all this talk of strategy before breakfast.”

Daemon smirked into his cup. “And yet, strategy never waits, does it?”

Aemma shot him a look before turning back to her daughter. “It’s good of you to spend time with Alicent. The poor girl has few companions at court.”

Vysaria only nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Daemon, however, tilted his head, studying her. “And do you enjoy her company?”

Vysaria finally looked at him then, meeting his gaze directly. “Does it matter?”

He grinned. “Only if you pretend it does.”

She exhaled slowly, returning her focus to her plate. “I imagine I’ll survive it.”

A chuckle rippled through the table, though it was Rhaenys who spoke next. “A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”

Vysaria shook her head, though the tension in her shoulders had eased somewhat.

The morning sun had risen higher by the time the meal began winding down, the plates picked over, goblets half-emptied, and the earlier energy of conversation fading into something quieter, more subdued. Servants moved efficiently around the table, clearing away what remained as the last sips of wine and tea were taken.

Viserys leaned back in his chair, exhaling with satisfaction, while Aemma quietly set down her utensils, giving Vysaria a small, expectant look.

“You shouldn’t keep her waiting too long,” she murmured.

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh, instead offering her mother a brief nod. “I won’t.”

Daemon, watching with undisguised amusement, smirked. “Off to suffer through your morning obligation?”

Vysaria shot him a look as she rose from her seat. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Rhaenys chuckled under her breath, and Corlys smirked but said nothing. Viserys, too used to their bickering to bother commenting, only shook his head as he waved his daughter off.

Vysaria dipped her head toward her parents before stepping away from the table, her steps steady as she exited the dining chamber and moved toward the gardens.

The Red Keep was alive with movement now, courtiers and attendants moving about their morning routines, voices carrying through the halls in hushed tones. The air was warmer, the scent of blooming roses and fresh earth drifting toward her as she approached the royal gardens. And there, under the shade of a trellis, waiting with her hands clasped in front of her, was Alicent Hightower. The gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming lavender and citrus, mingling with the faint perfume that clung to her skirts. She had seen Vysaria approaching and straightened slightly, smoothing a hand over the bodice of her gown—an unconscious habit, perhaps, or a quiet attempt at composure. Vysaria, still carrying the last remnants of her morning grogginess, did not rush to close the distance between them. She moved at her own pace, unhurried but inevitable.

“Princess,” Alicent greeted with a polite dip of her head, her tone measured, as careful as ever.

“Alicent,” Vysaria returned, stopping just a pace away.

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds filling the space that words did not. Then, Alicent shifted, glancing briefly toward the pathway that stretched deeper into the gardens. “Shall we walk?”

Vysaria gave a small nod, and together they set off, their steps falling into a slow, deliberate rhythm.The Red Keep’s gardens were beautiful this time of year, meticulously maintained with winding paths leading through bursts of color—deep red roses, pale golden marigolds, violets that bloomed in quiet shade. It was a place meant for peace, for soft conversation and quiet reflection. Vysaria had never truly appreciated it. Alicent, however, seemed at ease here.

“I was surprised when you invited me,” Alicent admitted after a few steps, her voice thoughtful rather than accusatory. “I hadn’t thought you much cared for company.”

Vysaria hummed, glancing ahead rather than at the girl beside her. “I don’t, usually.”

A soft laugh. “I had gathered.”

Vysaria cut her a sideways glance, but Alicent wasn’t looking at her. Instead, she reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly against the petals of a white camellia as they passed.

“You never needed anyone,” Alicent mused. “Even when we were children, you were always… apart.”

Vysaria didn’t reply immediately. It wasn’t an insult, nor was it said with resentment. Just an observation.

“I prefer it that way,” she said at last.

Alicent finally looked at her, her expression unreadable. “Do you?”

Vysaria did not answer. The path curved ahead, leading them toward a fountain where water trickled over sculpted stone, the sound soft and unintrusive. The conversation could have died there—Alicent had never been the type to push when unwelcome.

But then she said, quieter this time, “I think sometimes you believe you must be alone, whether you wish to be or not.”

Vysaria froze for a moment, her breath catching as Alicent’s words settled over her. The simplicity of them, the quiet precision, struck her in a way she hadn’t expected.

I think sometimes you believe you must be alone, whether you wish to be or not.

Alicent kept walking, her steps measured and unassuming, as if she hadn’t just laid bare something Vysaria rarely allowed herself to think, let alone hear spoken aloud. When Vysaria finally moved again, her steps were deliberate, catching up to Alicent as they neared the fountain. The gentle trickle of water filled the silence, but it did nothing to soften the tension now coiling in her chest.

“What makes you think you know me so well?” Vysaria asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

Alicent stopped beside the fountain, her hand trailing lightly along its edge. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression calm but unflinching. “I don’t claim to know you. But I’ve watched you.”

“Watched me?” Vysaria’s brow arched, a faint edge of incredulity creeping into her voice.

Alicent gave a faint smile, though there was little amusement in it. “How could I not? My father brought me to court for your sake, to be your companion. And yet, you hardly noticed me. You preferred your adventures, your family. I was only ever… there.”

Vysaria blinked, the words sinking in like stones thrown into a still pond. She had always been aware, on some level, of Alicent’s presence—quiet, dutiful, and constant. But she had never stopped to think about what that presence might have meant to Alicent herself. Alicent turned fully to face her now, her hands clasped lightly in front of her. “I never minded. Truly, I didn’t. You were… different from anyone else I’d ever known. You didn’t need to try, didn’t need to prove yourself. You just were. And I admired that.”

For the first time, Vysaria didn’t know how to respond. She opened her mouth, but no words came, and Alicent seemed to take the silence as permission to continue.

“But you don’t have to be apart, you know,” Alicent said softly. “Not with everyone. Not always.”

The words were simple, offered without expectation or judgment, but they carried a weight that lingered between them. Vysaria’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before lifting to meet Alicent’s again. Her own voice, when it came, was quieter, more measured. “And what if I don’t know how?”

Alicent’s expression softened, and for the first time, her usual careful composure faltered, replaced by something more genuine.

“Then I’ll show you.”

The words were so earnest, so utterly devoid of pretense, that Vysaria didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff. Instead, she just stood there, the moment stretching longer than she intended, until finally, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Come,” Alicent said, her tone lighter now as she gestured toward the path ahead. “There’s a grove of irises farther down. You’ll like it.”

Vysaria followed without protest, and for the first time, the silence between them did not feel heavy.

The path curved gently ahead, leading them toward the grove of irises Alicent had mentioned. Their soft violet blooms swayed with the breeze, their delicate fragrance lingering in the air. The tension that had once settled between them seemed to have loosened, if only slightly, as their conversation drifted toward simpler things—the gardens themselves, the change in the weather, a passing comment on the color of the sky. Then, Alicent spoke again.

“My brother, Gwayne, wrote to me last week,” she said lightly, reaching out to trace her fingers along the petals of a pale blue iris. “He’s still in Oldtown, training with the household knights.”

Vysaria felt the shift immediately. The ease of the moment fractured, subtle but undeniable.

She kept walking. She kept her expression neutral. But the tension coiled beneath her skin all the same. Gwayne Hightower. A name that meant nothing to her personally, yet everything in the context of court. A son of Oldtown. A son of Otto Hightower. A knight in the making.

And, more importantly—a match.

She had known it before Alicent had even spoken his name. The moment she mentioned a brother, Vysaria’s mind had already anticipated where this conversation could lead. She had spent enough time in court to recognize when something was being placed before her, when a seed was being planted for the future. Alicent, oblivious to the shift in Vysaria’s thoughts, continued. “He always wanted to be a warrior, though I think our father imagined something else for him. He writes of drills and sparring, but I can tell he wishes he were here instead.”

Vysaria exhaled softly, ensuring her tone was even before she responded. “Why would he wish to be here?”

Alicent gave a small smile, her hands clasped gently before her as they walked. “Because we’re here. Our father, the court, the king—” She hesitated, then gave Vysaria a pointed glance. “You.”

Vysaria felt the weight of that single word settle over her like an iron chain. It was not the first time she had seen this play before her, nor would it be the last. She could almost hear Otto Hightower’s voice in her mind, as measured and careful as ever, crafting the perfect case for why the match would be advantageous. A Hightower knight, a Targaryen princess, a bond that would steady the realm…

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but she forced them to relax.

“Does he?” she asked at last, her voice light, casual. “I don’t recall ever meeting him.”

Alicent hummed thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think you have. He was still young when Father brought me to court, and by then, he was already training in Oldtown. But he’s heard of you, of course.”

Vysaria felt a sharp prickle at the back of her mind.

Of course.

Her stomach twisted—not in fear, not in uncertainty, but in something colder. She had been raised knowing that her future was not her own. Marriage, alliances, duty—her path would always be dictated by what best served the crown. But there was something suffocating about he’s heard of you, about the realization that even without knowing her, he had been made to consider her.

Alicent sighed, her voice softer now. “I miss him sometimes.”

Vysaria turned her head slightly, watching the way Alicent’s fingers trailed absently over another flower. There was no guile in her expression, no hint of pretense. She wasn’t scheming, wasn’t trying to place a thought in Vysaria’s mind the way her father might have. She was just a sister, speaking of a brother. For a moment, Vysaria almost allowed herself to believe it was nothing more than that.

Almost.

She inhaled, slow and steady. “Do you think he’ll come to court?”

Alicent glanced at her, surprised by the question. “Perhaps. One day.” She hesitated, then added, “If Father wills it.”

That, at least, was something they could agree on. Vysaria gave a small nod and continued walking.

The conversation between them settled into something quieter, the initial tension ebbing, though not entirely disappearing. Alicent still spoke of her brother in fond tones, but Vysaria allowed the words to wash over her without truly absorbing them. The gardens had always been a place of retreat, a world apart from the political machinations of the Red Keep. And yet, even here, the weight of expectation found her. They followed the winding path deeper into the greenery, past low hedges trimmed into careful shapes, past rows of irises and budding lemon trees. The further they walked, the more the sounds of the castle faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, the gentle trickle of a hidden fountain.

And then, as they rounded the bend of a marble archway, they were no longer alone.

Daemon Targaryen stood near a stone bench, leaning one shoulder lazily against a carved pillar, as if he had all the time in the world. A goblet dangled from his fingers, half-filled with wine that caught the light of the morning sun. He did not startle at their presence, nor did he seem particularly surprised to see them.

Because, of course, he wasn’t.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Daemon drawled, tilting his head as his gaze flicked over them. His smirk was as insufferable as ever, his violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

Vysaria exhaled slowly, already feeling a headache forming. “Do you always lurk in gardens so early in the day, uncle?”

Daemon chuckled, lifting his goblet in an exaggerated toast. “Only when the company is worth it.”

Alicent, standing beside Vysaria, hesitated before offering a small, polite nod. “Prince Daemon.”

Daemon turned his gaze to her, studying her in that way he always did—not improper, not quite—but enough to unsettle. “Lady Alicent.” He gestured vaguely to the garden path. “Taking a morning stroll, are we?”

Alicent smiled gently, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “The princess was kind enough to invite me.”

Daemon hummed, flicking his gaze back to Vysaria with the faintest hint of amusement. “How very kind of you, niece. And here I thought you disliked company.”

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh. “I make exceptions.”

Daemon’s smirk deepened, but he said nothing—at least, not yet. Instead, he took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of his goblet, as if he were waiting to see what she would do next.

Daemon swirled the wine in his goblet, watching Vysaria with that same insufferable smirk before turning his attention to Alicent.

“Lady Alicent,” he said smoothly, “would you mind if I borrowed the princess for a moment?”

Alicent hesitated, her polite mask faltering for just a breath before she composed herself again. Her gaze flickered to Vysaria, as if searching for some unspoken answer, but Vysaria gave none.

“I—of course,” Alicent said at last, dipping her head slightly. “I’ll—wait here.”

Daemon grinned as if he had expected nothing less. He gestured for Vysaria to walk with him, and after a brief pause, she stepped forward.

They did not walk far—just enough that the distance placed them out of earshot but not out of sight. Alicent remained standing near the carved stone bench, her hands lightly clasped in front of her, watching them in that careful, measured way of hers.

Only once they were alone did Daemon shift. His smirk softened, his voice dropping into something lower, something that carried in the space between them like an unspoken challenge. And when he spoke, it was in High Valyrian.

"Do you find her company so enjoyable, niece?"

Vysaria did not slow her steps, nor did she react beyond a flicker of her eyes in his direction. "I find her company tolerable."

Daemon let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head slightly. "A rare compliment from you."

Vysaria’s gaze flicked forward, her voice as smooth as the morning air. "And yet, you sent her away so you could bother me instead. How predictable."

Daemon exhaled a quiet laugh, but there was something else beneath it—something thoughtful. He took another slow sip of wine before speaking again, his words measured, casual.

"You seemed uneasy when she spoke of her brother."

Vysaria’s fingers curled slightly, though her expression remained composed. "I was not."

Daemon hummed in amusement. "Lying does not suit you, little dragon."

She turned her head then, meeting his gaze fully, her voice quiet but sharp. "And yet, you do it so well."

Daemon grinned, pleased rather than deterred. "If you wish to play this game, at least be honest about it."

Vysaria exhaled through her nose, her patience thinning. "There is no game."

"There is always a game, Vysaria," Daemon murmured, stopping just long enough for her to do the same. The space between them was slight, but the weight of his words made it feel even smaller. "The question is whether you intend to win it—or let them play you like a piece on a board."

She studied him for a long moment, the morning breeze rustling the leaves around them.

Then, finally, she said, "I am no piece."

Daemon’s smirk was slow, knowing. "Good."

Without another word, he turned back toward the path, leaving her as if nothing had passed between them at all.

Vysaria inhaled slowly, smoothing her expression as she turned back toward the path where Alicent remained. The conversation with Daemon still lingered in her mind, his words curling at the edges of her thoughts like smoke that refused to dissipate.

But she would not let it show.

When she reached Alicent, the girl was standing beside a cluster of pale yellow roses, her fingers carefully brushing along the petals, as if studying them with great care. Whether it was genuine interest or merely something to occupy her hands while she waited, Vysaria couldn’t tell.

Alicent did not look up immediately. For a brief moment, it was almost as though she had not noticed Vysaria’s return at all. Then, as if sensing her presence, she finally glanced over, her expression as composed as ever. “Your uncle has a way of stealing attention, doesn’t he?”

Vysaria exhaled through her nose, amused despite herself. “That’s one way to put it.”

Alicent let her fingers trail from the flower’s edge before finally turning fully toward her. “I hope he wasn’t too much of a nuisance.”

Vysaria tilted her head slightly, glancing back toward the path where Daemon had disappeared. A nuisance. It was such a simple word, so utterly insufficient. But she only offered a small, knowing smile. “He’s always a nuisance.”

Alicent chuckled softly, nodding before looking back down at the flowers. “I’ve always liked these. My father used to say that yellow roses mean warmth and friendship.”

Vysaria arched a brow. “Did he?”

Alicent hummed, carefully plucking a single petal between her fingers before letting it fall. “I think he only said it so I’d stop picking the red ones.”

Vysaria watched her for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through her mind, before she reached out and plucked one of the roses herself, twirling it idly between her fingers. Then, after a beat, she handed it to Alicent. Alicent blinked, clearly surprised, before hesitantly reaching out to take it.

Vysaria’s voice was quieter when she spoke. “Then I suppose this means we are friends.”

Alicent studied her, her expression softening ever so slightly.

“If you’d like to be,” she said.

Vysaria didn’t answer right away, only giving a small nod before turning back to the path ahead. “Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s keep walking.”

Alicent smiled to herself, tucking the rose gently into the folds of her sleeve before following.

The winding paths of the garden led them back toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, the scent of roses and freshly turned earth fading as they stepped into the shaded corridors of the castle. Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, and for a time, neither of them spoke. The quiet between them was not uncomfortable, only thoughtful, the kind that came when words were unnecessary.

Then, as they neared one of the castle’s inner courtyards, Alicent finally broke the silence. “Do you visit the dragonpit often?”

Vysaria almost stopped mid-step. She did not, but there was the briefest hesitation before she answered. “Not often.”

Alicent cast her a sidelong glance. “I’ve never been inside,” she admitted. “My father would never allow it, and I think I would be too afraid even if he did.”

Vysaria hummed, keeping her expression unreadable. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Alicent laughed, though it was quiet, almost self-conscious. “That’s easy for you to say. You were born to ride one.”

The words were said without malice, without anything beyond simple observation, and yet Vysaria felt something twist inside her. Born to ride one. But she hadn’t. She had stood in the pit, watched the great beasts prowl, felt the heat of their breath, the rumble of their growls that vibrated through the very stone beneath her feet. But none had answered her. None had chosen her. And the longer it remained that way, the more the whispers in court would grow.

A princess without a dragon. A queen without fire.

She inhaled slowly, keeping her voice carefully even. “Dragons do not care for fear. They do not care for birthright, either.”

Alicent studied her with quiet curiosity. “Then what do they care for?”

Vysaria exhaled, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. “Themselves, mostly.”

Alicent tilted her head as if sensing something unspoken but did not press. “Perhaps that is why they are so feared.”

Vysaria met her gaze, something unreadable in the violet of her eyes. “Perhaps.”

They reached the threshold of the inner keep, the air shifting around them as they stepped through the archway. Whatever conversation might have followed was lost to the weight of stone and shadow, to the unspoken thoughts both girls carried but did not voice.

The castle was alive with movement as they reentered, the hushed murmur of courtiers and attendants filling the corridors, the morning’s stillness giving way to the steady hum of the day ahead. Servants moved with practiced efficiency, carrying trays of food, freshly laundered linens, letters sealed with wax. A group of noble ladies passed them in the hall, their whispers trailing in their wake like the rustling of silk. Vysaria and Alicent walked in step, but something had changed. The moment in the garden had been lighter, easier, but now, in the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the weight of expectation pressed in once more.

Alicent was the first to break the silence. “Will you be attending court today?”

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh. “I expect so.”

“My father says the king will hold audience in the afternoon. He mentioned something about a delegation from the Westerlands.” Alicent glanced at her carefully, gauging her reaction. “I imagine you’ll be at his side.”

Vysaria nodded. It was expected. She was her father’s heir, his cupbearer, a visible reminder to all who gathered that Viserys had chosen her, that she was meant to rule one day. The thought should have steadied her, but instead, all she could think of was the words whispered behind closed doors, the uncertain glances, the lords who still fretted over the lack of a male heir.

Alicent’s voice softened. “You don’t enjoy court, do you?”

Vysaria let out a quiet, humorless breath. “What’s there to enjoy? Lords murmuring about things they’ve already decided before they’ve even stepped into the chamber? Ambassadors speaking in circles, offering empty pleasantries while maneuvering for their own gain? It is all a performance.”

Alicent studied her with something like sympathy, though she did not say so aloud. “My father says court is where the game is played.”

Vysaria glanced at her, something sharp flickering in her expression. “Your father would say that.”

Alicent looked as though she might respond, but before she could, a voice called out from down the corridor.

“Princess.”

Vysaria turned, her spine straightening instinctively. A servant stood at the entrance of the hall, dipping his head in deference. “The king requests your presence.”

Of course he does. She suppressed the sigh that threatened to rise and instead gave Alicent a brief nod. “It seems my father has plans for me.”

Alicent hesitated, as if there was more she wished to say, but in the end, she simply offered a small, polite smile. “I suppose I’ll see you at court, then.”

Vysaria gave no confirmation, only turned on her heel and followed the servant deeper into the keep. The corridors were quieter here, the usual hum of court life fading into the solemn hush that always clung to this part of the castle. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows as they passed. She knew where they were going before the servant even led her through the heavy doors.

The air changed as she stepped inside—the scent of smoke and old stone, the lingering weight of something ancient. The chamber was dimly lit, the great skull of Balerion looming in the torchlight, its hollow sockets staring into the dark.

Viserys exhaled slowly, stepping closer to the massive skull, his fingers grazing the curve of one of Balerion’s fangs. “I was the last to ride him, you know.” His voice was softer now, as though the memory had gentled something in him.

Vysaria knew the story well, but she said nothing, allowing him to speak.

“I was no older than you are now when I first climbed onto his back. He was old then, near the end of his life, but even in his twilight, there was no mistaking his power. His wings stretched farther than any ship’s sails, his roar shook the very stones of the Dragonpit.” He smiled faintly, but it did not reach his eyes. “And yet, he was not mine. He was never mine. He belonged to history, to the past. I was only a rider, never his rider.”

Vysaria watched him carefully. She had never considered what it must have been like for him—claiming a beast that was already fading, feeling the weight of that legacy without ever truly possessing it.

Viserys finally turned to her, his gaze steady, searching. “You must try again, Vysaria. The realm will not wait for you to be ready.”

She had expected the words, but still, they landed like lead in her chest.

“I have,” she said, careful to keep her tone even.

“Not enough.” His expression did not hold disappointment, but something heavier—concern, urgency. “The lords whisper, and I cannot fault them for it. A Targaryen queen without a dragon… it is something they will never understand.”

Vysaria inhaled slowly, her gaze shifting back to the gaping maw of Balerion’s skull. The fire was long gone from his bones, his wings forever stilled, his body reduced to nothing but an echo of what he once was.

Vysaria held her father’s gaze, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. “I have tried,” she said, her voice measured but firm. “Again and again, for years. I have stood in the Dragonpit, I have reached for them, called for them—” she exhaled sharply, the frustration creeping into her tone. “But none would answer.”

“The Dragonpit was never their true home,” Viserys said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “Most of our dragons roost on Dragonstone, along the Dragonmont. That is where their blood runs thickest, where the heat of the earth still calls to them.”

Vysaria tensed, already anticipating what he was about to say.

“You should go there,” he continued. “Spend time among them. Try again.”

She shook her head slightly, turning away from him, her arms folding across her chest. “I have no interest in parading myself before the dragons of Dragonstone like some desperate supplicant.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temple. “It is not desperation, Vysaria. It is persistence.”

“I have been persistent,” she countered, her voice sharp. “Since I was a child, I have stood before the dragons that reside in the pit, the ones within reach, the ones I was told might answer me. None did. And now you would have me cross the Blackwater and humble myself before beasts who have had no interest in me for nearly sixteen years?”

“You speak as if they are men, with logic and intent,” Viserys said. “They are not. They are creatures of fire and instinct. And instinct must be met with instinct. Perhaps you were not ready before, but you are nearly a woman grown. Perhaps now they will see you differently.”

Vysaria swallowed down the sharp retort on her tongue. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she had never been just a girl, that she had carried the weight of her name, her duty, for as long as she could remember. She had spent her childhood watching the others bond with their dragons, watching them claim what she could not.

What would be different now?

Still, Viserys was not unkind. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his fingers warm but heavy. “I named you my heir because I believed in you, Vysaria. I still do. But the realm… they must see you as I do.” His grip tightened slightly. “A dragon does not make you my heir. But it will make them stop questioning.”

Vysaria turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting toward Balerion’s empty eye sockets. The last rider.

And if no dragon would have her, what would they call her then?

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “And if I fail again?”

Viserys hesitated, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her sleeve before he sighed. “Then you will try again.”

The words felt as heavy as the stone walls around them.

Vysaria exhaled slowly, the weight of his expectation pressing against her ribs. She did not want to go to Dragonstone. She did not want to stand before the mighty beasts of the Dragonmont and feel their disinterest settle over her like a shroud. She did not want to hope, only to walk away empty-handed once more.

But she could not tell him that. Not when she saw the quiet plea in his eyes.

She lifted her chin slightly, meeting his gaze. “I will consider it.”

Viserys studied her for a long moment, as if waiting for her to protest, to argue, to push back. But Vysaria only held his gaze, unreadable, her thoughts swirling beneath the surface. Then, with a quiet sigh, her father straightened, the weight of kingship returning to his shoulders as easily as breathing.

“We’ll speak of this again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “But for now, you must get ready.”

“For what?”

Viserys exhaled, rubbing his temple. “The Westerlands delegation.”

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. So Alicent had been right.

“The Lannisters?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Her father nodded. “Lord Jason has sent envoys to discuss trade agreements, though I expect he means to bring up other matters as well.” He cast her a glance, his meaning clear.

Other matters.

Her lack of a match, no doubt. Another conversation about alliances, about what the realm expected of her.

Vysaria lifted her chin. “And what would you have me do?”

Viserys’ gaze softened just slightly, but it did not waver. “Be present. Observe. Speak if you wish to.” Then, after a pause, he added, “And—make an effort, Vysaria.”

She did not need to ask what he meant. She had spent years making an effort, standing at his side, playing the role of the dutiful heir. But it was never enough. Not without a dragon. Not without a husband. Still, she did not argue. Instead, she dipped her head, her voice smooth and measured. “As you wish, Father.”

Viserys studied her for another moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Good. See that you’re ready.”

With that, the conversation was over. Vysaria turned on her heel and left the chamber, stepping back into the torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep. The door shut softly behind her, but the weight of the conversation lingered.

The Westerlands. The Lannisters. More talk of duty and expectation.

The great hall of the Red Keep had been prepared with its usual grandeur, the banners of crimson and gold standing in bold contrast beside the black and red of House Targaryen. The stone columns flanking the chamber bore woven tapestries of conquest—Aegon’s triumph over Westeros, the embroidered form of Balerion the Black Dread stretching across the fabric like a shadow cast over kings and kneeling lords. The flickering torchlight made the golden thread of his eyes glimmer, as though the beast himself still watched.

The air carried the scent of polished wood and fresh rushes, undercut by the sharper tang of wax, ink, and the steel worn by the knights lining the hall. Their armor caught the low firelight, polished but dented, lived-in, a quiet reminder that this was a court built on war, no matter how much the lords within it pretended otherwise. The torches in their sconces flickered with every subtle draft, casting long, shifting shadows against the stone walls—shadows that sometimes moved, where no man stood.

Daemon was there. Not at the throne, not at his brother’s side, but present all the same, lurking at the edge of the hall where the torchlight struggled to reach. He did not stand with the assembled lords nor take his place beside the king. Instead, he observed. Unnoticed by some, ignored by others, but felt. The kind of presence that unsettled, even without a word spoken.

At the head of the hall, beneath the jagged weight of the Iron Throne, King Viserys I Targaryen sat, his golden crown catching the dim light. He looked at ease, but Vysaria saw the truth in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed idly against the armrest. These audiences had never been his joy—the posturing, the barbed pleasantries, the lords who spoke in measured words but maneuvered like swordsmen. Yet he bore them, because he had to.

Vysaria stood at the foot of the throne, her posture composed, unreadable. The assembled court had been watching her since the moment she stepped into the hall. Weighing her. Measuring. The princess. The heir. The single thread upon which House Targaryen’s future hung. She did not meet their eyes. She did not need to. Her focus remained on the delegation approaching the throne.

Lord Jason Lannister had not come himself. That in itself was an answer. Instead, he had sent his younger twin, Ser Tyland Lannister, to play the role of diplomat. He strode through the hall with the ease of a man accustomed to wealth and welcome, his golden hair neatly combed, his fine doublet adorned with the sigil of his house—a lion woven subtly into the fabric, not roaring, not clawing, but present. A quiet statement, for those who knew how to read such things.

Behind him, his retainers moved in perfect formation, their crimson cloaks trimmed with gold, their hands resting lightly upon the pommels of their swords. Lannisters never entered a room as beggars, even when they came to offer. They carried themselves as if the realm belonged to them by right of coin alone, and perhaps, in some ways, it did.

Tyland approached the throne, bending onto one knee in a gesture of deference so practiced it seemed rehearsed.

“Your Grace,” he said smoothly, his voice silken, composed, the careful cadence of a man who knew the weight of each word. “House Lannister sends its regards and gratitude for your hospitality.”

Viserys inclined his head, offering a polite but tired smile. “Lord Jason is always welcome in King’s Landing. I trust your journey was a smooth one.”

Tyland rose with ease, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve before responding. “As smooth as can be expected, Your Grace,” he replied, his tone measured, carefully polished. His sharp lion’s eyes flicked toward Vysaria, the glance so brief it might have been missed by anyone who wasn’t already used to it. But Vysaria was used to it. Men had always looked at her this way. Assessing. Weighing. Calculating. But he did not address her. Not yet.

The conversation unfurled in its usual, tedious fashion—pleasantries wrapped in politics, the ritual exchange of words that meant little and deals that meant everything. Trade routes, shipments of gold from Casterly Rock, the status of naval agreements with Driftmark. It was all necessary, of course, but none of it was why Tyland had come.

And, as expected, it did not take long before the conversation shifted. “With the king’s permission,” Tyland said smoothly, his expression one of carefully measured interest, “Lord Jason wished for me to extend not only the regards of our house but also a consideration.”

A hush settled over the court. Vysaria felt the shift before it truly happened, the way the lords along the edges of the chamber leaned in slightly, their interest sharpening like a blade being drawn. Tyland turned his gaze fully to Viserys, but the weight of his words pressed toward her, settling over her shoulders like something inevitable, something long decided by men who had never once lived in her skin.

“House Lannister, ever loyal to the Crown, would be honored to strengthen our ties to House Targaryen.”

The words hung between them, gilded in courtesy, but beneath the polish lay the truth. A marriage proposal.

Vysaria did not shift, did not tense, did not react. But her fingers curled slightly at her sides, hidden in the folds of her gown. She had known this moment was coming. The lords of Westeros had been waiting for the right time to press their ambitions upon her, to maneuver her into a match that served their designs, not hers. The whispers had begun long before Aemma lost her last child. Since the day Vysaria was born, the lords of Westeros had spoken of her as something to be placed, secured, controlled. With every failed pregnancy, every stillborn babe, their voices only grew louder. No second son. No spare. The court had not forgotten it for a single moment.

Tyland Lannister stood tall, confident in his words, speaking as though this was the natural order of things—that a princess’s hand was not hers to wield, but a thing to be bartered, bargained, and best spent. Across the hall, a shadow stirred, just at the edge of the firelight. Unmoving, but present. Daemon. Watching. Waiting.

Vysaria had heard enough. Her voice was smooth when she spoke, cutting through the chamber like a polished blade.

“If Lord Jason is such a man of great standing,” she said, unhurried, unimpressed, “then why did he send his younger twin to beg for a princess’s hand?”

Silence settled over the great hall, thick and expectant. Then, after a beat, the quiet snickers began—stifled but unmistakable, rippling through the gathered lords and courtiers like the rustling of silk. The kind of laughter men tried to swallow but could not quite contain.

Tyland faltered. The carefully crafted ease in his posture stiffened, his mouth opening only to close again as he struggled to recover. “My—my lord brother is a busy man, Princess,” he managed after a beat, his words suddenly less polished than before. “His duties to Casterly Rock keep him occupied, but his intentions—”

“Are best spoken through another’s lips?” Vysaria interrupted lightly, tilting her head just so, her violet gaze unwavering.

This time, the laughter was less restrained. A few outright chuckles rang through the chamber, some hastily muffled behind goblets of wine or gloved hands. The scent of warm wax and polished wood mixed with something sharper—the air tinged with amusement and quiet derision. The nobility of King’s Landing thrived on spectacle, and here, before them, a lion of the Westerlands had stumbled.

Tyland’s jaw tensed, his composure fraying at the edges. His hands, which had once rested so easily at his sides, curled subtly into fists, though he forced himself to remain still. He would not embarrass himself further by rising to her bait.

Beyond the laughter, beyond the murmured whispers exchanged between lords who would retell this moment before the night was done, there was something else. A presence. Unmoving, but there. Not at Viserys’s side, nor standing with the court, but in the spaces where the torchlight wavered, where the shifting glow of the flames did not reach. He had not spoken a word, but his presence coiled through the hall, felt more than seen. Shadows flickered over his silver hair, his form lingering at the edge of the gathering, as though he were simply another specter cast by the dim firelight. Watching. Waiting.

And then, from the dark, he laughed. It was quiet, low, but unmistakable. A single breath of amusement that might have been lost in the hum of the hall had it come from any other man. But it did not. It came from Daemon.

Vysaria did not bother to hide her satisfaction. She turned slightly, expecting to see the disapproving look she had grown accustomed to from her father, a mild reprimand for speaking so boldly, for playing this particular game with an edge too sharp. But when she met his gaze, Viserys only watched her, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He made no move to scold her.

Tyland cleared his throat, attempting to salvage what dignity he could. “The offer remains a generous one, Your Grace,” he said, this time directing his words solely to Viserys, carefully avoiding Vysaria’s gaze. But the damage had already been done. The court had already seen him stumble. The laughter had faded, but the moment still lingered, thick as the heat of a dragon’s breath. And somewhere in the shadows, Daemon was still smiling.

Viserys leaned forward, adjusting his grip on the arm of the Iron Throne. “Ser Tyland,” he said, his tone thoughtful, almost contemplative. “It is a curious thing, is it not? That your lord brother, in all his standing, in all his duties, could not be troubled to present this offer himself.”

Tyland opened his mouth, scrambling for the right words, but Viserys continued before he could find them. “Of course,” the king went on, “I understand that the affairs of Casterly Rock are demanding. As are the affairs of the realm.” His gaze flickered across the hall, taking in the nobles who had quieted in anticipation. “Which is why I see no reason to entertain marriage proposals through secondhand messengers.”

A murmur swept through the gathered court. Tyland’s hands curled tighter, his jaw setting. Vysaria allowed herself the smallest flicker of amusement.

Viserys exhaled, waving a hand in tired dismissal. “The hour grows late. I believe we’ve heard all that needs to be said.”

Tyland hesitated, then bowed low. “As you say, Your Grace.”

The Lannister envoys withdrew, their golden lions dimmed beneath the shadow of dragons. As the chamber stirred with quiet whispers and the lords began to move, a flicker of movement at the edge of the hall caught Vysaria’s eye. Not a noble departing, not a knight shifting his stance, but something else. The space where Daemon had lingered was no longer occupied. The shadow that had stretched just beyond the reach of the torches had slipped away, silent and unseen, except by her. Her gaze followed the path he had taken, but he was already gone.

Viserys exhaled, settling back against the cold metal of the throne. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “That went about as well as I expected.”

Vysaria turned her head slightly, allowing the smallest flicker of amusement to pass between them. “Did it?”

Her father didn’t look at her, but she caught the way the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

The chamber slowly began to empty, the lords and courtiers murmuring amongst themselves as they drifted from the hall. Some exchanged knowing glances, others concealed smirks behind their goblets of wine, and Vysaria could already hear the whispers beginning. The Lannister envoy put in his place. The princess' sharp tongue. The king's indulgence. She remained at her father’s side, though the moment the last of the Westerlands delegates had disappeared beyond the towering doors, she exhaled softly, rolling her shoulders as if shedding the weight of the conversation. Viserys, still seated upon the Iron Throne, ran a hand down his face and sighed. “You always find a way to turn these things into a spectacle.”

Vysaria tilted her head slightly. “Would you have preferred I simpered and thanked him for his most generous offer?”

Viserys gave her a pointed look, but there was no real heat in it. “There are ways to be diplomatic without making a mockery of a noble house.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “I wasn’t aware the Lannisters were so easily wounded.”

At that, her father huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Be careful, Vysaria. You may have won this exchange, but lions are not known to forget slights.”

She knew that well enough. But she also knew that no matter how well she spoke, no matter how politely she handled the lords who paraded their sons before her, it would never be enough.

Still, she did not argue. Instead, she inclined her head. “Are we finished?”

Viserys hesitated for a moment, studying her as if searching for something—regret, uncertainty, doubt. But Vysaria gave him nothing.

Finally, he waved a hand in tired dismissal. “Go.”

She did not need to be told twice. She turned on her heel, and the heavy doors of the throne room shut behind her, sealing the chamber away, but the weight of it all still clung to her shoulders. The murmurs of the court would follow her long after she left, weaving through the halls like whispered ghosts. Vysaria did not slow her steps, did not allow herself to dwell on the lords who had watched her, measuring her as they always did. She had won this round, but there would always be another.

She moved through the dimly lit corridors with quiet purpose, the sound of her footsteps softened by the thick stone beneath her. The Red Keep was alive in the way it always was after courtly matters—servants moved briskly, messages were passed in hushed tones, and the air carried the faint scent of wax, parchment, and evening embers.

Her chambers were a welcome sight, the carved wooden doors standing tall and undisturbed. The guards stationed outside bowed their heads as she approached. She did not acknowledge them beyond a flicker of her gaze before pushing the doors open. A gust of cool air met her at once. The balcony doors were open, sheer curtains billowing with the evening wind, the scent of salt and distant fire drifting in from the Blackwater below. The golden light of the setting sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and deep violet, stretching beyond the rooftops of King’s Landing.

And there, lounging in her chair like he had every right to be there, was Daemon.

He had made himself at home, one arm draped lazily over the side of the plush seat, his legs stretched out before him with all the ease of a man who had never once asked for permission. His dark crimson tunic was unlaced at the collar, the sleeves pushed up with the careless ease of a man who had spent the day on his own terms, unburdened by duty or decorum. His silver hair was tousled from the wind, a goblet dangling lazily from his fingers. For a moment, he said nothing. He only watched her, studying her the way he always did, with that glint of amusement that never seemed to fade.

Vysaria sighed, stepping further into the room, already pulling the pins from her hair. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

Daemon smirked, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t recall needing an invitation.”

Her fingers worked through the silver strands, freeing them one by one. The weight of her circlet lifted, replaced by the lightness of something unbound. She set it on the vanity with practiced care, unfastening the earrings next. “If you’re here to scold me for my performance today, you’ll be disappointed.”

Daemon hummed, tapping his fingers against the goblet. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. It was entertaining.” His gaze flickered over her as she worked, deliberate, unhurried. “You’ve grown sharp, little niece. Too sharp, perhaps.”

She unfastened the clasp at her throat, letting the first layer of her overdress loosen. “And yet, you laughed.”

Daemon exhaled a quiet chuckle, swirling the wine in his cup. “I did.”

Vysaria did not look at him as she moved, removing each piece with methodical ease, untying the laces that bound the weight of court to her skin. The heavier gown slid from her shoulders, pooling onto the chair beside her as she reached for something lighter. Her smallclothes remained, the ivory linen soft against her frame, a stark contrast to the regal layers she had shed.

Daemon did not move. He only watched.

The candlelight flickered between them, stretching shadows along the stone walls, casting a golden glow over the bare skin of her arms, her collarbone, the gentle curve of her back as she lifted another gown from where it had been laid out for her. The wind stirred again, lifting the sheer curtains, sending a cool kiss across her exposed skin. She pulled the new gown over her head, fastening the ties at her side, until her fingers hesitated at the clasp near her shoulder. She tugged at it, once, then again, the fabric twisted awkwardly.

A sigh of frustration escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Daemon rose from the chair in a single, fluid motion. She did not need to look at him to know he was already closing the space between them. She felt it, the shift in the air, the quiet anticipation of something she refused to name. He came to stand behind her, his presence a steady warmth at her back. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached for the clasp, his fingers brushing against her skin as he worked it loose with practiced ease.

The tension in the fabric gave way, the stubborn knot undone in an instant.

He did not move. His hands remained where they were, hovering just a fraction too long, his touch lingering against the bare skin at her shoulder. His breath was quiet, steady, but she could feel it there, close enough to be noticed, close enough to be deliberate. Vysaria did not move either. She could have stepped away. She could have turned and faced him, could have shattered the moment before it settled into something neither of them would name.

Instead, she finished dressing. "Thank you," she said smoothly, fastening the clasp properly this time. Daemon said nothing at first, only stepping back, retrieving his goblet with an easy grace before sinking back into his chair. He watched as she smoothed out the folds of her gown, his smirk lazy but knowing.

“We’re dining with the Lannisters tonight,” he mused, swirling the wine in his cup.

Vysaria glanced at him through the mirror’s reflection. “Observant as ever.”

Daemon chuckled, stretching out in his seat. “I only wonder how much more of their pride you intend to strip from them before the night is through.”

“That depends.”

He arched his brow. “On?”

“How much more they intend to insult me.”

His grin deepened, something conspiratorial flickering behind his eyes. “In that case, I suspect tonight will be very entertaining indeed.”

Vysaria lifted a single brow as she fastened the last of her jewelry. “Try not to sulk when I take all the attention.”

Daemon pushed himself lazily to his feet, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “I’d never be so petty.”

She hummed, unconvinced, as he made his way toward the far side of the chamber. Rather than heading for the balcony, his movements carried him toward the wall beyond her bed, where his fingers brushed over the carved paneling as though searching for something familiar.

Vysaria stilled. “You cannot leave through the halls.”

Daemon smirked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Who said I was leaving through the halls?”

Before she could respond, his fingers pressed against a seemingly innocuous stone, and with the faintest click, the panel before him shifted. A narrow passageway yawned open, dark and silent, leading into the hidden veins of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Of course. Daemon had spent years in the Red Keep. He had always known its secrets.

“Try not to get lost,” she murmured, fastening the last clasp on her sleeve.

His smirk widened. “I never do.”

He did not say goodnight, nor did he wait for her to follow. Instead, he stepped into the passage with the ease of a man who knew exactly where it led, the shadows swallowing him whole as the panel sealed shut behind him. Vysaria exhaled, brushing her fingers over the fabric of her gown, smoothing out the folds. There was still a long evening ahead. She reached for her earrings once more, fastening them one by one, before finally turning toward the door.

The court awaited.

next chapter

All roads lead to war. Read ahead on AO3 (Ch 1–21).

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roseglazedlens · 10 months ago

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⦑ THE FUCKING DEAD ⦒ RESOLUTION [PART 5]

➠ series masterlist | ⏪part 4 | ⏩part 6 |

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓┇𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑┇𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐅𝐈𝐂┇𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 LEON S. KENNEDY / CARLOS OLIVEIRA / JILL VALENTINE / ADA WONG X AFAB GN! READER As the rescue team retraces footsteps of their MIA agents, they find out the virus is more than what it appears. Waiting to be opened like a pandora's box inside this eerie mansion. NOTES: 🔞18+ READERS ONLY - NO MINORS🔞 descriptions of blood, zombies, injuries, death, realistic dolls, virus, fire weapons, rotten food, and mould. mentioned pegging. many action elements, a little closer to the plot reveal. includes two minor oc's in the unit. written in chris and rebecca's pov (reader is mentioned, not present). 8.7 k words | reblogs appreciated!

EMPLOYEE QUARTERS – 3:02 AM.

Who knows since when, the front door entered by the last squad is bolted shut, windows on the first and second floor barred. Inspection around the perimeter reports none of the side doors can be budged. Except one, secretly veiled away through a narrow, overgrown path only accessible from the backstreet.

An inconspicuous door can be found at the end of the passage, made of the same stone brick wall attached onto the thick mahogany door, vines enshrouding the exterior.

Presumably, this is the employee’s entrance. Much less glorious than the fountain driveway view where an imaginary doorman invites you into the residence by the ten-feet-tall double doors. This entry desperately needs weeding; the door is worn, rusted metal handles and weak hinges signal negligence in maintenance for years.

Chris, leading in first with his impromptu rescue squad of six, pushes down the copper handle, and lets it swing out. Wood squeaks slowly until the hinges fully extend, thudding serenely to a stop.

From within, a hollow void. Not a sound, nor a creak to be heard from the blackness of the echo chamber besides the six footsteps. A cold chill like a woman’s breath blows onto their necks from the outside, slowly swallowed by the thick odour of mildew and mould.

Someone rummages for a light switch, clicks it, and clicks it the other way again. Power’s out, of course. Chris presses on his earpiece, and just as he thought, communication to the outside is already fizzing into distortions. There will be no one from the outside to rescue them once they venture into the thick of this freak house.

They turn on the flashlight attachment on their rifles for convenience. It’s going to be difficult navigating through the dark, and vital for the unit to err on the side of caution. Who knows what ambushes Arias had conjured for an unwelcomed surprise, knowing his guarded nature.

“Agent Chambers. Do we have location?” Chris asks.

“I can’t track our exact location until the GPS is fixed. But I can tell you that the unit should be around south-east of the mansion according to their last known coordinates, which is approximately… that way.” Rebecca draws out an old-school compass from her pouch and points towards the left side of the hallway according to her device.

“Thank you, Chambers.” Chris states blankly. Rebecca taps her head down to acknowledge once. The air is damp with bitterness, only felt between them.

The front of the entrance invites them to a mudroom with a wide nook sweeping along the broads of the wall. The inner wood panel is enveloped by speckles of mould; more than half of the hangers are still occupied. Chris traces a thin sheet of dust along a puffer jacket.

“Captain, take a look at this.” A thick Hispanic accent gravels out. The figure behind Chris is almost as tall as himself. His face concealed but his personality undeniable focused and direct. Chris vaguely remembers the man’s name through a rushed introduction, Gabriel, sent by B.S.A.A.’s South American branch as a gesture of goodwill.

Gabriel points to the vague darkness behind himself. Chris turns away from the racks, directed into the lounge room around the corner. It is adorned with modest furniture: a few couches, a television, openly connected to the kitchen, and long dining table.

Above the table, there lies a bitten sandwich with splotches of green mould, mugs drank only halfway and meals abandoned before they were done. Leaving the uncut vegetables, dairy, raw beef, as they were for the inhabitation of fungi.

Everyone in the room right now is grateful for Rebecca’s last-minute idea for the masks to give them some coverage for the stench.

“November 19. Tch, all the food had expired five months ago. What a waste, tch.” This voice is deeper in timbre than Gabriel’s with a tendency to click his tongue at any inconvenience. He must be the other assigned unit, Miguel.

“That week was the first A-Virus attack in the world.” Rebecca comments solemnly. Can there be such a coincidence?

“Whatever they had to do, they left in a hurry.” Chris glances around the room once more. What business could they have to evacuate so suddenly?

“A-Are they going to be o-okay?” Nerves are getting a hold of the rookie; the flashlight circle from Johnny’s rifle is visibly shuddering. “What if those m-m-monsters got to them?”

“Can’t be since there’s no struggle. Like they’d blipped in time.” Mike suggests the possibility by recreating the events with his free hand, even uttering a fainted pooof! drifting into the silence for sound effect.

“Nothing had been in and out of this place for a week. Whoever’s left might be starving.” Unless all the employees had left way earlier. But there is an aching dread in Chris’ gut that fears this may not be the case. Just like the other MIA agents who are somewhere in this lodging. There must be more to this story.

“Search for any survivors in the area and stay in line of sight. Don’t ever split up.” Chris orders, looking directly into the darkness of the narrow hallway beyond.

“Yes, Captain!” Five voices bark in response.

- - -

It feels like they had walked for an eternity, through a series of sharp turns, with no visual signs of the end, only mould growing thicker and thicker the further they venture. It was the same portrait, same console table, decorated by the same damned tablecloth over and over again.

On top of the white laced cloth, there is always a baby, barely three months old.

It shook Rebecca in the beginning until she notices the infant is completely still. It’s only a doll. A very realistic one at that, dressed from head to toe in pink and frills.

After what seems like the tenth doll, the discomfort in her brews whenever Rebecca passes by. She can’t help but notice how glassy their eyes, how those irises and pupils look too damn realistic. Like real human eyes, staring. Like it can cry. Every time light hits those pearly beads, whatever light the darkness can spare anyway, Rebecca swears the doll is looking directly at her each time. She wonders if she had gone crazy.

Perhaps it was one of Arias’ secret hobbies… like Arias’ pegging fetish she unfortunately discovered in the depths of a gossip forum. Hey, it’s not her place to say what a billionaire can or can’t do for recreation if it isn’t harming anyone… besides his own crack, maybe.

That took her mind off the creepy temporarily. Nobody else seem to mind, or if they did, they didn’t say a thing. Chris in particular—his mind never left the objective.

“Anyone home? This is B.S.A.A. We’re looking for survivors. Any survivors? Survivors, please show yourself.” Chris announces their presence at every door that meets him along the corridor, bellowing out to make survivors known of their rescue.

But only the echo of himself returns his call, corridor after corridor, room after room, in the humble living quarters that is nothing more than a bunk bed and two desks. Not a soul nor a zombie in sight. But they haven’t given up yet. There is still plenty of the mansion unexplored.

The next door they encounter is different, standing out prominently against the rest with its steel surface, while the rest mahogany wood. And despite this whole area already zoned off from general access, a sinister sign on top warns that this place is off limits to even most employees.

The six of them look at each other and decide silently in unison to investigate inside.

LABORATORY – 3:17 AM

Chris is the first to enter the laboratory, stepping inside the darkness without hesitation to encourage his subordinates to follow suit without fear. Some sticky sensation is caught between their soles, leaving their every footstep. Mike notices first, and he aims his flashlight onto the ground.

Blood red pools, splattered across the bleached tiles in trails like spider lilies, painted across white coats of motionless bodies only several feet away from them… fifty of them. Beyond that, a daring splash of struggle across the mighty propane tank hulking over the centre of the laboratory.

Rebecca winces at the sight; her first time witnessing such a bloodshed. Chris notices, bringing a step forward to shield her from the sight.

“What the fuck happened here…” Chris growls. Before he can take another bloodied step, he hears someone making a retched groan.

It was Johnny, tightening his vocals to hold back a scream, but instead, it erupts into a high pitch shriek of fear instead.

The bodies react to the sound, starting to move. At first, only slight like the trick of an eye. Then, the torsos rise in isolation, head turning slow almost 180 degrees, eyes affixed on the intruders. Their skin ashen grey, veins and arteries pop out freshly, where the stench is the most putrid here.

All six soldiers ready their rifles. Avoiding big movements, slowing their limbs backwards to the way out. The zombie hoard of many dozens in front of them matches their pace, unsure whether friend or enemy.

Something falls. Slipping away from Rebecca’s back pocket, a metallic cylinder case—long and thin, that a ballpoint pen will fit perfectly inside. It crashes onto the floor, a light thud. But in the quiet room with nothing but hostile hisses and crackling of bones, the zombies pounce at the same time at the sign of confirmation.

Gunshots fire, without restraint, bullets whizzing across the room, taking aim. Shots pierce into the desaturated skin, but no blood manifests from those wounds. The water source that pumps into their hearts had dried up a long time ago. Even bullets hitting directly into the skull merely stuns them temporarily, and they rise back onto their feet in no time.

The unit is very effective and spares little ammunition for the unnecessary—but they are solely six humans in an army of undead. They can’t hold them off forever. If they are cornered, that’s it.

Rebecca, however, has her eyes set on something else instead of the massacre in front of her.

My case…. Where is my case! She thinks as her eyes dart around the ground in desperation, between legs and fallen bodies. Something shiny under a chair peeks out in the corner of her eye.

There it is! Despite every fibre of her gut opposing her, Rebecca advances further inside to retrieve it at all costs. She doesn’t dare to stray her eyes away from the container, fearing it will escape her again. Someone kicks it; the metal leaps and rolls near the lab console next to the large cylinder tank.

She makes her way over and tries to lay her rifle on top of the console. It slides due to its slanted surface, so she leans her rifle against the tank for support.

Some of Rebecca’s right palm brushes the metal sheet, and immediately, a stinging heat like a million thorns set her hand ablaze. She flings her arm away, winces, and notes the parts of skin that contacted the tank is patched red with small cysts forming.

The propane tank can easily fit 200 gallons inside. With closer observation, she can hear the flow of water bubbling, churning in its mechanism, pushing out steaming sounds. Rebecca notes that the tank is connected by ductwork.

“What’re you doing, Rebecca!?” Chris explodes, and Rebecca jolts in place, bringing her consciousness back to the present where she remembers they are amid a zombie attack.

She plants her entire body flat onto the ground, detecting the cylinder stuck under the console through a thin gap. The console isn’t secured to the floor, so Rebecca tries budging it to no avail. It’s too heavy.

Rebecca shoves her arm into the gap; her fingers slid in successfully, but it’s stuck on the protruding bone of her wrist. She outstretches her fingers, the tip of it almost reaching the roundness she is seeking. She just needs a bit more distance.

“Rebecca! Out, now!” She can hear Chris warn from afar. “This is an order!”

“One second!” Rebecca thrusts in a bit harder, and a bit more of her wrist enters at the cost of rough friction scratching her wrist bone. Her nail catches it, and she rolls it underneath the pads of her fingers. Now she just needs to lea…

……Wait. Wait, wait, wait. She can’t leave. Her wrist is jammed. Rebecca can’t take it out even if she uses her entire body weight to lean against the pull. Her face is still planted and vulnerable.

Danger is advancing ever the closer. She can hear it even if she can’t see it. The irregular beats of staggering footsteps increase in volume, snarls getting curious. It won’t be long before she is discovered. But what other choice does Rebecca have now?

As if a sign from above, dim light starts to creep under the table as it lifts, freeing her wrist. Rebecca grabs the case securely into her hand and pulls it back.

Right behind her is Chris, forearm muscles pulsing in tension as he hoists the entire console, slamming it face first onto the two zombies eyeing at them both. They tumble backwards and groans.

Chris’ face darkens with rage, grabbing Rebecca’s shoulder around his arm as if to caution her reckless behaviours, and commands: “You. With me. Now.”

Rebecca, simply glad that she is still alive, nods and lets Chris pull her up in one forceful motion. As soon as Rebecca’s weight is back on her feet, he pushes her along with both arms, propping the rifle under his right arm, tunnelling his vision to the exit. But zombies are visible from all four corners. They are surrounded.

Abruptly, a cold arm wraps Chris from behind, ensnaring the captain in place to serve him on a platter to its zombie friends. Chris squeezes the rifle closer to his sides, and with the strength of his entire triceps, thrust the blunt edge of his bump stock into his assaulter’s torso. He can hear bones cracking, weakening, enough to free Chris of its tight grasp.

With practised ease, Chris adjusts his finger swiftly to the trigger; other hand over the handle in under a full second and fires at the next target leaping his way.

Rebecca wants to help Chris too. She presses down an empty space on her back. She had left her rifle next to the tank still. And now, the HK416 is idly resting behind five limping enemies with no intentions of letting her pass by.

That rifle is practically gone as far as she knows, so she unholsters her back-up pistol, her trusty Samurai’s Edge, tailored to her own needs and got her through thick and thin.

Rebecca knows she isn’t as much of a good shot as Chris is, lacking in almost a decade of combat experience behind Chris, but she kept up a fair deal of gun training and hand to hand combat during her research years for emergency purposes. And now, those skills are coming in handy.

Her shots are careful, only decisive ones of enemies that come between her way to the exit. Always looking over her blind spots in wariness because Rebecca knows one bite from a zombie is all it needs to take her out. She can’t be messing around here.

A zombie leaps directly into Rebecca as she heads checks, baring its fangs and curling its squirming fingers. Too close for a shot, she raises her arms to a block, tossing them aside when the pale hands advance closer to her neck. The nails are sharp, clawing into Rebecca’s skin as she shoves them away. Rebecca front kicks the thing away, and while it stumbles, gave her the perfect opportunity to take out its head in a burst shot.

But no matter how many enemies the two fended off, the path becomes more and more obscured by zombie heads and limbs, leaving no room for breath besides defending their own.

Gunshots other than their own starts firing around them. The other four comrades are clearing the way while guarding the exits.

“Captain! Rebecca!” Mike cries out.

For a brief second, a window of opportunity surfaces, and their eyes catch sight of the clear line of exit between them and the zombies.

“Run! Just run!” Chris’ voice thunders over the gnarly crew of zombies.

But Rebecca didn’t need instructions for this one. They dash straight for the door, and when they passed, they didn’t stop either.

The others did a head start, already racing away; Chris and Rebecca eventually joining them at the end of the line, with Chris slamming the steel door in their enemies’ faces before he leaves. It will slow them briefly, but that won’t last forever.

The six of them sprint along the corridor, and a loud clang penetrates the air. Zombies had destroyed the entire metal door itself, following right behind, trying to overtake each other, despite the narrow width of the hallway that fits only two people side by side.

The hoard collides and tramples on each other, but their chase is relentless, showing no mercy until each and every one of their prey is devoured. Closing in distance, an inch at a time, but slowly and surely catching up to inevitable fatigued limbs of humans.

“W-We’re not going to make it, Ca-” Johnny, coming first in the sprint, sobs, but he isn’t allowed to slow down no matter even if his heavy backpack weighs him down, no matter how deep his leg sores. The sudden brake will trip everyone behind him, toppling his captain and colleagues together. And it will be all because of him. He can’t stop.

Chris can hear the stomping footsteps grow louder; he can feel it on the floor too, the wooden boards quaking in fury from withholding such strength and speed in the tight path. He turns his head, and the outreached arms of the zombies are within a few feet away from his own neck.

Chris had to think fast—no, don’t think. More time thinking means less action. They’re quickly approaching the end of the hallway several yards away, and beyond that darkness. It can be a dead end too, what then?

Till he hears a chime.

Tick, tick, tick.

He sees it. A grandfather clock propping up on the side of the wall, right before the cloud of darkness. Chris can use that.

First, it was Johnny who made it to the other side of the clock. Then Miguel, Gabriel. Then Rebecca. Then Mike. And when it was Chris turn, he spins his body 180 degrees, meeting the hoard eye to eye.

He claws all ten of his fingernails onto the intricate engravings into the heavy wood. With a heavy shove, pulls the entire seven feet tall clock sideways to barricade the corridor.

All can hear the break of the bell when it crashes and the mechanism within fails. The hourly melody starts playing abruptly in malfunction, failing its fundamental ability to read the current time. Only the crooked and solemn tone resonates throughout the hollow vicinity.

That won’t be enough. They can still crawl underneath, between and over the gaps of the wood. Chris readies aim between the gaps, waiting for the zombies to peek through.

But Chris can’t see any heads. Or any movement, matter of fact. They freeze at the call of the chimes, and after a few seconds, their bodies retreat. Over the gap, Chris can see zombies with their backs turned, returning into the darkness of the hallway once more like they were never there in the first place.

There is a moment of silence, first. A moment to catch their breath. But this moment doesn’t last when Chris storms towards Rebecca, grabbing her forearm, forcing her to take a backwards a step.

“What the fuck were you thinking? You coulda died!” Chris seethes with a face of pure rage; everyone clenches their fists in fear.

“C’mon now, Capt. Go easy on her.” Mike tries to stand between Chris and Rebecca, a valiant attempt to diffuse Chris’ temper, but is unsuccessful.

“No. There’s no need.” Rebecca assures him. This is something between her and her captain. Her own accountability she had decided to take on herself.

“Would you like to explain yourself?” Chris asks, his tone abrasive.

“It was important.” She tries to brush aside the issue. Rebecca can’t tell her about the metal case, not yet. He will be too protective about it.

Chris takes one big step to close the gap, she can feel the heat from his eyes scorching her.

“Chris! I need you to trust me on this!” Rebecca pleads, though it doesn’t provide the clarification Chris wanted at all.

“That’s Captain Redfield to you!” Chris roars, and all sounds turn still.

He pauses, immediately regretting his words and tone. Once again, Chris gazes directly into her eyes that displayed only sincerity. This isn’t like the open book personality Chris knows of her. Something is up. Something Rebecca doesn’t want to share. He can’t push her—what kind of person will that make him?

Only his final thought reaches her ears. “More important than your own life?”

The room turns silent. Rebecca’s answer says a lot without saying anything at all.

The grip tightens on her arm, and Rebecca flinches. This is when Chris sees the state of the arm he is grabbing—secondary burns, bruised wrist, and strips of fresh blood free-flowing from both arms.

“…Get her fixed up.” Chris releases the arm gently, so it doesn’t fall too hard, releasing out a heavy sigh that sounds older than his years.

“Roger, Captain.” Johnny lets down the backpack of supplies with relief.

“Anyone else injured?” Chris queries the group, significantly calmer since his reflection. He casts his eyes over everyone, deliberately avoiding Rebecca’s.

“I think I broke my foot.” Gabriel was running fine before, but after the adrenaline had died down, he begins to feel every pain on his leg. He now staggers and the injured foot is hovered slightly.

“Let me have a look.” Rebecca gets down onto her knees to examine the foot. She advises him to roll up his pant leg. The spot is swollen red and soft, and it flinches when touched. Rebecca asks him to move his ankle: he can’t.

“It’s a fracture. You might not be able to move your leg for a while.” Rebecca pats herself up. “Ice would be ideal here but nothing we can do now. There are some bandages in the first aid. That should help with the swelling.”

“Alrighty, I needa resupply anyway! Those zombies took quite a few mags.” Mike is already three magazines down in his front pouch.

Rebecca needs a resupply too; there should be spare rifle in there for emergencies. Her Samurai’s Edge is reliable, but she needs something stronger if she wants to survive the rest of this journey. She can’t risk turning back and aggravating the zombie hoard once more.

The fresh face unzips the backpack, reaching in. Initially, puzzled, then slowly morphs into the face of horror. His calm searching turns into frustrated shuffling, emptying out the contents of the bag one by one.

Lying on the ground are bags after bags of military rations, counting to fifty bags. After a while, he gives up. Everyone is fully aware now of his royal fuck up. Johnny had picked up the wrong backpack on his way in.

“Come on, rookie! You had one job!” Gabriel starts yelling, losing whatever composure he had just a moment ago.

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, sir!” repeats Johnny’s brittle apologies, fists trembling.

“Qué pinche pendejo eres… tch.” Miguel grumbles to himself, and as an act of self-comfort, massages his hand with each other and feeling the wedding ring on his hand.

“You motherfucker!” Gabriel tries to rise, and almost trips over his broken ankle when he finds it unsteady. Johnny rushes in to support him.

“Mind ya business!” Gabriel flails his arms at the poor child, before lowering himself down slowly through a strained grunt. “I’ve got a fucking broken leg here ‘cause of you! You shoulda be glad I can’t whoop your ass right now! Once this foot is working again, you’ll be sorry!”

“It’s not that bad, really…” Mike tries to console, but this time, it’s more a desperate attempt for self-reassurance.

“Stay out of this, American.” Gabriel snaps back.

“Enough. Both of you. We’ll find a way out of this.” Chris interrupts before things escalate too far.

“Tch. And what do you suggest, Captain?” Miguel scoffs.

There’s no point in changing what can’t be changed. They can only adapt to what they have not. Be it without supplies or ammo. There is always a way around, if it means taking things slow or conserving ammo for their future fights. However…

Chris peeks at Rebecca’s arm. Her skin is turning white from blood loss. She needs first aid, ASAP.

“Let’s look around. Maybe there are supplies.” Chris says.

“There better be. This leg’s not gonna fix itself.”

KITCHEN / LAUNDRY – 3:39 AM.

Johnny had offered to carry Gabriel, but he refused without sparing a glance at the rookie’s face. But he didn’t complain when Miguel haul him instead, all whilst announcing their passive aggression about incompetent American soldiers and how they can only trust each other.

Meanwhile, Chris is focused on getting problems solved than whining about them. There must be a weaponry, maybe medical supplies somewhere in this damn fancy house. If only he can figure out how this foreign layout works.

The end of the corridor spreads out into a large open space, giving them much needed room to explore and not bump into each other shoulder to shoulder. There is a kitchen if they continue straight, enough to fit an army of private chefs with a glass room of wine display proudly to the side.

And towards the right, there is a laundry room. Beside it, a door that hangs a sign: [STORAGE AREA]

Hopefully they will find what they need here.

STORAGE ROOM – 3:41 AM.

For a storage room, it is quite spacious. Cardboard boxes stack high to the ceiling around the room, labelled with its contained items: [CLEANING], [MEDICAL], [AMMUNITION]. They look around potential hiding spots for zombies: there is none. It seems like they are safe for now. And for that, the unit is relieved.

“Alright. Let’s get you fixed up.” Rebecca immediately starts rummaging through the medical drawer. Miguel carries and rests the injured onto a large cardboard box for his treatment, then finds himself in the ammunition box.

This detour is much welcomed by everyone. After restocking what they need, hope has returned—whatever they can afford in the present state of things—uncoiling the tension brewing inside each of the soldiers. Chris can even hear Mike’s good-humoured banter ripples a warm laugh through Gabriel and Miguel. And Johnny is chattering next to them.

Chris relaxes his guard too, finally, for the first time today. As captain, he is always expected to be one to straighten his subordinates. And he does. Sometimes even at the cost of having his emotions get to him. Like just now, with Rebecca.

Sometimes, what the team needs is not just a guy yelling at their faces, but rather someone with Mike’s charm, or Rebecca’s friendliness to light up the room and boost squad morale.

Which Chris appreciated them for—doing the things he can’t do as captain. As captain, he must always remain a respectful distance from his team. He is the most senior member of the squad and must act that way even when situations are dire.

That got him thinking about his old team, still nowhere to be found, where their long history of acquaintance allows the lines of authority to blur. Many of those missions with them are often exchanged with laughs…

Chris bumps his arm onto a table beside him. Atop lays a vintage typewriter, a piece of paper is stuck to it.

It has been an unspoken protocol between S.T.A.R.S to document their adventures on the go, in case an accident occurs, so their stories are remembered and not forgotten. That ritual followed Chris and his team into B.S.A.A. He picks up the note; the ink is still very faintly lukewarm.

To whoever is reading this,

There is something really creepy about this mansion. It’s just too dang quiet. Where on earth is everyone? I know that Arias should be on a plane to a different continent now, so nobody’s home but—

“…Ch-.” A voice can be heard in the air while he reads; he pushes the sound out to focus.

…But I feel a chill down my back. If you’re in this room now, ge—

A heavy hand slams onto the table, winces, then goes back on the table again. The entire forearm is bandaged, and the palm is wrapped in some translucent cling film.

“Chris! I’m talking to you.” Rebecca taps her foot impatiently.

“And I heard you. You don’t have to say my name twice.” Chris looks at her for a second and brings his eyes down back to paper, reading between the blurred lines. “I saw you were tending to Gabriel when you were in a much worse state. You should prioritise yourself first.”

“I actually called you three times!” Rebecca clicks her tongue, crossing her arms now.

Chris shrugs. Rebecca continues when she realises he isn’t going to say anything else.

“I can take care of myself, don’t worry, captain.” She utters the word captain with much disdain that it irks his eyebrow slightly.

“Suit yourself.” Chris pretends to read, but Rebecca is still staring intently, so he asks: “How can I help you, Chambers?”

She picks the paper out of his hands, and declares: “Maybe we should address the elephant in the room.”

“There is nothing to discuss.” Chrisfolds his arms to match hers.

“Clearly there is. Or you wouldn’t be ignoring me.” Rebecca’s voice comes out a little louder than it should, sounding throughout the room as everyone peeks at the duo. Chris doesn’t need an audience for their petty drama, lest appearing unprofessional to his own personnel.

“Let’s talk outside.”

The two promptly walk to the exit, with Rebecca behind Chris so he can’t escape. They leave the room, facing the wet laundry, as Chris closes the door behind him to avoid prying ears.

“Alright, talk then.” He begins, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.For a man like Chris, he can be cold when he is upset. Even among his close ones. But there is still a bit of warmth in his voice, a bit of unspoken openness to listen. But for Chris to be convinced, it is still highly dependent on what Rebecca says next.

“Hey- I just want to say.” All of a sudden not knowing where to start, or when. After trying to get Chris to make peace with her all day, she finally has his attention. But when the moment comes, Rebecca is lost for words. Stuck behind her throat and tongue ice frozen.

“I know you don’t want me here. Putting my life in danger.” says Rebecca quietly.

“Like I said, you are free to do what you want.” Chris deadpans. “…And you did. What’s done is done.”

“Hey, don’t give me that. C’mon, Chris. You know it would be better if I was here. I know this virus better than you do. I’ve been researching this for months, and- and- you know my radio won’t reach you in here with the signal jammed.”

“Everything beyond these doors are unknown territory. Did you forget five of our best agents went MIA here?” Chris releases one long, arduous breath.

Rebecca is silent. She hasn’t forgotten, will never forget if the agents are dead—but doing anything is better than doing nothing. She will rather put her life at risk than the waiting game just to be told her friends are dead. “Yes. I know that. But you need me here.”

“And what I need most, is for you to be safe.” Chris places both hands firmly on her shoulders, sighs, and lets go.

Chris admits; there is truth in her words. The virus is alive, a living subject. They must tread carefully. And who else knows about this virus better than Rebecca? She may be the means of life or death.

“We are still a team. We watch each other’s back. We trust each other.” Rebecca hesitates for a moment, then continues. “…Just like S.T.A.R.S, the good old days.”

Chris tries to push away the betrayal from the back of his mind and focus only on the good parts of the memories. But it didn’t work. The clockwork of life kept running, wondering if the same fate will happen to him once more.

Trust? How long has Chris trusted someone? Put his life on the line of other people’s desires, capabilities? How many people have died trying? When has that ever worked out for Chris? He knows that the only person he can rely on saving himself and others is his own self.

Abruptly, his thought process is interrupted by cheers cascading from the other side of the door. Chris opens the door, and Rebecca’s curiosity peeks inside.

The crowd is cheering at Miguel, passing around bottled water around the circle. In this house trapped with years’ worth of heat, rotted smell preserved in humidity, water is a found treasure to these men. Especially after the laborious sprint earlier, they can feel half of their bodies’ liquid lost, throat turning dry and lips crackling.

Rebecca recalls her discovery about the water supply. She remembers warning the crew about this. Yet through the corner of her eyes, she sees Gabriel cracking open the bottle seal, shimmying his mask out the way, his lips touching the lip of the plastic bottle.

“DON’T DRINK THAT!” She yelps, as loud as she can possibly muster.

And everything happened all at once.

STORAGE ROOM – 3:57 AM

Gas starts to sizzle into the room through tightened air pressure, escaping rapidly into the space. Engulfed in smoke, Rebecca clutches onto her mask, hoping that the cheap material will be sufficient. At the minimum providing a bit of resistance before they remove themselves from the smoke-filled room.

“Squad! Make your way to the exit!” Chris orders.

Chris and Rebecca guide the team out one by one. Individuals start shuffling out of the mist from within. Johnny comes through first, then Mike, Miguel, and Johnny.

“Captain!” Johnny cries, pointing a wobbly finger into the puffs of smoke. “He’s still…”

Faintly from the haze, a figure manifests, sprawling on the floor. It grunts in fear, choking and coughing with arms extended.

“I… I can’t move! My… my leg…” His facial features slowly uncover from the smoke, and there is Gabriel desperately dragging along his broken foot towards the door. The injured had completely slipped Chris’ mind. He needs to get him out of there, now.

Chris pushes himself inside, but Mike grabs him before his foot makes its way in. Mike utters in grave realisation: “He’s unmasked.”

“I swear to god I’m alright! I swear on my life!” Gabriel cries even louder, swallowing a lump of smoke into his chest, and he chokes. “I didn’t drink the water!”

“Captain… what do we do?” asks Miguel, voice softening in desperation. He knows the answer to that question, but Miguel refutes that option, denying it like a child in the face of loss. “Captain! What do I do?”

Chris does not say a thing, nor it is his place. This farewell is reserved between him and his friend. Then afterwards, Chris must do what must be done.

“Miguel… ¡No me dejes aquí!” They can barely hear Gabriel’s sobs over the continuous hissing, louder through time, breaking free of the closed room to contaminate the air outside too.

That is, until Rebecca cuts in: “It’s not too late. The gas is useless by itself, as long as he didn’t drink the water. He’s going to be fine. But we shouldn’t risk it… Just in case.”

“Fuck this, I’m not leaving him there.” Miguel sprints past Chris and Mike into the white without looking back. They try to grab hold of him before he does anything reckless, but Miguel flings them away. “I’m not leaving him behind. We grew up in the same town. Enlisted together. Same squad for years. I’m not letting him go now.”

Miguel searches inside the fog, and finding the lightly conscioused Gabriel quivering with his chest on the floor. Miguel hauls Gabriel’s body weight onto his own.

“We’re getting out of here alive, Gabito.” Miguel swings an arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling Gabriel’s feeble foot upwards and lets his torso limp over himself.

“Tch c’mon, haven’t we been through everything already? I’ve seen you worse when you broke your arm and ribs.”

“I remember that. You carried me all the way back to camp just like this.” Gabriel speaks with a mellow voice in reminiscence. Miguel can hear something clicking its throat, sinisterly gargling the air. Miguel pauses to look around, there is no other presence. Right, he already checked the room. It’s safe. So, he continues forward.

“And we will get through this one too. Your abuelita will be heartbroken if you’re gone. I can’t do that to her.” They are approaching closer to the ray of light at the end of the door. Gabriel falls to his side.

“Hang on, man! I’ll get you out of here. You can trus—”

Rebecca hears a clack, the sound she recognises to be bones snapping in half. She can’t see where Gabriel and Miguel are, with the fog blurring her sight. The vague silhouettes that can be seen before are now gone.

She leans in, peeking into fuzziness, but Chris’ arm moves in front of her, blocking her from getting any closer. He, too, is cautious of the sound.

“What’s taking them so long?” Mike calls out their names but there is no response from the other end. “That’s it, I’m heading in.”

“Mike, wait!” cries Chris.

Mike steps inside, warily inspecting. When he lifts the other foot, he almost trips. “What the—?” He shifts his leg around some more.

“I can’t move my foot!!” Mike’s shrieks are like little girl squeals throwing a tantrum. He wiggles back and forth to readjust balance with all his might. “Eek! Some slimy shit’s holding me down!!”

“Get it off me, get it off me!” The three of them attempt to pull Mike out and the foot lifts into the air. As if noticing the traction, the mist yanks Mike’s leg backwards. “Fuck shit fuck fuck!! Lord have mercy!!”

What is this power? How can it be this strong? There shouldn’t be anyone else in the room, Chris had already done all the check spots. The only people still in the room are just Gabriel and Miguel. What happened to the two of them anyway?

Mike had enough; he pulls out his handgun and shoots at the general direction of the force. The strength loosens, and they can see the whole foot now and the mysterious force dragging him back.

A bloody hand fastens around Mike’s ankle, fingers tightening sturdily around the soft skin. Another hand appears abruptly and secures right above the other hand. It has a different complexion, a silver coated wedding band over its ring finger. This is Miguel’s ring.

Something can be heard from within the fog, distinctly Gabriel’s voice.

“Mike… we’re having a party in here. Come join us!” The cheerful tone sends goosebumps rushing down Mike’s back.

“Shit! It can talk!?” Chris tries to pull the leg again, but it’s planted to the floor.

“It’s okay, Mike. Let’s have a lot of fun!” This doesn’t even sound like Miguel, but it is his voice.

There’s a bullet hole through its palm from Mike’s shot. It bleeds all over the other hand, still able to grab persistently despite suffering from such a wound.

“No, no, no! This… This isn’t supposed to happen!!” It shouldn’t be possible for the virus to activate only on gas alone, Rebecca was confident about this. It was one of the key implementations of this virus for its remote activation.

Yet the impossible is right there in front of her, the evidence of the vein-popping, skin-crackling bloody hand lay bare contradicting her every hypothesis.

Mike’s foot stumble further backwards, his hamstring swallowed now. The shrieks are turning into despair, losing his childish tone, becoming more pleading, demanding.

Chris draws his dagger from his holster and stabs straight down into the mist, briefly missing Mike’s foot and directly into both palms, skewering the two hands together. Both hands let go simultaneously, withdrawing into the white once more.

“Now!” Chris orders, and the four of them backs away from the entrance, with Chris slamming the door shut behind. He secures the door with his entire back, feeling the full force of banging. He growls out: “Barricade!”

Rebecca, Mike and Johnny shuffle around, dragging a table, cabinets, chairs—anything heavy to prop in front of the door. Chris stuffs the tiny door gap with vintage draperies to confine the poisonous air, taken directly from the curtain racks itself.

Whatever that is left of Gabriel and Miguel can still be heard snarling, clicking their throats, gargling air beyond the closed door. Occasionally muttering to themselves, pleading the rest on the other side to open the door ever so slightly with their gentle persuasion.

LAUNDRY – 4:06 AM

“I thought I was dead meat for sure.” Mike leans against the other side of the wall, checking his own foot. There is a purple bruise on his skin, but his ankle moves freely. All his joints are fine; nothing is twisted. “Thanks, you guys.”

Rebecca and Chris nods.

“So we lost two, huh…” Mike dry laughs at the situation, even when there is nothing funny going on right now.

There is another moment of silence as each of them thinks about their own fate in this mansion. With their numbers dropped by a third, their chance of survival is looking rather slim.

“Hey, if it helps, I never like those two anyway.” Mike tries to break the suffocating atmosphere with some humour, before a voice that had been quiet for a while suddenly speaks up.

“Gabriel and Miguel wouldn’t have died if he didn’t get false info.” utters Johnny.

“You, rookie?” Mike stops to eye Johnny up and down, who is currently sitting right next to him, with his hands and definitely his ass clenched too. “Defending the guys who yelled at your face?”

“It was ‘cause of my own fuck-up.” Johnny clenches his own fist, guilt dripping through every word. “They shouldn’t have died regardless.”

“In this line of work, people die.” Chris states. It’s a matter of fact. They all knew what they signed up for. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Even so… If they did know about the gas, they would have been alive. At least, Miguel would have been!” Johnny stares directly at Rebecca for responsibility.

When confronted directly, Rebecca hesitates, she knows the blood is in her hands. “This… This is also news to me too… I have read the reports multiple times, there is no mention that A-Virus is capable of such transmission. It doesn’t match up to the research.”

“What if the report was a plant?” Johnny asks. “Arias sent fake data to your email.”

“It can’t be. Each transaction requires a single use security token to grant access to my private cloud storage. This token can only be authenticated via fingerprint recognition. So Leon must have sent the files himself.” Rebecca clarifies. In her mind, her system is impenetrable, mostly…

“And what if he’s dead? Or held hostage? Arias could force his thumb to send whatever he wants.”

Rebecca pauses, then she speaks: “That is a possibility.”

“Clearly, you have not thought of everything.” Johnny leans back.

If Johnny’s theories are right... Rebecca instinctually pats down her back pocket, feeling the cylinder case she tried so hard to save in the laboratory room... then this would have been a waste.

“You—” Chris grabs Johnny on the arm in an uncomfortable angle, squeezing it hard for a lesson. “Enough, kid. I don’t need you going around insulting the best B.O.W. tech I know. She’s doing everything she can. So zip it, focus on your own shit, and follow my orders as I tell you. And I’m ordering you to be quiet.”

“Fine, fine. I got it.” Johnny shrugs off Chris’ hand and rises. “Where’s that same energy to the doctor, huh?” He walks towards a pillar far from the three of them but still within sight.

Chris considered raising his voice, but he drops the idea. Instead, he plops down onto the ground next to Rebecca, patting on her head like he would to his own sister. “Never mind that guy. He’ll lose that attitude real soon. I remember I used to be the same rookie who would talk back to my captain too. Got my ass whooped. Never did that again. At least, not in front of their faces. Maybe I’m going too easy on these fresh ones, who knows…”

A rare moment of gratitude flashes across Rebecca’s eyes; Chris simply dismisses it with a wave. It’s his job to ensure they focus on the present of objective. Not their past, nor their failures. Moreover, B.O.W. techs are more valuable than brawny field soldiers like himself by the hundreds.

Rebecca reaches for something in her bag, and a paper floats to the floor, crumpled from action.

“It’s the letter I took from you.” She should give this back.

He refuses, instead says: “Let’s read it together.”

Trust is rebuilding again, brick by brick.

Chris whistles at the other two and Mike carries himself towards them. Johnny does not move, hand on cheek looking at everything but them even if he did hear the captain. Mike and Rebecca exchange a ‘just let him be’ glance with Chris.

So, Chris unfolds the paper, and reads it out loud, from the part he left off in the storage room.

Get out of there this instant. We think the storage room is booby trapped. I thought the gas was going to turn all of us, but I feel fine. Carlos and Jill though…are off. I accidentally brushed against them, and they felt… cold. When I try talking to them, they seem distracted for a split second. Far off.

Or it could be a false alarm. We don’t know yet. We decided to split into teams for efficiency: Jill and Ada to retrieve the sample while Leon, Carlos shall investigate the pipes. And for me… we’ll see. Once we’re done, we will meet up and get the fuck out of here. I trust Rebecca and the team; we would get through this. We always find a way.

If this is you reading, Arias, get shit on, sucker! The sample will be ours, good riddance to your little game! Justice prevails once more!

There is a hand drawn winky face next to it. Chris and Rebecca scoffs, that optimistic trusting behaviour. So typical of you. And oh, so wrong you were about everything.

“So, the lab, huh? That’s the one by the corridor?” asks Mike.

“Most likely. I know three people was last seen on the ground floor, the others on the top floor. And it’s likely Carlos and Jill to be turned first, according to Leon.” answers Rebecca.

“Could they have split up to divide numbers so they can infect them?” asks Chris.

“That explains why they went MIA. Either infected, or worse, dead.” Mike comments, but none of this is looking too favourable on their side right now.

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll be so easy. I know these guys. They’re not the kind to give up without a fight. And these guys are some great fighters.”

Rebecca nods reluctantly. “True—That is, if they know a zombie is among them. These zombies can fucking talk. They wouldn’t have seen it coming. And from what we saw today, they can blend in and entice with their human speech. We have to be very careful.”

What’s to say one of them is not between them now? But she seals her tongue from making such bold statement. Rebecca eyes over a suspicious glance at everyone, including Johnny, checking for any irregularities. None she can notice from a fair distance away.

“But how does the infection work then? Was Gabriel bitten?” Mike asks.

“No, it was only a fracture. The bite marks would be distinct. He only made contact with the ga—” Rebecca pauses.

Her brain starts chugging, like a cogwheel in a complicated mechanism with fragments of facts. Neither of the boys dare to interrupt Rebecca from her thoughts. When she is in the zone, nothing anyone say will get into her head. And it clicks.

“Arias, you sneaky bastard…” She grins. She would kiss her brain right now if she could.

Chris and Mike look at each other in confusion.

“The poisoned water is all around us. It’s the air.” Rebecca elaborates, smiling wide the entire time after her newfound discovery.

“The air?” Chris and Mike gasps in unison.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that when you stepped inside the house, it’s musty?” She pauses to let the boys think. “But the outside, it’s cool.”

“Well, there must have been residual heat from the day still trapped in the house.” Mike comments. It seems abandoned for a long time after all.

“What residual heat during April? It should still be dry season in Querétaro. It’s the humidity! Arias had been pumping up the humidity in the house, that’s why mould is everywhere.”

“And how does that tie to—” Halfway through Mike’s sentence, he snaps his fingers. “Oh.”

“The water supply in the humidifier, of course.” Chris grins, nodding his head in approval.

“The bottled water in the storage is bait. It never had anything to do with the virus.” Rebecca points at Chris and does an a-ha! sound. “The tank in the laboratory is actually just a large-scale humidifier, sending the virus through water vapours in the air. All around us. That’s what those employees were guarding.”

“Gabriel was the only one who took off his mask.” Mike hits his palm with a fist. “And Miguel was infected by being bitten. Then why was Carlos and Jill the ones infected?”

“They had all been infected since the beginning.” Rebecca says, which is the scariest part about this whole operation. What would have happened if Rebecca never suggested the masks?

She continues: “How it activates, I have no clue. The speed of activation drastically varies from person to person so far. The A-Virus attacks always happen either immediately, or up to an hour. I wonder if it’s individual resistance to the virus.”

“Regardless! That’s a major discovery!” Mike launches himself up in joy. “My lord, you’re a genius, Rebecca!”

“As long as we keep our masks on, we should be fine.” Rebecca states, for real this time.

“I’ll let Johnny know the good news.” Mike scoots off. It’s just Rebecca and Chris alone now.

Rebecca takes in a nervous gulp now they are alone. She had forgotten to tell him the most important thing. Rebecca owes him that at least. “Hey, Chris… About the metal case…”

“It’s okay, Becca.” Chris shakes his head understandingly. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Only if you want to. Only when you’re ready. Because we’re going to see this to the end.”

“The both of us?” Rebecca suggests with much confidence.

“With everyone. I’ll make sure we all get back home.” Chris reassures, and this time, he can see clearly what lies at the end of the rainbow.

But what they didn’t know, is that during their heartfelt revelation, Johnny had let a tear fall in private, lifting his mask ever so slightly to wipe the wateriness from his cheek.

TFD SERIES MASTERLIST // RESIDENT EVIL MASTERLIST

MY BELOVED BETAS: @scar-crossedlvrs @jellybonbons the plot really boggle my brain i made so many changes last min. my first longfic so forgive me. on the bright side, we're so close to the finale omg!! the next chapter will take me a while, just a heads up! whoever is still reading this, i appreciate you guys for still staying tuned and from the bottom of my heart, thank you for still believing in me. i love you all sm.

TAGLIST:

@jellybonbons @ovaryacted @daydreamrot @madcap-riflette @access--granted

@obsolescent @briermelli @secretiveauthor @ghosty-frog @navstuffs

@slowcryinginthedark @rentaldarling @lesbntired @redvleanli @vinsiliors

@whoisgami @gaylorvader @wxwieeee @eddsthemunson

#꒰✒️ rose fics ♡.꒱#resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy x reader #jill valentine x reader #ada wong x reader #carlos oliveira x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil fic #resident evil x you #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon x reader #chris redfield #rebecca chambers

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