#a win for the agony within!

[aleksatia]

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

[scarlet-star-witch]

His Sacrifice

Summary: Aemond makes the decision to save the one he loves over his brother.

Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and is in a secret relationship with Aemond

WC: 1.5 K

Tumblr is a piece of shit that deleted the request but to whoever sent this, hope you enjoy xx

Part 2

~~

The screams of men below were almost inaudible over the roar of her dragon. She felt powerful, she felt vindictive, a smug satisfaction washing over her as she decimated the Green army below, the traitors who dared to usurp her mother.

Yet her heart was aching. 

Her eyes scanned the skyline, nervously awaiting Vhagar’s presence, awaiting his presence. 

Her throat tightened and she blinked rapidly to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She’d cried enough tears over him, over the divide that wedged between them, threatening to break them apart completely. She had to be done. 

A trill made her perk up, looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide, her chest aching, but as she caught sight of the smaller, gold dragon headed her way, her devastation soon turned to anger. 

Aegon. 

Her face shifted, her agony now hatred. Her teeth grit with effort as she pulled at the reins, swooping dangerously close to the soldiers below her, a smirk painting her lips at their cries of terror. 

“Vermithor… attack.”

The dragon below her roared, a mighty sound that shook the bones of those who watched from below. 

She distantly heard Aegon’s call and held onto the handles of the saddle in a white-knuckled grip as she swerved out of the way of the stream of fire Sunfyre spat at her. She winced, flinching away from the barrage of flames that met her too closely. 

The dragons fought a vicious and bloody fight, Vermithor’s talons tearing Sunfyre across her belly, her cries echoing, shaking the ground below. 

Over her dragon’s head that now had the other poor dragon’s neck in his jaws, she met Aegon’s eyes, her gaze alight with hateful glee as she noticed the fear in his eyes. 

But suddenly, his expression shifted, a smile growing as he breathed out in relief. 

Turning, she saw the enormous figure of Vhagar looming forward, like a killer stalking its prey, ready to devour her with ease. 

Her heart dropped, the grip on the reins slipping from her hands, as if she already accepted her fate. 

Swallowing against the lump in her throat that grew, she closed her eyes, refusing to see the look on her lover’s face as he ended her. 

~~

They met in the dead of night, as they always had, meeting on a nondescript island halfway between Dragonstone and King’s Landing. 

He was already waiting for her as she descended from the skies, landing Vermithor beside the hulking figure of Vhagar. 

He was approaching her before she could unsaddle herself. 

His hands were on her before her feet met the ground. 

She was brought into his arms before she could say a word. She embraced him as she always did, desperately, as if it would be their last. With the state of their families, it might just be. 

“Are you alright?” She asked worriedly as she pulled out of his arms, her eyes frantically searching for his face, finding only despair.

“You cannot go tomorrow.” He told her swiftly.

“What-”

“They commanded me to take Vhagar to Rook’s Rest.”

Her face remained impassive as she took in his words, though the storm that raged within her was devastating, shattering every ounce of hopeful excitement she’d felt when she received his raven to meet her that night.

“Aemond, I-”

“You cannot go. Please.” He begged her. 

Her gaze met his and the frantic desperation she saw in his lone eye stirred sadness within her, the divide between their families that had slowly been tearing them apart delivering another fatal blow. 

“I have to. You know I have to.” She answered quietly, mournfully, as if she was already accepting her fate. She couldn’t fight Vhagar, she couldn’t win against him. 

He cursed and took a step away from her, placing his hand over his mouth as he tried hard to rein in his anger, his fear of what would happen to her, to them, as they met on the battlefield.

They always knew it would happen eventually, but it didn’t mean they were ready for it. They had been content to live in a fantasy together, as if they could pretend they weren’t living their reality, that they could’ve lived a happy life together. 

He stepped towards her again, taking her face in his hands. 

“Please, you cannot- I cannot-” He stammered and let out a shaking breath, his tortured gaze locked on hers. “Love, please, don’t go.”

“We always knew this would happen.”

His anger flared at the resolution he heard in her voice, at how quickly she was willing to accept this, that they were to meet on the battlefield, with only one of them returning victorious. He couldn’t accept it, he wouldn’t.

He shook his head wordlessly, his brows furrowed as if in pain. Her arms wrapped around him and he was quick to return the hug, holding her to him tightly. He let out a shaking breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he held her, silently praying it wouldn’t be for the last time.

“We should’ve left while we still had the chance.” She spoke with a small laugh that held nothing but sadness. Aemond nodded, his hands gripping her firmer, his thoughts a mirage of what their life would be if he had taken her up on her offer to escape to Essos all those years ago.

He desperately wished he had agreed. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow-”

“Don’t.” He begged, his heart already aching at the thought of what they would face. 

“Whatever happens,” She repeated more sternly as she looked at him intently. “It won’t change what we have. Nothing will change how I feel about you, even if I cannot feel anything at all.”

He practically shuddered at the thought, the mere notion of losing her too much to fathom and bowed his head until his forehead met hers, their shaking breaths shared. 

“I’ll love you even after the end.” 

He couldn’t hear any more. He kissed her firmly, pouring every bit of love he had for her and had felt for her for years into every caress of his lips, every tantalizing swipe of his tongue, every heated touch that he bestowed onto her beautiful body he had worshiped in secret. 

~~

I’ll love you even after the end

The words echoed in his mind all night. As he left her side to return to King’s Landing before the sun rose, they wouldn’t leave his head, torturing him over and over again, until he felt as though he couldn’t take another breath. 

Now, as he sat atop Vhagar, eyeing the battle in the skies above with bated breath, he knew he had only one choice to make. 

A choice that came all too easily, a choice he would make again each and every time. 

He commanded Vhagar to fly, her large frame taking to the skies slowly, his eye locked onto Vermithor, his heart in his throat as he saw her small frame duck out of the way just in time before Sunfyre’s jaws locked onto her. 

He felt nothing but relief as Vermithor trapped Aegon’s dragon in his jaws, he felt nothing as his brother’s dragon cried out in pain. 

But the blinding rage he felt as he watched Sunfyre swiped her claws against Vermithor’s face, dangerously close to her, made his blood boil.

His hands clenched, his jaw tight, his lone eye dark with resolve as he soon accepted the consequences he would face, the judgment the Gods would place on him. 

But he didn’t care. He would slay his brother if it meant she lived. He would slay millions to save her, without thought. 

“Dracarys!” He yelled, his eye remaining on Aegon who tried to shield himself from the flames that descended upon him. He grunted as Vhagar crashed against Vermithor, harshly nudging the dragon out of the way, Vermithor growling menacingly at Vhagar, before jerking to the side, her command of the reins forcing her dragon not to engage. 

He watched, his heart racing, as she flew away from the scene, away from Aegon as he fell alongside Sunfyre’s broken and burning body. 

He paid little mind to anything else and followed after her. They flew for a few minutes, away from the chaos of battle, away from any prying eyes that would reveal their secret.

He descended just a second after her, landing Vhagar next to Vermithor, his hands shaking as he undid his ties, jumping down his dragon’s frame unsteadily. 

“What the fuck was that?!” She yelled as she stomped towards him, tears in her eyes, unsure of what to make of the emotions overwhelming her. “Do you know what you have just done?”

He ignored her yells and grabbed her hands, pulling her to him, his arms wrapping around her tightly. She squirmed in his grip for a moment, her adrenaline still thrumming through her veins,  before finally giving in as she felt him shaking against her. 

She let out a trembling breath, her arms coming up to wind around him. She let her eyes fall closed as his hand rested on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. 

“What did you do?” She asked wearily, her voice hoarse and weak with exhaustion.

“What I had to.”

[jellyfishsthings]

You’re Not Allowed to Die

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS:injuries

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune 

Damian didn't fear death. He'd stared into its abyss countless times, meting it out with cold precision, his heart a locked vault against its chilling touch. From the moment he could hold a blade, his life had been a relentless dance with mortality, choreographed by ruthless masters, each step echoing with the hollow promise of a swift end. He was a weapon, honed and sharpened, designed to deliver death, not to grieve it.

But that was before. Before your laughter became the unexpected counterpoint to the grim symphony of his existence. Before your unwavering spirit chipped away at the glacial fortress he'd built around his heart. Before he understood that some things were worth more than the empty victory of survival.

Then, the world shifted on its axis. A glint of steel, a desperate lunge, and the sickening thud of a blade finding its mark. Not him. You.

He watched, frozen for a fraction of a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, as you crumpled. You, who had moved without hesitation, a shield forged of pure courage, throwing yourself between him and the assassin's dagger. You, who had absorbed the blow meant for him, the venomous poison now coursing through your veins instead of his.

Rage, raw and untamed, exploded within him. It wasn't the calculated fury of a warrior, the controlled burn of a tactician. This was something primal, a beast clawing its way out of the darkness he thought he'd mastered. He silenced the would-be assassin with brutal efficiency, each strike fueled by the horrifying image of you bleeding out, your lifeblood staining the cold earth. But even as the attacker fell, a cold dread gripped him. He knew, with a certainty that settled like lead in his gut, that this was different. This wasn't a battle he could win with skill or strength. This was a fight against the inevitable, against the silent thief that stole breath and left behind only emptiness.

He didn't register the shouts, the frantic scramble of his comrades. The world narrowed, focusing solely on the fragile form in his arms. He lifted you, his movements surprisingly gentle despite the tremor of barely contained panic that threatened to unravel him. Every labored breath you took was a shard of glass piercing his heart.

He carried you himself. Through the tangled undergrowth, over the treacherous terrain, his own injuries screaming in protest. He ignored the searing pain in his side, the throbbing ache in his shoulder. His only focus was the precious weight in his arms, the desperate need to get you to safety, to somehow rewind time and erase the horrifying moment that had irrevocably altered his world.

Back at their makeshift camp, chaos reigned. He snarled at anyone who dared approach, his voice a guttural roar that brooked no argument. "Get back! I said back!" He shoved aside the medic, his eyes blazing with a possessive ferocity that silenced even the most seasoned warrior. "Don't touch her. I need bandages, now! And the antidote – where is it?"

His own wounds were mere scratches, inconsequential distractions. He wouldn't allow anyone to tend to them until you were safe, until he was certain that the flickering flame of your life wouldn't be extinguished. He barked orders, his voice laced with a desperate urgency that belied his carefully constructed veneer of control. He refused to leave your side, hovering over you like a predator guarding its wounded prey.

Hours blurred into an agony of waiting. He watched, his face etched with a grim intensity, as the medic worked tirelessly, battling the insidious poison that threatened to steal you away. He barely blinked, his gaze fixed on your pale face, willing you to fight, to breathe, to simply be.

His comrades watched him with a mixture of awe and apprehension. They had never seen Damian like this. The cold, calculating killer had vanished, replaced by a man consumed by a raw, visceral emotion that threatened to shatter him completely.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your eyelids fluttered. A collective breath held in the camp was released. Your eyes, hazy and unfocused, slowly found his.

The relief that washed over him was so profound, so overwhelming, that it nearly buckled his knees. He opened his mouth to speak, but the carefully constructed words of comfort, of gratitude, died in his throat. Instead, what emerged was a raw, guttural demand, born of fear and desperation.

“You are forbidden from dying before me,” he rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion and choked emotion. The words were harsh, almost brutal, but beneath them lay a plea, a desperate attempt to control the one thing he couldn't: fate. His eyes, usually cold and impenetrable, were now filled with a storm of conflicting emotions: fury, devastation, and something else, something that terrified him more than any battlefield, vulnerability.

You managed a weak smile, your lips barely trembling. "Sorry to ruin your plan," you whispered, your voice a mere thread of sound.

He gripped your fingers, his hold surprisingly gentle. The rough calluses on his hands, a testament to years of wielding weapons, pressed against your soft skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, battling the wave of emotion that threatened to engulf him.

When he opened them again, the fierce intensity remained, but it was tempered with a fragile tenderness. "Don't do it again," he murmured, his voice barely audible. It wasn't an order, but a plea, a desperate prayer whispered into the darkness.

He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he had been irrevocably changed. The killer remained, but something else had been awakened within him, something fragile and precious that he would now protect with every fiber of his being. He had faced death countless times, but it was the thought of facing it without you that truly terrified him. He was still Damian, the weapon, the killer. But he was also something more. He was a man who had glimpsed the devastating beauty of life, and he would do anything to keep it safe, even if it meant breaking every vow he had ever made. He was forbidden from fearing death, but he would spend the rest of his life fearing a world without you in it.

[straycalamities]

this is an AU design but i am pretty happy with it so i'll go ahead and post it

so the AU is inspired by the lore of dead by daylight? basically the ark sucked a bunch of people in through the years and no matter where and divided them up into: the ones going through agony & the ones inflicting the agony

survivors and hunters <- distinct from "killers" ok

anyways the ark feeds off people's despair and agony and stuff so it enlists the help of its hunters to help it inflict those on people within its domains (which are kinda like shifting areas in space devoid of a specific place in time) and all the hunters kinda have one they haunt the most, but hunters can wander

the domains themselves usually have a theme of their location like: the woods, the desert, abandoned locations like malls and old factories, etc. and they're kinda alive on their own? infected by the ark and its influence

so basically brian was chosen as a hunter. and he hates this. but the ark rewards hunters for doing their jobs with energy (they dont need to eat or drink otherwise), stamina, strength, resistance to wounds and sickness, and a like dopamine high for inflicting pain. literally encourages them to be terrible. and hey if the hunters don't do their job? then the ark picks off the survivors eventually itself. in the worst, slowest, most painful ways

so brian's workaround this, because he realizes people are gonna die no matter what, is to become as lethal as possible. make it as quick and painless as he can when he can't just...butt in and sabotage the other hunters or the ark. (because there is a sort of puzzle/goal to the survivors being moved around that they must accomplish to "win" aka get out for then and just be placed in down-time until their next game. and if they lose they just respawn to do it again until they lose/win. lol like i said: very dbd inspired)

but yeah! so i changed brian's design to fit his MO in this. so his preferred turf is wooded areas so he's wearing hunter's camo and dark clothes to blend in with the trees and brush. he also has multiple very sharp very long knives so he can reach those lethal areas better and deliver a quick blow to get the job done. preferably with little to no fight because he got the jump on his victim. he also layers very potent poison on his blades in case he misses or something and can't finish the job easily. they're going regardless.

but since brian does things like this. the ark HATES him, and theres like...a ton of lore more because me and some friends are RPing in it (i also am writing Evan and HABIT in it), but ive already said so much so have this

[diz-eaze]

thinking of yandere modern au shenanigans with other genshin characters too <33 teehee

; (characters included; alhaitham, ayato, lumine, furina, emilie, albedo, childe, kinich, chasca, xilonen)

; inspired by the deranged scara chronicles

; I AM SO SORRY. yandere, half serious half silly, dark content,I'm being so fr when I say these are degenerates, they are GOONERS ok, some nsfw content/mention in some parts (marked by a <3), not proofread i wrote this in the middle of class, depraved beings :(, fem reader for the women but otherwise gn, more specific warnings are listed below their names! it got short in the end bc this is just word vomit okay

alhaitham:

(subtle manipulation, stealing papers, mentioned masturbation, cyberbullying (?))

alhaitham gets unreasonably jealous when you seek out other tutors that aren't him. oh, you like the way the organic chemistry teacher explains calculus to you? ok...! I guess you want him to kill himself, then! :))) he tries so hard to win the idgaf war everytime he sees you watching said channel on youtube during your shared study sessions, but he slides down the door in utter agony the moment he enters his dorm. that should have been him !! he deserves to have a slowburn, academic rivals to lovers (excluding the part where he is batshit insane <3) 204k words love story with you where in the end you willingly become his captive in his basement !! and he can't even be normal for once and just approach like a sane being to say, "hey, I can tutor you instead, lol." NO. he obtains an olympic medal from the amount of mental gymnastics he does just to nudge your mind into considering the idea of him tutoring you.

he begins to schedule your study sessions back at his dorm wherein instead of pulling out the lecture slides and listening to the organic chemistry tutor on youtube, you're forced to resort to the medieval method of pulling out a textbook while you're forced to listen to alhaitham drone on because for some mysterious reason, the wifi in his dorm stopped working. you grumble and verbally complain about his probable broke ass forgetting to pay the bills but really, he just cut the wires off just for this moment :/. kaveh's gonna have a meltdown when he comes home to no wifi, too. and all this for what? blockussy (blockmate ussy)? alhaitham, listen to your friends you're being unreasonable right now. alhaitham !!

he's always always ALWAYS partnered up with you in duo works or at the very least, placed in the same groups. he'd always act like it happened because of pure chance but if you take a glimpse at his phone's dms you'd see the death threats he's been sending to his peers and professors alike :/. and it's not even typed in a fed up way with incorrect punctuations nor does it include any slangs - it reads as an email. formal and straight to the point. yeesh.

<3: after every written midterm or final exam, your sheet of paper always go mysteriously missing and you always shrug it off because who gaf about a damned piece of paper that only caused you misery. but alhaitham does. he always collects your exam papers so that he can paste it on the walls of his room, and it'll be the first thing that his eyes settle on the moment he enters. it makes him incredibly proud to see your high marks every single time, he can't help but feel pride in his chest (he thinks he's part of the team 😭😭), especially if it was a subject he tutored you on. but more than anything, he just loves the way intellect looks so good on you. and it would be somewhat sweet if he didn't take your exam papers without your knowledge and if he stopped nutting on them every time he gets worked up :/.

ayato:

(coercion)

ayato traps you into a relationship within less than a month of knowing him 😞💔. your first meeting was probably preconstructed, too. maybe you two stumbled into each other amidst a busy street or reached for the same book in a secluded store - a supposed meet-cute in your eyes but it quickly becomes a horror story because he has your routine and behavioral pattern memorized and noted down in his phone just so he can plan ahead. he manages to coerce you into a date the same day you two met, and you're left wondering if it's his charisma or you've just been intimidated into giving him a chance. either way, you end up having more casual dates in the span of two (2) weeks until one day a friend of yours sends you an article link. your blood runs cold when you see the headline and a familiar picture of a date with him underneath it - what do you mean conglomerate heir??? ayato?? relationship???? in a fit of panic, you end up spamming his dms and he'd have the gall to try and act sad, saying shit like, "oh, wow :(((. that's crazy :(( so sorry this happened to you because of me! might as well commit, right? :<" but secretly giggling twirling his hair and kicking feet from the fruition of his plan. asshole.

loves sharing his boba drink with you to have his indirect kisses. what's yours is his and what's his is yours, or whatever he droned on about. plus, it's a combination of two of his favorite things, after all - boba tea and you <33. he'd just bring the straw near your lips and look at you with his signature close-eyed smile as he gently tells you to try out this new boba tea flavor (a lie, it's always the same flavor) he got. he'd insist and insist, causing you to crumble under the pressure of him as you reluctantly sip from the straw. and he always looks so euphoric after sipping the same straw you just done seconds prior. freaky. his day is genuinely ruined if you don't drink from his boba tea at least once.

ayato detests it when he has to have people keep tabs on you, so he tries to prevent this by just... making you stick to him 24/7 :). it's so, so awkward when he's in a board meeting and you're literally next to him playing fuckass blockblast on your phone, all uninterested in their businesspilled businessmaxxing strategies. you'd rather be anywhere but here, sigh. you often catch middle-aged men eyeing you from the corner of their eyes probably wondering who got your random ass here (they don't know it's ayato kamisato </3).

lumine:

(non-consensual touching, freakazoid lumine, taking advantage of someone under the influence of alcohol, spit)

oh brother, someone get her off the stage !!!! wherever you go, she follows, or whatever that bruno mars song says, but she takes it literally. whenever you're enlisting your college subjects for the term, trust she'll be all up in your messages begging and begging for you to send your schedule so she can match yours to a T. it's practically an unspoken rule in your college that the seat next to you is lumine's seat and the other side has to remain empty or else she'll tweak the fuck out. should the lectures end early, lumine will drag you to spend your free time in the campus cafe or library while waiting for your next class. she literally hounds you like a guard dog to ensure no one will approach you.

<3: lumine always goads you into joining her in sorority parties just for two (2) reasons: to kiss you silly while you're inebriated enough to not remember it the following day and to spit in your alcoholic drink while you're unaware. the night starts off fun despite your initial refusal - beer pong, shot tricks with lumine, playing uno, watching that hu tao girl do a cannonball from the house's roof - it's all so.. amusing. you've just survived your finals. lumine and you deserve this night of enjoying your youth, even more so when she brings out the hard liquor with no chaser provided to soothe the burning sensation of alcohol. so it's no wonder how and why you got so drunk in just a few shots in. it's no wonder, too, when you end up in a secluded bathroom away from the life of the party with someone's tongue being shoved down your throat all while grinding into you - aiming to devour you whole with the hunger of a starving beast. you don't remember much; you never do. but particular honey eyes are starting to become familiar for reasons you don't want to entertain... lumine would never, right? but this happens again and again and again until you're left with no choice but to stop going to parties altogether.

lumine and her big fuckass bug eyes love to stare. that's all she did when she met you the first time during freshman year - stare. Ever since then, she'd shown her more extroverted, loud, silly nature, but sometimes she reverts back to her old habits and just stares at you for hours on end with not a single word uttered. admittedly, it's unnerving at times since the only thing (err, person) she stares at when she gets quiet is you. her eyes trail after your every movement, her gaze lapping up every visible inch of you. you get fed up and jokingly slap her back, and she snaps out of her trance with a sheepish chuckle. how silly of her!

<3: whenever lumine visits your dorm, she'd make sure your roommate is out for the night (if lumine had it her way, she'd be your roommate) and that she conveniently forgot to check the weather because now it's pouring outside and shows no signs of stopping soon. oh, woe is her! she looks so stressed and sad, too - how will she get home at this rate!? and with the kindness in your heart, you step in to offer sharing your bed with her. you don't even get to finish your sentence before she's enthusiastically agreeing with your offer. in the wake of the night, nestled in your cramped bed with no space left between the two of you, lumine patiently waits until you are lulled into the embrace of slumber. when she sees the slow rise and fall of your chest is when she reaches out a tentative hand to grope your breast through the thin fabric of your tank top. you're not wearing any bra. lumine bites her lip to prevent a moan from escaping. this is always her favorite part when she stays the night. she gropes, fondles, and squeezes - lumine just can't enough. she literally never sleeps because she's too busy gooning over you all night.

furina:

( manipulation, s*lf-harm, guilt-tripping, unhealthy relationships, dependency)

when you're in a cringefail losergirl yet still clinically insane competition but your opponent is furina de fontaine, global superstar of teyvat, with 60 million followers across all platforms who also happens to be a massive freak when no one's looking: :(

furina is deranged in a way that's akin to rising tides. you let her get away with miniscule, inconspicuous acts at the beginning until slowly but surely, as the water reaches your knees, you're now actively enabling her toxic tendencies under the guise of not wanting to upset sweet, sweet furina. she attaches quick. a week ago, she'd be subtly overstaying her welcome in your cozy apartment, then the following week, you just open your door to see her with bags packed, fully expecting you to accommodate her out of the blue. it's scary living alone, she'd explain, with stalkers and whatnot. but bitch, what about YOUUUU?? you're literally inviting THEE stalker into your house; wake up !!! if she has stalkers, and you (unknowingly) have a stalker.... then who's driving the bus? 😳😳

furina's admittedly a bad roommate when it comes to chores due to her status and schedule as a celebrity. oftentimes, when it's her schedule to wash the dishes or vacuum the living room, there's an 80% chance it's unfulfilled because of how busy it is. it's various small accumulations of errors until an incident happens that breaks the camel's back. you get fed up, and you two have a massive fight because of it, which ends in you walking out of the apartment, and in a fit of anger, telling her to pack her bags to move out. furina's knees buckle to the floor and just starts spiraling, genuinely. you come back to bloody floors and furina's wrists sliced repeatedly all while crying hysterically with a knife in her hands. your blood runs ice cold, burning the flames of what was once anger as you rush to her aid. 'i'm so, so sorry', you'd whisper out as you rock her back and forth. through garbled words, furina would then tell you, 'it won't happen again, I promise. just don't make me leave you, please.' because it's a fate worse than death in her eyes.

emilie:

(murder, mentioned masturbation, minor implication of s*icide, armpit, smell kink...)

<3: you once slept over at emilie's house and brought over your perfume since she was curious about what brand you use. while you were showering, emilie took the limited time she had to masturbate and, to the best of her abilities, shoved her bodily fluids into your favorite perfume :(( like girl, where's the decorum... you come out of the shower and don't even bat an eye to the unusual subtle flush on her cheeks (oh wow, is that a new blush shade on you, emilie? adorbs!) or how your perfume moved to a completely different location from where you put it. pure of heart, dumb of ass. you're dying first in a horror movie.

on a similar note, emilie eventually convinces you into letting her make your perfumes for you. it starts off in small mentions and passing comments of, 'oh, I can easily replicate this perfume's scent, you know?' or, 'hmm, try this sample I made instead.' until you're dragged into her perfume hole and now you must wear the perfumes she specially concocted herself and avoid brands like the plague OR ELSE you'll find her lodging a pistol up to her mouth because what's the point of living if you don't even like the most intimate form of love she can express - scents and perfumes.

<3: SHE HAS A SMELL KINK OKAY.... 😭😭 hear me out.. or don't, damn... but she loves sniffing every part of your body, it's genuinely her biggest turn on which is why she steals your panties for the sole purpose of huffing them like drugs. this is the chanel coco mademoiselle of her world !! she'll even take the bras and t-shirts you've worn because that means it has your body scent on it, awww! <3 and should she be given the chance, she'd definitely huff at your armpits. :(

emilie has definitely killed for you before, and yes, she did get away with it. with her other profession as a forensic cleaner and her connection with chevreuse in the police force, it's practically like taking candy from a baby - unbearably easy. she would lament the corrupt justice system of her country, butttt it benefits her as of this moment so :/ winners love winning. rip bozo, though!

albedo:

(fantasies, mention of dr*gs, smoking, and alcohol)

his biggest fantasy is you ruining his life. the thought of him, an up-and-coming prodigal STEM college student who's predicted to create research breakthroughs the moment he graduates - for all that potential to be thrown away just because of a singular person is actually his favorite thing. he wants the two of you to be dragged down together to rock bottom until there's no way up. but then you could be a fellow honor student too, so like, how can you even ruin his life? in cases like these wherein you're more of a good influence than bad, the downfall moreso lies in the existence of you rather than the actions that you do. just... being next to you poisons albedo's mind and slowly drives him to do crazy, unhinged things. it could be in a fit of want when he impulsively knocks your head over with an object to trap you inside his cramped one-bedroom apartment or in a moment of rage where he ends up stabbing someone who got too close to you. it's in drastic actions done that takes a while for albedo to realize that he fucked himself and his studies over. and... there's a part of him that wants that. to love you so much he ruins his life in the name of you, is that not romance?

but in the event that you are indeed a perceptively bad influence on him, oh. he takes joy in joining you in activities that knowingly destroy your and your health. smoking cigarettes? teach him how to inhale without coughing it up. drinking alcohol to a concerning degree? be sure to bring some for him next time. skipping classes and neglecting your academics? he can do it for you if you want :)

he loves it. ruining his life is a joint effort between you and him.

childe:

(situationship victim childe, universe where childe isn't that freaky.. woah. i will remedy this with my next post (jk...... i think.))

<3: this man literally never fails to piss you off but the dick is too good so you put up with his trashfire attitude on a daily basis just to get laid :(. he's not even horrible in a 'jock, douchebag' way but more of a 'dog who can't leave you alone' way - he attaches himself to your side like superglue and no matter how hard you try to nudge him off, he. will. not. leave!! it's cute at first, but sometimes you turn your phone off just for an hour to be free from his spam texts. he's literally your toxic, manipulative girlfriend, I fear. you don't respond to his texts in 0.0234304 seconds, and now he can't help but worry if you're having an affair behind his back (delusion final boss). he tags you in his Instagram stories and facebook posts when the dms doesn't work and yes, you do end up responding because being outed in public because of CHILDE out of all people puts you in aura debt.

he's def your childhood friend who literally gatekeeps you from anyone that shows even a smidgen of an interest in you :(. when someone taps his shoulder the moment you're out of sight to ask for your number, childe's giving them his and when they hit 'you' up - they get insta-blocked. should an event happens where they do manage to get your number, childe will be the one to terrorize them in messages to leave you the fuck alone, they're spoken for !! even if they may not have a label on their relationship.... it's still a relationship, nonetheless !!!

childe loves cooking for you, and he genuinely crashes out if you eat takeout or try someone else's cooking. fuck off with the wanmin takeout xingqiu, that's probably poisoned. ugh, go away escoffier with your filet mignon doodoo. no, yoimiya, (y/n) doesn't want your fuckass onigiri because childe already packed them lunch !!!!!!! why is everyone so hellbent on feeding you??? childe is actually so close to bringing a pistol to college. he views them all as the ugly hag queen giving snow white the poisoned apple btw.

tells everyone around him, family and friends alike, that he's your boyfriend, which greatly contradicts your given statement because you tell everyone instead that your relationship with him is, 'just complicated'. ouch. he laughs it off outside, but he's throwing up and seething the moment he's alone. he's playing the long game here, people !! it's okay if he's not your boyfriend because he knows he'll be your husband :))) it's all in the mindset. he'll show them all when he inevitably mails them invitations to his wedding with you in a few years. yup.

kinich:

(masturbation, lowk delusion)

kinich... kinich makes a version of you and him in the sims :(. he saw it on tiktok once, and really liked the idea. and he becomes so ingrained in the sims-world version of you and him who are married, woohoos every 10 seconds, have 10 children together with a lizard named ajaw that when he attends his first class next semester he gets a whiplash at seeing you in the flesh. like, oh! he forgot that you weren't dating him and that everything was just a figment of his fantasies for a second there :)

<3: definitely used his real-life pet lizard ajaw to lure you into visiting his room, thanks ajaw! he infodumps about lizards his way into bed with you and he hits it raw with no condom whatsoever for his first time, too. #nolongervirgin. like woah... they were not familiar with kinich's game at awl.... and you end up coming back the next day because he told you he'd explain his PC specs in detail and where he got his gaming chair from like GET UP 😭😭😭

<3: HE JERKS OFF TO YOUR IN-GAME AVATARS. PUT HIM DOWN. like this isn't funny anymore, kinich is so depraved that when he plays online games with you and sees your character model, he starts masturbating while the two of you grind to defeat the enderdragon or try to escape the roblox obby. what's so sexy about 8bit pixels kinich..... and if he's this horrendous with your avatars then don't imagine how hard he's jerking off when you VC on discord with him. yikes.

chasca:

(panty stealing, mention of period and discharge)

<3: chasca loves stealing your panties whenever she manages to find an excuse to visit your house. what you don't know won't hurt you. and trust me, she loves all types of panties that you've worn, but her favorite has to be the used panties stained with either your vaginal discharge or period blood. she can never be grossed out, not when it came from your body - which is exactly why she'll reverently clean it up using her tongue as she inevitably soaks her own panties from the sheer arousal she's experiencing. listen, emilie steals your panties to sniff them - chasca steals your panties to taste your fluids; they are not twins !!

<3: on the topic of pussy... she loves eating your pussy. do not shoot the messenger. she has a oral fixation and just loves tonguing you for hours on end on the days when college isn't demanding your blood and soul. you always end up overstimulated by the time night comes, and you're just begging her to lay off your pussy and look at the fucking tiktoks you sent her !!

chasca, gatekeeper extraordinaire, always waits for you after lectures as a silent stake of claim to you. no one really bothers chasca because of quiet nature and intimidating stance which then extends to you.

xilonen:

(no warnings this is tame, there's more I want to say but-[REDACTED])

if ifa pet-traps you, then xilonen definitely parent-traps you. she just shows up to one of your scheduled hangouts with nepecha hiding behind her legs, explaining how the little girl came from a house of abuse, and expects you to agree in co-parenting her like???? i mean, yeah, you do give in but but but !!! parenting is a serious commitment, xilonen !! what if your friendship with her falls out which will then force you to stop visiting nepecha due to the awkwardness !! xilonen will look at you straight and then say in an exasperated manner, "then just, don't make it happen? ugh, stop overcomplicating things." and well... yeah, she's right actually :(. so now you're obligated to invest time and energy on your newly appointed daughter, nepecha, alongside xilonen. okay happy family.

<3: xilonen loves your tits and it's serious business for her. she worships them like a newfound religion and she even kneads your boobs like a cat and loves laying in between them when it's time to sleep while tv plays in the background. should you complain about your boobs getting sore from all her abuse and wanting the position to be switched for once, then xilonen will gladly offer hers. like, just ask :/ It's literally not that deep because she's still winning either way.

[elikajinnie]

Survive Till Daylight, My Dear - L.H

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Heeseung X Survivor!Reader (recommended age: 17+)

Warnings: Stalking, Murder, Death, Chasing, Obsession, Blood/Injury, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, Suggestive Content, Teasing, Hypnosis?, Yo he kinda sadistic.

Synopsis: Your life was ripped away when you were abducted into a twisted realm ruled by something called the Entity. But while most killers are fixated on winning, one seems dangerously fixated on you.

a/n: during a round of dead by daylight, this idea came when i kept stalking a survivor as ghostface on the withered isle map :3

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of heeseung was a creative endeavour. (Virtuoso: a person highly skilled in music or another artistic pursuit.)

now playing: the shadows by chris grey | fairytale (violin) by dramatic violin | runaway (violin) by dramatic violin | blood on white satin by naomi scott

jay vers sunghoon vers jake vers

--

You hated the times when you had to place your trust in other survivors during a trial because, more often than not, they'd leave you to fend for yourself. It wasn’t that they were cruel or uncaring—it was survival instinct. The generators scattered across the map weren’t going to fix themselves, and everyone knew the doors wouldn’t open without power. You’d done the same, sprinting past a screaming teammate once or twice. It wasn’t personal. It was just the way the Entity’s sick little game worked.

This time, though, you were the one left hanging—literally. The Deathslinger had caught you in his harpoon's grip, dragging you back like a trophy he was all too proud to display. Now, you dangled from the hook, the barbed steel biting into your shoulder. Blood trickled down your arm, warm and sticky, as the pain pulsed through you in sharp waves. You’d been hooked before—more times than you’d like to admit—but the agony never dulled. The most you could do was endure it, keeping your body still to avoid making it worse. Attempting to pull yourself free was always a gamble, and one you weren’t eager to take.

The Deathslinger lingered nearby, his rifle clutched tightly in his hands. His breaths came in ragged, heavy puffs, the sound grating like sandpaper against your ears. He wasn’t going anywhere, that much was clear. You groaned, tilting your head to try and catch a glimpse of your teammates. Surely someone would come for you—right?

The faint hum of a generator in the distance made your stomach twist. They were close to getting it done. That was good for them, bad for you. If they got it running, they’d bolt for the exit, and you’d be left to rot in the Entity’s clutches. A bitter laugh bubbled in your throat, but it died when you caught the glint of the Deathslinger’s weapon shifting toward the horizon. He was watching, waiting.

A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention. Someone was coming—finally. Your heart leaped, hope flaring like a matchstick, but it fizzled just as quickly when you realized how loud their footsteps were. No stealth, no crouching, just a dead sprint toward you.

“What the hell are they doing?” you muttered under your breath, wincing as the hook shifted with your movement.

The Deathslinger didn’t need more than a second to notice. He turned on a dime, lifting his rifle to aim at the approaching figure. You clenched your teeth, bracing yourself for the sound of the chain snapping free, dragging yet another survivor into his grasp.

"Idiots," you hissed, though a small part of you couldn’t help but admire their courage—or stupidity. Maybe both.

You watched as Adam stumbled right into the Deathslinger’s trap. His scream cut through the air as the harpoon slammed into his chest, the chain rattling as the killer yanked him closer, and within seconds, Adam was up on another hook, his scream loud as the barbed metal tore through him.

Movement caught your eye again, and you turned your head just enough to see Mikaela and Leon slipping out of the shadows. Mikaela was quick on her feet, darting into the Deathslinger’s line of sight with purpose. She waved her arms, yelling something you couldn’t quite make out, and the killer turned to her immediately, his focus shifting.

“About time,” you muttered, feeling your heart race as Leon crouched low and made his way to you.

His hands were on you before you could say anything, quick and practiced as he worked the hook free from your shoulder. You bit down on your lip hard enough to taste blood, the searing pain making your vision blur for a moment. You fell to the ground, and Leon grabbed your arm, hauling you up to your feet.

“Come on!” he hissed, his voice urgent but calm.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Stumbling at first, you forced your legs to move, ignoring the fiery ache in your shoulder as you followed Leon into a nearby building.

Leon pulled you to the far corner of the room, crouching down beside you. His hands were already moving, tearing strips of cloth from somewhere, probably from some medkit he’d grabbed earlier. You barely had time to think about it before he pressed the fabric against your wound.

You hissed at the contact, the pain sharp and immediate, but you bit it back, watching as blood dripped from your shoulder onto the cold cement floor. When Leon’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “You’re gonna be fine. Just stay still.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to focus on something other than the pain. “Adam?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“He’ll be okay,” Leon said quickly, though you weren’t sure if he believed it. “Mikaela’s keeping the Deathslinger busy. We’ll figure something out.”

You wanted to argue, to say there was no “figuring something out” when someone was already on the hook, but you kept quiet. Leon’s hands worked steadily, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation.

The faint hum of a generator powered up somewhere nearby, followed by the unmistakable sound of the gate alarms. Your heart sank. The others were getting ready to escape, and you were still bleeding out on the floor.

Leon’s hands froze for a moment as the sound echoed through the building, but he quickly resumed. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. “We’ll get out of here.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But as another scream tore through the air—Mikaela’s this time—you felt hopeless.

With your shoulder patched up, you didn’t waste a second. Leon pulled you to your feet, and together you sprinted through the dim, foggy maze of the trial grounds. The air felt heavy, the dark sky above rumbling like it could cave in at any moment. You rolled your eyes at the theatrics—because apparently, the Entity couldn’t help but crank up the dramatics just to remind you that you were always one bad move away from death.

Jumping over a pallet, you stumbled but recovered quickly, your feet pounding against the dirt as you wove around an old, rusted bench. The faint glow of the exit lights appeared ahead, like a beacon calling you home. Relief surged through you when you saw Steve standing there, frantically working the crank to open the massive steel doors.

His head whipped around when he heard your footsteps, his face tense with panic until his eyes landed on you and Leon. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, motioning for you to hurry. "Come on! Almost there!"

The door groaned loudly as it crept open, revealing the inky blackness beyond. Freedom was so close you could taste it. But just as your heart lifted, the sharp, metallic sound of a chain unspooling sent a jolt of terror down your spine.

You stopped running on pure instinct, your body frozen for a split second before the harpoon shot past you, embedding itself in a tree just inches away. The tensioned chain rattled, swaying as it recoiled. Your head snapped toward the Deathslinger, standing only a few meters away.

“Go!” Leon shouted, his voice breaking the trance as he pushed you forward.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Heart pounding, you ducked under the chain, your body nearly brushing against it as you bolted toward the exit. The pounding of your feet grew louder in your ears, mingling with the heavy, ragged breaths you couldn’t control. You threw yourself forward, crossing the threshold into the open landscape beyond just as the Deathslinger took another step closer.

Whipping around, you skidded to a stop and turned to look back. The Deathslinger stood just at the edge of the exit, his rifle lowered as he glared at you, seething. The dark, writhing tentacles of the Entity began to weave their way through the space between you, blocking his path and keeping him trapped inside the trial grounds.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you further away from the exit as the doors groaned shut behind you. "Come on, we don’t have time to celebrate!"

You nodded, glancing at Leon, who gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before jogging to catch up with Steve.

You didn’t look back again.

Suddenly, everything around you went dark. The ground beneath your feet gave way, and that all-too-familiar sensation of falling took hold. You didn’t scream—you never did anymore. Instead, you braced yourself for the impact that wouldn’t come.

Moments later, you landed on solid ground, your body jolting slightly as the world around you shifted. When you opened your eyes, the oppressive fog of the trial was gone, replaced by the dim, flickering firelight of the survivors’ camp.

You let out a long sigh, rolling your shoulder experimentally. As expected, the pain was gone, replaced by the dull, phantom ache that always lingered after a trial. You reached up to touch the spot where the hook had torn through your body, finding smooth, unbroken skin beneath your fingers. It was like it had never happened.

That was how it always was with the Entity. No matter how brutal the trial, no matter how close to death you came—or how many times you actually died—you always woke up here, whole again. The physical wounds vanished, leaving nothing but the memory of pain.

You glanced around the camp, taking in the familiar sights. The fire crackled in the center, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that seemed to seep into your bones. A few other survivors were scattered around, some tending to the fire, others sitting quietly with haunted looks in their eyes. They were all like you—trapped in this endless cycle of torment and survival, powerless to escape the Entity’s grasp.

Leon was already here, his jacket was draped over his shoulders, and he was absently cleaning the blood from his hands with a rag. When he saw you, he gave you a small, tired smile.

“Made it back,” he said, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, walking over to join him. “Barely.”

Steve, who had landed nearby, ran a hand through his hair. “That was too close,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I thought he was gonna get all of us at the end.”

You sat down beside Leon, the phantom pain in your shoulder throbbing faintly as you rested your elbows on your knees. “He almost did,” you said, glancing at the fire.

“That’s how it goes,” Feng said softly, appearing from the shadows. She had a medkit slung over her shoulder, though she didn’t need it—not here. “We survive, we heal, and then we go back in.”

Her words were a reminder of the reality you all faced. There was no end to it, no escape. The Entity would call you back into another trial soon enough, and the chase would start again.

You sighed, leaning back and closing your eyes for a moment. The camp was supposed to be a place of safety, a brief reprieve from the horrors of the trials, but it never truly felt like it. The shadows seemed to watch you, the ever-present feeling of being watched lingering even here.

“How’s Adam?” you asked after a moment, opening your eyes to look at Leon.

“He made it back,” Leon said, his voice heavy with relief. “Barely. Mikaela got him up just before the door closed.”

You nodded, grateful but knowing better than to celebrate. It was just another trial, another near-death experience in an endless cycle of them.

For now, you were safe.

Luckily, during the next trial, you weren’t one of the chosen ones. It was a relief, but it didn’t stop the restless feeling gnawing at your muscles. The camp, despite being a sanctuary of sorts, always felt suffocating when others were off risking their lives in the fog. You needed to move, so you decided to take a walk.

Of course, you never strayed too far. Not anymore.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way when you first arrived. Back then, you’d been terrified, too panicked to listen to anyone. The other survivors had tried to explain things to you—what this place was, what the trials meant—but their words only blurred together in the haze of fear clouding your mind. All you knew was that you were somewhere you didn’t belong, and you needed to get out.

So you’d run.

You sprinted as fast as your legs would carry you, ignoring the desperate calls of the others. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to escape. The trees around you blurred as you pushed yourself harder, your lungs burning with every frantic breath—until you slammed face-first into something solid.

It wasn’t a tree. No bark, no leaves—just an invisible wall that sent you reeling backward, clutching your nose in pain. You stumbled, dazed and confused, but before you could even think about what you’d just hit, you heard it: deep, guttural breathing, slow and deliberate.

Your head snapped up, and your blood ran cold. A obese figure loomed just on the other side of the barrier. His face was grotesque, smeared with greasepaint that cracked like old plaster. The Clown.

You screamed, scrambling to your feet and bolting back toward the camp. The sound of his laughter—wet and wheezing—chased after you, but when you risked a glance over your shoulder, he wasn’t following.

The Clown remained where he stood, staring at you with those cold eyes. Confusion flickered in your panicked mind, but you didn’t stop running until you were safely back in the camp.

Later, after you’d calmed down and stopped trembling like a leaf, Dwight had sat you down by the fire. He was the first survivor here, or so they all said, and he’d taken it upon himself to explain how the realm worked to newcomers.

“That’s why he didn’t follow you,” Dwight had said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “There’s a barrier between us and them. The Entity doesn’t let killers into our camp. Same way we can’t go into their domain. Not unless it’s during a trial.”

It had taken time for the words to fully sink in, but eventually, you understood. The killers could watch you from the other side of that invisible wall if they wanted to, but they couldn’t cross it. They weren’t allowed to harm you outside of the trials.

Still, that didn’t make the idea of running into them any less horrifying. You already saw enough of them during the trials. You didn’t need to see them here, too.

That’s why, even now, as you wandered through the edges of the camp, you kept your distance. The boundary between the survivors’ camp and the killers’ domain wasn’t visible, but you could feel it, like an unseen pressure in the air. You never dared to go too close.

But alas the camp wasn’t large, so it was almost impossible not to catch at least a glimpse of a killer lingering near the barrier from time to time. You’d gotten used to it, in a way—seeing their shadowy figures pacing just out of reach, watching.

But now, as you rounded a corner near the edge of the camp, you froze. There, just a few yards away, was Chucky.

The little doll hadn’t noticed you, too busy pacing along the barrier and cussing up a storm. You crouched low behind a boulder, not out of fear but curiosity, your eyes narrowing as you caught bits and pieces of his tirade.

“...That smug prick—thinks he’s so damn smart, huh? Always with the ‘grand plans.’ I’ll show him a plan—it’s called taking his head off with a kitchen knife!”

You tilted your head, straining to hear more. The Mastermind—you’d heard that name before. Albert Wesker. You’d faced him twice in trials, and both times, you’d died. He was fast, calculating, and far more terrifying than a doll with a knife. Where Chucky was a chaotic little bastard who relied on deception and sneak attacks, Wesker had power and strategy to back him up. You hadn’t stood a chance.

Still, the idea of Chucky throwing a tantrum over Wesker made you stifle a small, ironic laugh. The Entity certainly had a sense of humor when it came to the killers it pulled into its realm.

You were about to leave, figuring you’d heard enough, when something Chucky said made you freeze.

“...And now there’s a new guy? Already? What the hell does the Entity even need him for? We just got the Houndmaster! Isn’t that freaky dog-pack enough?”

A new killer?

Your eyes widened, and your breath hitched. You instinctively leaned forward, your curiosity overtaking your caution. You’d only just gotten used to the Houndmaster—another recent addition to the roster of killers. And now the Entity was adding someone else?

You thought about how peculiar it was. The Entity usually gave some time before introducing new killers, letting survivors adjust (or break) under the current conditions. The Houndmaster was still fresh, and you with the other survivors were still learning how to navigate her brutal trial. So why now?

You shifted slightly, your knee brushing against the dirt, and froze when Chucky suddenly stopped pacing. His head snapped up, his plastic eyes scanning the horizon, and for a moment, you thought he’d spotted you.

“Whatever,” he muttered, resuming his rant. “If this newbie thinks they can show me up, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ve been doing this way longer. What’re they gonna do? Kill me?”

You slowly backed away, keeping low until Chucky was out of sight. A new killer. The thought sent a ripple of unease through you. It wasn’t like you’d gotten comfortable with the existing ones—the trials were still brutal, the killers relentless—but the idea of facing someone new, someone whose abilities you didn’t yet understand, made your stomach churn.

Who—or what—had the Entity brought into its realm this time?

You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread as you rushed back to the survivors' camp, your mind racing with the news you’d just learned. When you burst into the center of the camp and announced the new arrival, the reactions were varied.

Some survivors, like Dwight and Leon, looked concerned but stayed quiet. Others, like Steve and Yuna, were visibly stressed. But there were those like Yunjin and Yui, who didn’t show any reaction at all.

Just as the murmurs of unease began to settle into the air, the survivors from the most recent trial landed back into the camp, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Before anyone could even ask about their experience, Claudette, always quick to speak, started rambling, her voice trembling with exhaustion.

“New killer,” Claudette gasped, wiping sweat from her brow as she collapsed onto the log near the fire. “The Virtuoso. That’s what he’s called. And he’s... terrifying.”

You felt a chill run down your spine at the name. The Virtuoso.

The other survivors gathered around, listening intently as Claudette, Meg, and Feng started explaining.

“He has a violin,” Meg said, her voice low and shaky. “A violin. He uses it as a weapon. And when he plays it... it’s like... you can’t hear anything. Our ears just—stop working. You lose all sound. It’s like you’re in a void for a few minutes, and you can’t even tell where he is. He would just come up behind us and we wouldn’t hear him at all.”

Feng nodded, her eyes wide with the memory. “And when he’s chasing you, he doesn’t stay silent. He hums or sings under his breath. It’s so creepy.”

You exchanged a look with Leon, both of you registering the horror of their words. A violin as a weapon? That was something you had never imagined.

“So, like the Huntress?” you asked quietly, trying to make sense of it. “He relies on sound to track you?”

Meg gave you a grim nod. “Kind of. But worse. It’s not just about hunting you—it’s about taking away everything you rely on. You can’t hear anything, can’t even react properly. He disorients you. Makes you feel helpless.”

“That’s... unsettling,” Leon muttered, the words heavy with the shared understanding that this new killer was unlike anything you had faced before.

It took a total of three trials before you finally faced the Virtuoso. The first round was against The Shape. You survived by a hair, heart pounding in your chest as you barely managed to escape through the exit. The second trial? Against Nemesis. You didn’t survive that one. His relentless pursuit, aided by the terrifying zombie hordes, had been too much to handle. You’d been caught and ended up on the hook. But the third trial was different—you faced Dracula, but somehow, against all odds, you survived. You’d made it through with flying colors, your team working together to power up the generators and escape.

And now, here you were, entering your fourth trial. This time, it was a new map—a small city that seemed stuck in time. Old, crumbling buildings lined the streets, abandoned cars scattered across the roads, rusted and forgotten. But the centerpiece of it all? A massive theatre that towered over everything, its marquee flickering like a faint ghost of a past long gone. The sight was eerie, and your instincts immediately kicked in.

You crouched low, moving as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract any attention. The map was unfamiliar, and you knew the key to surviving here would be finding a way to adapt quickly. You needed to figure out where the generators were, which killer you were facing this time, and if there were any survivors to find and help.

You made your way into one of the buildings—an apartment complex, judging by the layout. You tried the first door you came to. Locked. The second one, same. You didn’t linger long, knowing that if you wasted too much time, the killer would find you. You had to keep moving.

Your main focus now was to get a feel for the map. The theatre seemed to loom ominously in the distance, a place that probably had its own secrets. You had to remember that the killers loved these big, grandiose settings, where they could trap and hunt survivors in ways that felt like part of their twisted game.

As you cautiously made your way through the city, a sound broke the silence—something distant, but it sent a cold shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the usual rumbling of the Entity’s presence. This was something else. A soft, haunting melody, like the strains of a violin being played somewhere in the distance.

You froze.

That was the Virtuoso. The violin music—it was unmistakable.

You didn't know if he was close or far, but you knew that he was out there. You needed to find a generator, and fast, before he tracked you down. The eerie melody seemed to seep into the air, twisting everything, making it harder to focus. You crouched even lower, scanning the streets, every creak of the buildings or rustle of the wind making you jump. You had to keep it together. This was a new map. The city would be full of hiding spots and escape routes.

You made your way past another apartment, your heartbeat quickening as you heard the faintest hum of the violin. You weren’t sure if it was coming closer or just echoing off the buildings, but you couldn't risk staying in one place for too long. You kept your movements as quiet as possible, crouching behind abandoned cars and ducking into doorways when necessary.

And then you saw it. In the distance, hidden behind an alleyway, the faint outline of a generator. Your heart raced in your chest as you approached, the sound of the violin growing louder, now definitely closer. You had to power up the generator before it was too late.

You focused on the generator, keeping your hands steady as you worked to repair it. The rhythm of your actions matched the increasing intensity of the violin, the music growing louder, echoing through the alley like it was all around you.

Then, without warning, a sharp note sliced through the air, followed by a scream from a survivor nearby. It snapped you out of your concentration for a moment, but you forced yourself to ignore it, refocusing on the task. You had to finish this. But as you continued to work, you heard something else—a short solo, a few drawn-out notes that struck like a delicate thread of sound, and then… everything changed.

Suddenly, your body felt heavy. It was subtle at first, just a slight shift, a tug in your muscles, but then it intensified. Your hands grew sluggish, and your vision blurred at the edges. The music seemed to seep deeper into your mind, invading your senses like a drug. You could feel the melody wrapping around your thoughts, pulling you into a soft, sleepy trance.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the generator, but the exhaustion hit you hard. You gasped, dropping to your knees, hands gripping the dirt and debris on the ground as you tried to steady yourself. What was happening? You felt dizzy, but not in a sick and bad way, no this was different—it was a comforting kind of dizziness, like being wrapped in a warm blanket that made you want to close your eyes and give in.

It was the strangest feeling. The violin’s notes was almost seductive, pulling you deeper, lulling you into a state of relaxed submission. It wasn’t painful—no, it was... pleasant. Your limbs felt like they were made of lead, and you found yourself slowing down, your movements growing languid, as if you were caught in some spell you couldn’t break. You wanted more of it. Whatever this feeling was, it was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

Was this the Virtuoso’s ability? You felt your thoughts fuzzing at the edges as his melody played on, each note wrapping around your mind like a gentle whisper, coaxing you further into this strange, hypnotic state. What was he doing to you? The question seemed far away, like it didn’t matter. It was easier to just give in, to let the music take over and stop worrying about the generator, the trial, everything else.

But no. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap. You forced your hands to push against the dirt, trying to stand up, to shake off the exhaustion. You had to keep moving, keep thinking. You couldn’t afford to let him win. The Virtuoso was manipulating you with his music, using it to cloud your senses, to wear you down until you couldn’t think straight anymore.

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the haze in your mind, forcing yourself to crawl back to the generator. You had to get it done—now.

Your fingers were slow, trembling as you worked, but the sound of the violin kept playing, surrounding you, tightening its grip on your senses. You were struggling to focus, the exhaustion clouding your thoughts.

Suddenly, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you. You glanced over, your blurry vision making it hard to see clearly. But then you recognized her—Yui. She was stumbling, hurt, her clothes torn, and blood staining her skin. She looked dazed, her eyes half-lidded, like she was under the same spell you were. The exhaustion was evident in her posture, her steps unsteady as she approached.

You whispered, barely able to make the words come out, "Do you want me to heal you?"

But Yui didn’t respond to your voice. She pointed to her ears, a subtle, desperate gesture. She couldn’t hear you.

She crouched beside you, barely able to focus, but she reached for the generator. You could see the struggle in her expression as she tried to push through the same fog you were in. You both sat there working.

Then, you heard it. A scream. The unmistakable sound of a survivor being hooked. Your heart clenched, and panic began to creep in.

“Come on... finish...” You muttered under your breath, barely audible. You could barely focus, every part of you aching.

Yui’s hands were slower than they should have been, her movements sluggish, but she kept working beside you.

But just as you thought the generator might finally be finished, the air grew colder. You could sense something was coming. The music stopped. The silence was deafening.

Your hands trembled, the generator almost done, but you knew you couldn’t afford to be caught now. You had to finish this. You had to.

Just as the generator lit up and blared, signaling that it was finally done, Yui took off, her movements slow but determined. You exhaled in relief, ready to run yourself, but then something caught your eye. Yui was heading straight for a figure standing in the shadows, a tall, looming figure. She didn’t see him until it was too late.

The sound of a sharp, slicing movement filled the air, and you gasped in horror as Yui screamed, the sound cut short by a sudden thud as she crumpled to the ground. Her blood pooled around her, and there, standing over her, was the figure. A man, tall and lean, dressed in a dark and tattered suit that was stained with blood. His white undershirt was ripped, exposing skin underneath. But it wasn’t his clothing that made your heart race—it was his face.

A cracked porcelain mask covered most of it, resembling that of a twisted theater performer. From the cracks, you could see his eyes, dark and hollow, and his lips, painted with an smug expression. His black hair was slicked back, and his white gloves were stained, a deep, crimson red. He was a nightmare made flesh, a figure from a forgotten stage play brought to life in the most terrifying way.

You froze, watching as the man wiped Yui’s blood from the bow of his violin. That’s when you realized—this was him. The Virtuoso.

He looked up at you, and for a moment, you could have sworn there was no emotion in his gaze. His eyes were cold, detached. But then something shifted, the indifference was replaced with something else—something more dangerous. Interest. And that terrified you more than anything else.

The Virtuoso’s hand stretched out, and you saw him pull a black violin from his back, its surface stained with dark splatters of blood. Your heart raced as he held it to his chin, the bow raised, and began to play.

The moment his fingers touched the strings, the haunting melody flooded the air. Your body tensed, your head spinning, and that all-too-familiar exhaustion swept over you again. You gasped, trying to steady yourself, but it was like the music was pulling you under, drowning you in its grip.

Your legs buckled beneath you, and you fell to the ground. Your hands trembled, your head pounding as the exhaustion began to take over. You couldn’t think straight. Your mind felt like it was slipping away, like everything that was you was fading into the background, consumed by the tune he was playing.

Every muscle in your body thrummed with a dull, almost pleasurable ache, like your very essence was being swept away by the music. You couldn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it. The only thing that mattered now was the sound of that violin, that song that tugged at your soul.

But you had to stay conscious. You had to—stay awake.

You wanted to scream, to push through, but the tune was so lullingly beautiful. It was too hard to resist. Your eyes fluttered, the world around you starting to fade to black. You could see the Virtuoso’s face, his mask cracked but still emotionless, his cold gaze never leaving you as he played on, the haunting tune weaving its way deeper into your mind.

And then, everything went dark.

When you woke up, it was with a sharp, disorienting breath, your heart racing as your body jerked upright. You found yourself lying on something cold and hard, the rough texture of the floor beneath you. Confusion gripped you, and as you looked around, it hit you like a punch to the stomach: you were on a stage. The grand theater, the one you’d only glimpsed before.

How did you get here?

Did the Virtuoso bring you here? You could barely remember the last moments before everything went black. The music, his violin—it had all blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and pleasure. You shook your head, pushing yourself to your feet. Your legs wobbled slightly, but you managed to steady yourself.

The stage was crumbling around you. The curtains hung tattered and ripped, torn from years of neglect. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, some of them so loose that they threatened to give way with even the slightest pressure. The way down was a steep, treacherous drop, the ground far below hidden by the darkness that seemed to consume the rest of the theater. The chairs facing the stage were old and covered in dust, their worn fabric peeling away like the remnants of a forgotten time. The air smelled faintly of blood, mixed with the scent of neglect.

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you looked around, your mind still foggy, struggling to grasp the situation. You needed to get out of here, but before you could take another step, you heard it—the familiar, haunting melody.

The violin. It came from somewhere deep within the theater, its sound clear and insistent, just like before. And like before, you felt it. The pull. The music wrapped around your mind like a shroud, soft yet relentless, seeping into your thoughts, digging into the very core of your being. You tried to ignore it, but the pull was too strong.

Before you could even react, you fell to your knees, gasping for air as your hands instinctively flew to your head. The pain was sudden, sharp, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at your mind, but then—then—it melted into something else. Something worse.

It felt too good. Too intoxicating. It was as if the melody had found something deep within you, something buried, and was now scratching at it, pulling it to the surface. You hated it. You hated how it made your heart race and your body burn with a strange, unbidden desire. This was different from the shock therapy The Doctor used. It wasn’t painful in the way you knew pain, like a jolt of electricity that shattered your thoughts. No. This was... pleasure of the mind, something so smooth and alluring, it felt like the essence of who you were was being coaxed from your very soul.

It was like drowning in euphoria and fear all at once. You wanted to stop it. You wanted to tear yourself away from it, but you couldn’t.

The tune continued, crawling deeper into your head, pushing against your will. Every note felt like it was peeling away at your very identity, unraveling the pieces of your mind, piece by piece, until all you could hear, all you could feel, was the melody.

You gasped again, your chest tight as the world around you began to blur. Was this what he wanted? Was this how he claimed his victims? With the music?

Your mind screamed at you to move, to run, but your body refused to obey. The melody still reverberated in your skull, a lullaby of twisted euphoria. And then, you saw him.

He emerged from behind the backstage curtains, the black violin still held under his chin, his fingers expertly gliding over the strings, pulling out notes that made your head swim. His eyes remained fixed on you as he began to hum along, the sound vibrating in the air, setting your nerves on fire.

You groaned, struggling to shake the haze from your thoughts, but it was no use. He was here now, standing before you. His presence towered over you, and you could feel the coldness of his gaze piercing through the haze that clung to your senses.

He stopped playing, the sudden silence swallowing the air around you. Your heart pounded in your chest as he crouched down, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. You could feel the heat of his breath, steady and cold at the same time, but his eyes… those eyes pierced into you, unblinking and filled with an unsettling curiosity.

You tried to look away, to break free from his stare, but before you could move, his gloved hand shot out and grasped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His touch was firm, not painful, but there was no escaping it. You felt small, powerless under his grasp.

He studied you, his gaze moving from your face to the rest of your body, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t speak, just letting the silence linger between you. Then, his voice broke through the tension, deep and smooth, almost like a melody of its own.

"Where has the Entity been hiding you, I wonder?" his words was laced with dark amusement. His voice was soft, but it held an edge, as if he was enjoying your discomfort, your inability to escape him.

You didn’t know how to respond. Your body felt heavy, your mind clouded, but you could hear the taunting tone in his voice.

"You’ve been so quiet," he continued. "All you can do is whine, can’t you? Letting me do whatever I want."

You wanted to fight, to scream, to tell him to stop, but all you could manage was a weak grip on his arm, your fingers barely able to hold onto the sleeve of his bloodstained suit. Your strength was gone, sapped by the music, by him.

His lips curved into a knowing smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, and he leaned in closer, his voice a soft whisper now.

"I can’t wait to see how long you last."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you realized that, in this moment, you were nothing more than a puppet in his hands. You wanted to speak, to shout, to fight back, but you couldn’t form the words. His hold on you was suffocating, his fingers warm and unforgiving as they gripped your face and tilted your head back.

"You’re so adorable when you try to resist," he purred, his voice dripping with amusement. "You think you can escape, don’t you?"

You were trying to gather strength, to push him away, but before you could react, his hands shot out, swift and sure. In one fluid motion, he lifted you off the ground, throwing you effortlessly over his shoulder. You gasped, the sudden shift making the world spin around you.

You would have fought back against any other killer. You were used to wiggling free, to finding a way to outsmart and escape. But not with him.

He started humming again, each note seemed to echo in your head, making it harder and harder to think clearly, and it lulled you into a stupor.

The two of you passed through the decaying theater, the doors creaking open as he made his way out. The world outside was dark, the streets eerily empty. You tried to shake yourself awake, to fight the haze, and finally, your lips parted in a slow, slurred speech.

"W-where... where is everyone?" you managed, the words feeling foreign as they left your mouth, thick with exhaustion.

The Virtuoso didn’t even flinch, his pace steady as he continued walking, as if this was just another routine. He simply answered, his voice cold and casual.

"They’re gone," he replied, a slight edge of amusement in his tone. "Already given to the Entity. All of them."

The weight of his words sank in, and you froze, your breath catching in your throat as a realization dawned on you.

Oh. You were the only one left. The only survivor.

A wave of cold dread washed over you, and you couldn’t shake the sick feeling that had settled in your stomach.

And now, you were alone with him.

"You’ll learn to enjoy this feeling," he murmured, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

The weight of his words lingered in the air, suffocating you with their twisted promise. "You’ll learn to enjoy this feeling."

Just then the rumbling began, the map trembling under the familiar pressure, you knew the Entity was growing impatient. It wanted this to end quickly—its hunger insatiable. The last survivor, the final piece in its dark game, was about to be consumed. But then the Virtuoso suddenly released his grip on you. You were unceremoniously dropped to the ground, the rough texture of the pavement scraping your palms as you struggled to sit up.

You groaned, looking up to find the Virtuoso no longer watching you. Instead, his attention was fixed on his violin bow, the jagged edges glinting in the dim light, stained with blood.

“What’s happening?” you managed to ask, your voice shaky but filled with desperation.

Without looking up from his bow, he simply uttered one word, cold and commanding. “Crawl.”

You blinked, confusion settling in for a brief moment before your gaze drifted to the distance. Just a few meters away, the hatch—open and waiting. The escape. The only chance you had. Without thinking, you began to crawl toward it. Every movement felt like an agonizingly slow struggle, but you pushed yourself forward, determined to get to the only possible way out.

But as you moved, you heard it—his humming. It was soft at first, the haunting melody following you, filling the air around you. You dared a glance over your shoulder, and there he was. The Virtuoso was trailing behind you, his figure looming with a slow, deliberate pace. His bow was still clutched tightly in his hand, the faint sound of his humming growing louder as he moved closer. His lips curled into a manic smirk, one that sent a chill down your spine.

And then, in a voice that was far too cheerful for what was happening, he began to count.

“Ten...” His voice was smooth, almost musical, like he was savoring each number.

You could feel your heart racing, pounding in your chest, the escape hatch tantalizingly close but still so far away.

“...Nine…”

Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of his presence bearing down on you as you forced yourself to crawl. The sound of his counting echoed in your ears, filling you with dread.

“…Eight…”

You looked back again, sweat beading on your forehead. His expression was twisted, like he was enjoying this far too much.

“...Seven…”

The hatch was so close now. You could almost reach it.

“...Six…”

You pushed yourself harder, faster, but each movement felt like it drained more of your energy.

“...Five…”

The Virtuoso’s steps were closer now, his bow gliding smoothly through the air as he followed behind you, still counting, still humming.

“…Four…”

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the exhaustion, through the haze of his song, your body screaming at you to stop.

“...Three…”

The hatch was just a few inches away now. You could see it beckoning you.

“…Two…”

His humming was louder, almost deafening in its intensity.

“...One.”

And then, in a heartbeat, he stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, as if the world had held its breath. You froze, barely a few inches from the escape hatch. You could hear the sound of his violin bow slicing through the air.

And then, his voice, smooth as silk, reached your ears. “Such a shame, my dear.”

He walked past you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the silence of the street. Without a word, he approached the escape hatch and closed it with a swift motion, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him with an almost finality that made your heart race. When he turned back to face you, his smile was chilling, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

"Time to die," he said softly, his voice low, but filled with a cruel satisfaction.

He moved toward you slowly, deliberately, his every step measured as if he had all the time in the world. Your body trembled, your muscles stiff and weak from the exhaustion, the haze of the melody still clouding your mind. You struggled to move, but the world around you felt distant and blurry.

A haunting melody played in the background, filling the space between you and him, wrapping around your thoughts like a chain. Your vision swayed, the edges of the world fading into a soft blur as his presence grew closer. Then, with a gentleness that made the hairs on your neck stand on end, he positioned the bow against your throat, his touch light but firm.

His face was expressionless, calculating. His eyes locked onto yours as if studying you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He began to sing.

His voice was smooth, precise, almost like a lullaby. Each note slipped into your mind, soothing and terrifying all at once, as if he were performing an intimate, private piece just for you. The sound of his voice, along with the melody, distorted everything around you. The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, and you could feel your senses begin to unravel. The world seemed to twist, the music warping, growing louder, more dissonant, filling your head with confusion, a maddening disorientation that made it harder to breathe.

Your vision flickered in and out, the room around you stretching and bending with each note he sang. The pressure on your throat from the bow grew, the coldness of the violin's edge digging into your skin.

And then, without warning, in a single, fluid motion, he swept the bow across your throat.

The sharp strings bit into your skin, cutting deeply, and you gasped, feeling the hot rush of blood spilling from the wound. You fell to the ground, your body crumpling beneath the weight of the pain and the overwhelming sensation of his final song echoing in your ears.

Everything went dark.

The familiar feeling of falling overwhelmed you once more, a sinking sensation that seemed endless. And when you landed, it wasn’t the cold streets of the trial. No. You were back.

You were back in the survivors’ camp.

Alive.

Unhurt.

The sudden shift left you gasping for air, your heart racing as you blinked, trying to process what had just happened. You looked around. The camp was quiet, peaceful, almost like nothing had ever happened.

--

You sat there for what felt like an eternity, your back pressed against the rough bark of the tree. The camp was unusually quiet, save for the distant murmurs of other survivors. You had a clear view of the barrier between you and the killers, the oppressive feeling of the entity’s domain hanging in the air. It felt like days since you’d last faced a trial, days that stretched on, leaving you to wonder why you hadn’t been called back into the horrors of the realm.

Time blurred together. Trials came and went, but for some reason, you were left untouched, as if the entity itself had decided to leave you be. You watched as others came back, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. Some spoke of the Virtuoso in hushed tones, their words tinged with dread. You overheard their stories: how they’d tried to outrun him, how they’d failed to survive a single trial with him, how his music had driven them to madness before the end.

But none of them had managed to make it through. None of them had escaped him.

He had become a legend in the realm, and for good reason. His abilities—his haunting song, his control over the survivors—had turned him into a killer of nightmares. No one had survived one trial against him.

You saw him in your dreams sometimes, his haunting music echoing in your ears, his voice soft and cruel. You shivered at the thought of facing him again, knowing that if the entity ever called you back, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

Trials passed, and yet the call never came. You began to wonder if you had been forgotten—left behind, abandoned in the shadows of the camp. Or maybe the entity was just waiting for the perfect moment to drag you back into the trial, to see if you would survive a second time.

--

Eventually, the call came. You were thrust back into the realm, pulled from the relative peace of the survivors’ camp and thrown into the chaos of the trials once again.

First came the Dredge, you were constantly on edge, and you barely made it through, but you survived.

Next, you found yourself up against the Demogorgon. You escaped—barely—each breath ragged, the taste of fear still fresh in your mouth.

Then, the Oni came, you barely manage to survive, barely.

The Doctor came next, his shock therapy was unbearable, his laughter echoing in your head. But again, somehow, you survived.

And then there was the Hillbilly, you sprinted, dodged, and hid, your heart pounding in your chest as you narrowly escaped the carnage.

You groaned loudly as the familiar feeling of being pulled into the trial washed over you, the world around you spinning before it all dropped away into darkness. When your feet hit the ground, you staggered, blinking against the sudden brightness.

Your eyes widened in horror as you looked around.

You were on his map.

The surroundings were hauntingly familiar—the dilapidated theater looming in the distance, the cracked, decaying streets, the smell of dust and blood in the air. It was as if the very atmosphere of the map itself was alive, pulsing with a sinister energy, beckoning you to come face to face with your worst nightmare.

You had to survive him. You had no choice. You couldn’t afford to fall victim to him again. The thought of hearing that haunting tune again, of being caught in his eerie, hypnotic grip, made your stomach turn. But there was no time for hesitation now.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself to focus. The trial had begun, and your survival depended on staying sharp, on staying one step ahead of him. You crouched low, scanning the environment for any signs of life, any survivors, and most importantly—any generators. You had to find a way out.

The air grew colder, and then you heard it—the soft, deliberate hum of his melody, distant at first, but slowly getting closer. You felt the weight of it, the pull in your chest, as the music seemed to crawl into your mind, trying to seduce you into a false sense of safety. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself not to give in. You couldn’t afford that.

You started moving, every step measured, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you passed through the eerie streets, passing abandoned vehicles and broken-down walls.

You reached the edge of the map, your eyes scanning the horizon, but no sign of him yet. But you knew better than to relax—he could be anywhere, and the moment you let your guard down was the moment you’d pay for it. You had to stay focused.

Suddenly, you saw movement in the distance. Another survivor? Or was it him, creeping closer? You couldn’t tell, but you had no intention of waiting around to find out. You bolted for the nearest building, hoping to find some semblance of safety.

As you ducked inside, the door creaked loudly behind you, and you froze. The sound of his humming was unmistakable now, closer, almost as if it were right behind you. Panic surged through your veins, but you forced yourself to stay calm. You had survived against killers like the Demogorgon, the Xenomorph, and the Nemesis. You could survive this.

You quickly turned to look for a generator, anything to give you a chance to escape. But before you could make a move, the faintest touch of a violin note reached your ears—and with it, the world around you began to blur.

You staggered, your head spinning, the familiar exhaustion sinking in as the haunting melody wove its way into your mind. It was him, so close now.

Then everything suddenly went quiet.

You froze, your breath shallow, listening intently. There was no sign of the Virtuoso—no sound, no humming. Just silence.

You dared to peek out from behind the window, your eyes scanning the desolate street outside. It was empty, the shadows stretching across the cracked pavement, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t trust it. Still, it seemed safe enough to move.

Just as you were about to vault over the low wall and make a break for it, you were hit by a wave of music, a sudden, intense surge that made you gasp. It was like the sound wrapped around your body, heavy, suffocating, and in an instant, your vision blurred. The world felt distorted, like a fog had rolled in, the edges of everything softening into nothingness.

No.

You blinked rapidly, trying to regain focus, and when you turned to your left, you saw him.

He was standing there, so still, his gaze fixed directly on you.

How long had he been standing there?

You didn’t get the chance to ponder over that question, not with the sharp sting that followed.

His bow came down, slicing through the air with a sound that sent chills down your spine. You gasped in pain as the sharp edge slashed through your side, the blade cutting deep into your flesh.

The pain was immediate, and for a moment, everything stopped.

But instinct kicked in.

With a strangled cry, you vaulted, your body screaming in protest, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You held your side tightly, feeling the blood seep through your fingers as you sprinted down the street, desperate to put distance between yourself and him.

Behind you, you could hear the faint hum of his violin, the melody now twisted and taunting, as if it was mocking your attempt to escape.

"Run," he teased, his voice soft and smooth, almost playful as it floated on the wind. "It won’t help."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you pushed yourself harder, the pain in your side nearly blinding, but you refused to stop. The sound of his footsteps echoed behind you, slow and measured, but every time you glanced over your shoulder, you saw him gaining on you, moving like a shadow, a predator closing in.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each step taking everything out of you. The street stretched out in front of you, the buildings offering little cover. The world felt so small here.

You ran past two survivors, Yui and Meg, working on a generator in the distance. You barely spared them a glance as they turned to look at you, their faces filled with terror before the Virtuoso's haunting violin notes reached them. Their screams echoed behind you, sharp and full of pain as the bow sliced into them.

But you couldn’t look back. You couldn’t afford to stop. You had to keep moving.

With your heart pounding, you bolted for the theatre, slipping through the back door just as his music faded behind you. The building was dark and quiet, save for the creaking of the old floorboards.

Inside, you found a room. Dimly lit, but it had a palette lying against the far wall, a perfect place to take a breath, even for a moment.

You crouched down and pulled out the medkit you had brought with you for this trial, you hissed through your teeth as you started to treat the wound in your side, carefully bandaging it, the blood still dripping down your hands. The pain was a constant throb, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. You had learned to survive worse.

The violin music grew louder, and you could feel him getting closer, his presence near the door.

You couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Not with him hunting you.

You took a deep breath and prepared to move again. You crept toward the door, every muscle tense, ready to spring into action the moment you heard his violin hum. The sound was becoming more insistent, like a heartbeat you couldn't escape from. You slowly cracked the door open, peering out into the dark hallway beyond.

No sign of him yet.

You made a break for the other side of the room, slipping past the shadowy corners and moving carefully toward a nearby window, hoping to get a glimpse of your surroundings. You had to figure out where the others were, or better yet, where a generator was.

Just as you reached the window, you heard it—a faint humming, followed by a low, dissonant note that made your spine stiffen.

He was here.

The unmistakable sound of the bow scraping against the strings pierced the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. You pressed yourself against the wall, barely breathing, trying to blend into the darkness.

You dared to peek out, your eyes scanning the edges of the room, and there he was. He was standing still, his back to you, seemingly unaware of your presence… but his head tilted slightly, as though sensing you.

Then, without warning, he turned, his eyes narrowed as he locked onto yours.

"Found you," he purred, his voice smooth.

In an instant, his violin was in his hands again, the bow raised, and before you could react, the first note rang out, and you felt it—the exhaustion, the pull of his music sinking into your mind. Your vision blurred, the world spinning around you.

Your body rebelled, but your legs wouldn’t move. It was like his melody had a grip on your very soul, twisting you with every note.

"Run," you whispered to yourself, but the word was drowned out by the haunting sound of the violin as he started moving toward you.

"Why run?" he hummed, his voice taunting as he advanced slowly.

You collapsed to your knees, gasping for air as the melody wrapped around your senses like a velvet noose. Each note sent a shiver down your spine, your body trembling with a mix of fear and something you hated to acknowledge.

The Virtuoso stopped a few feet in front of you, tilting his head as if admiring his handiwork. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "On your knees, just like the music intended. Isn't it beautiful? The way it breaks you down, piece by piece."

You tried to push yourself up, to fight the pull of his haunting melody, but your arms gave out, and you slumped forward, your hands trembling against the floor.

"Stop..." you managed to choke out, though your voice was weak, barely audible over the sound of his violin.

The Virtuoso chuckled, low and smooth, as he crouched down in front of you. He gently rested the bow under your chin, tilting your head up to face him. The cold, sharp edge of the bow scraped lightly against your skin, sending a shiver through you.

"Stop?" he repeated, feigning surprise. "But you don’t really want me to, do you?" His voice softened, almost a whisper. "The Entity chose you for a reason. You were made for this... to be shaped, to be played."

You tried to shake your head, to deny his words, but his gaze pinned you in place. His hand, gloved and stained with dirt and blood, reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

"Tell me," he continued, leaning closer, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. "How does it feel to be a part of something so... exquisite? To be at the mercy of art itself?"

You bit your lip, fighting the fog in your mind. Somewhere, deep inside, you knew this wasn’t right. You were a survivor—you had fought through so many trials, endured countless horrors. You had to fight this, too.

But his music was unlike anything you’d faced before. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a manipulation of your very being, twisting your will, blurring the line between fear and something darker.

He tilted his head, waiting for a response, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement when you stayed silent. "No answer?" he said, his tone mocking. "Perhaps you're finally starting to understand... There's no escape from me."

Your breath hitched as he slung the violin onto his back with an almost practiced elegance. You saw your chance and scrambled to your feet, trying to make a run for it. But you barely got a few steps before a sharp pain erupted across your back.

You screamed as his jagged violin bow slashed through your skin, the searing pain causing you to stumble and fall forward. Blood trickled down your side as you tried to crawl away, but before you could even attempt to push yourself up, his hand gripped your wrist like iron.

With alarming strength, he yanked you back and slammed you against the cold, crumbling wall. The force knocked the wind out of you, leaving you gasping as the world spun.

"Still trying to run?" he murmured, his tone dripping with amusement.

You tried to push him off, but he pressed his body against yours, trapping you between him and the wall.

"Let me go!" you gasped, writhing beneath his grip.

His response was to catch your wrists in one swift motion, slamming them above your head and pinning them there with a single hand. His strength was inhuman, and no amount of struggling could break you free.

With his other hand, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His gloved fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your head back as his eyes roamed over your face.

"Such defiance," he said softly, almost as if he were admiring you. "But even fire can be tamed."

Before you could muster a reply, before you could even process the fear coursing through you, he leaned in. His lips crushed against yours with a sudden, ferocious intensity that left you utterly stunned.

Your muffled gasp filled the air as his mouth moved against yours, his kiss possessive and unrelenting. His grip on your wrists tightened as you tried to pull away, your attempts feeble against the strength that held you in place.

Your heart thundered in your chest, torn between fear, anger, and a bewildering sense of helplessness. The world seemed to narrow down to him—his lips, his overwhelming presence, and the haunting melody of his violin still ringing faintly in the background.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours. "You can fight all you want," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, his gloved thumb brushing against your trembling lip. "But you’ll never escape me."

Your legs felt like jelly, trembling beneath you. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place. You should’ve tried to run, screamed for help, done something, but your body betrayed you, too weak to move.

His thumb lingered on your lip, pressing lightly, as if testing your limits. He tilted his head, and that haunting hum escaped his throat again—a melody low and sinister that seemed to seep into your very bones.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice smooth and mocking as he studied you. “Is it fear? Or something else?”

You glared at him—or tried to—but the faint tremor in your chin betrayed your attempt at defiance.

He chuckled, low and dark, and his gloved hand left your face, sliding down to your neck. His fingers trailed lazily over your skin, the rough texture of the worn leather leaving a cold, ghostly sensation in their wake.

“You’re so fragile,” he mused as his hand traveled further, tracing the curve of your shoulder and down your arm. “And yet, so strong…”

His words trailed off as he moved closer again, his body pressing lightly against yours to keep you pinned to the wall. His free hand glided down your side, brushing over the torn fabric of your shirt and the faint wound left by his bow. His fingers paused there, pressing gently, almost mockingly.

You flinched, gasping softly at the sting of pain, and he hummed again, as if pleased by your reaction.

“Every mark I leave on you…” he whispered, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. “It’s a masterpiece in its own right.”

His hands didn’t stop, exploring further—over your waist, down to your hips. Each touch was deliberate, calculated, as if he were memorizing every inch of you he could reach. You tried to push him away, but he didn’t even budge.

“Still fighting?” he teased, his lips curling into a cruel smile as his eyes locked onto yours. “I admire your persistence… but we both know how this ends.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, frustration and helplessness bubbling as his hand continued. His touch wasn’t violent—it was careful—but that only made it worse. It wasn’t pain he was inflicting now, but a complete violation of your sense of control.

His gloved hand came back to your face, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him. His thumb brushed over your trembling lip again, his gaze piercing into yours.

“I could keep you here forever,” he said, the words chilling in their sincerity.

His lips crashed against yours again, firm and unrelenting, leaving you breathless. You struggled at first, your body instinctively trying to push him away, but his grip on your wrists remained iron-clad. The cold leather of his glove against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth on yours.

You whimpered into the kiss, your resolve crumbling as the sheer intensity of it overwhelmed you. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was him. His presence, his control, the way he seemed to consume you entirely.

His hand on your chin slid down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before resting on your throat. The weight of his touch there, firm but not constricting, made your breath hitch, and that only seemed to fuel him further. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, demanding entrance, and though you wanted to resist, your body betrayed you.

You parted your lips, and he wasted no time, deepening the kiss with a hunger that sent sparks of something unfamiliar coursing through you. You should’ve been disgusted, horrified even, but instead, a warmth began to bloom in your chest, spreading through your body like wildfire.

Why did this feel so good?

You had never had time for… this. Whatever this was. After being abducted by the Entity, survival had been your only focus. There was no room for affection, no space for intimacy, no chance to feel anything beyond fear and desperation. But now, under his touch, under his spell, you felt yourself slipping into something dangerously close to surrender.

And then it happened.

You kissed him back.

It was tentative at first, a soft, hesitant movement of your lips against his, as if testing the waters. But when he felt your response, his grip on your wrists tightened, and a low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. His other hand, still resting on your throat, flexed slightly, his fingers curling against your skin as if claiming you.

The kiss grew deeper, more intense, and you found yourself leaning into him despite everything. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to pull away, to fight, but your body refused to listen. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue, every subtle shift of his body against yours sent another wave of that intoxicating warmth crashing over you.

You hated him. You feared him. And yet, in this moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to resist.

When he finally pulled back, his lips parted from yours with a soft, wet sound, leaving you gasping for air. His eyes bored into yours, dark and unreadable, as he studied your flushed face.

“There it is,” he murmured, his voice low and almost… tender? “I knew you’d come around.”

You tried to look away, shame and confusion twisting in your chest, but he wouldn’t let you. His hand on your throat moved back to your chin, tilting your face up again so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Don’t look so conflicted,” he teased, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re mine now, remember? There’s no going back.”

His hand lingered on your chin, thumb brushing against your skin with an unsettling softness, as though savoring the moment. His smirk widened as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a velvet whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “The pull… the surrender. Fighting me is pointless.”

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as his free hand began to trail down your body, gliding over your shoulder, tracing the curve of your arm, and finally resting at your waist.

Your heart raced as you tried to push him away again, weakly pressing against his chest, but he didn’t budge. If anything, the pressure of his body against yours only increased.

“Shh,” he cooed, his lips ghosting over your ear. “Why do you still resist? Haven’t I shown you how… good this can feel?”

You hated how his words stirred something inside you, how the warmth from before was now spreading like fire under your skin.

He leaned back just enough to study your face, his gaze softened slightly, but there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes, as though he was enjoying watching you struggle with your own emotions.

“You’re so used to running,” he said, almost thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “So used to fighting. But here, with me…” His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. “You’ll learn to stay. To submit.”

The word sent a jolt through you, and your eyes widened as you finally found your voice.

“I’ll never—”

But before you could finish, his lips were on yours again, silencing your protest with a kiss far more intense than the last. It was consuming, overwhelming, and despite your words, you felt yourself melting into it. His grip on your wrists remained firm as his other hand moved to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place.

You tried to focus, to think, to fight, but his kiss drowned out every thought, leaving you with nothing but the sensation of him.

When he pulled back this time, he was breathing heavier, his dark eyes locked onto yours. “See?” he said softly, his voice a mix of satisfaction and something deeper. “You’re already mine.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, frustration and confusion boiling inside you. You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he twisted your will, how he toyed with you like you were nothing more than a plaything. But most of all, you hated how a part of you wanted to stay.

He tilted his head, watching you with a curious expression, as though trying to decipher the storm of emotions on your face. Then, with a smirk, he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear once more.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “We have all the time in the world to figure this out.”

And with that, he released your wrists, stepping back and letting you collapse to the ground, your legs too weak to hold you up. You looked up at him, your body trembling, your mind spinning, as he simply stood there, staring down at you with that infuriatingly smug expression.

“Run,” he said, his voice almost playful as he gestured toward the door. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were trapped—not just by him, but by your own warring emotions.

He watched you with those sharp, unrelenting eyes as you remained frozen, staring up at him. His smirk faded, replaced by a look of amused annoyance.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I offer you a chance, and yet you just sit there like a lost little lamb.”

Before you could react, he moved with frightening speed, grabbing you and slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You let out a small yelp, weakly squirming in his grip, but his hold was ironclad.

“Keep struggling if you want,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “It won’t make a difference.”

He started walking, his steps slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. The sound of his boots against the cracked floorboards echoed through the empty halls of the theater. You hung limply over his shoulder, your mind racing as you tried to process what was happening.

Then, out of nowhere, he started talking.

“You know,” he began, his voice calm and eerily conversational, “they called me a genius once. A prodigy.” He chuckled darkly. “The greatest violinist of my time. My performances brought crowds to their knees. They cried, they cheered… They worshipped me.”

You frowned, unsure of where he was going with this, but he continued, as though you weren’t even there.

“But it wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice tightening with anger. “I wanted more. I needed to create the perfect symphony. Something timeless. Something unforgettable.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, his gloved hand pressing into your back.

“So I poured everything into my masterpiece,” he went on, his tone shifting into something almost wistful. “Years of work. Painstaking detail. Every note, every pause, every crescendo—perfection.”

You hesitated, your curiosity getting the better of you. “…What happened?”

He stopped walking for a moment, his silence heavy and foreboding. Then, he let out a bitter laugh.

“They rejected it,” he said, his voice cold. “Those self-important critics. They said it lacked ‘soul,’ that it was too mechanical, too precise. They dared to insult my work.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing where this was going.

“So,” he continued, resuming his slow, steady pace, “I invited them all to a private concert. My ‘final performance,’ I told them. And they came, eager to tear me apart one last time.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

“But this time, they didn’t leave. Not alive, anyway.”

You stiffened, your breath catching as his words sank in.

“They didn’t understand art,” he said, his voice growing colder. “Not until they became part of it. Their screams, their fear… It was the most beautiful symphony I ever created.”

You could barely comprehend what you were hearing. He wasn’t just mad—he was completely deranged.

“And then,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost reverent, “the Entity came. It saw my genius, my passion, and it gave me a new stage. A new audience.”

He stopped walking, his gloved hand coming up to idly adjust the strap of his violin, which was still slung across his back.

“And now,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I perform for eternity. Each trial, a new composition. Each scream, a new note.”

You shuddered, your mind racing. His story was horrifying, but what scared you the most was the way he spoke about it—with pride, with satisfaction.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked weakly, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, as though considering your question. Then, he chuckled softly.

“Because,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “you’ll be part of my next masterpiece.”

Your blood ran cold as his words sank in. You wanted to scream, to fight, but your body felt too weak, too drained. All you could do was hang there, helpless, as he carried you deeper into the dark, abandoned theater.

And all you could think was, he’s completely mad.

He carried you through the desolate theater, his footsteps unhurried, as though he were savoring every moment of your despair. When he finally stopped, you felt your stomach churn as your gaze landed on a rusted, blood-stained hook.

“No,” you croaked, struggling weakly in his grip, but he only chuckled darkly, his gloved hand tightening around you.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, his voice dripping with mockery.

With terrifying ease, he lifted you off his shoulder and slammed you onto the hook. Pain shot through your body as the sharp metal pierced your flesh, forcing a scream from your lips. You writhed and struggled, the agony unbearable, but the hook held firm.

Your scream echoed through the empty halls, and his reaction was chilling. His head tilted back slightly, his lips parting as though he were savoring a fine wine. His eyes gleamed with a wild, crazed light, and the corners of his mouth curled into a manic grin.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice low and trembling with excitement. “That’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for.”

You gasped for breath, tears stinging your eyes as you glared at him. “You’re insane,” you spat weakly.

His grin only widened. He stepped closer, tilting his head, his gaze fixed on you with a kind of sick fascination.

“Next time I put you up here,” he said, his voice soft but dripping with menace, “I expect to hear you scream my name instead.”

You flinched at his words, your breath hitching. “I—I don’t know your name,” you managed to choke out.

At that, his grin shifted into something even more unsettling—a sickeningly sweet smile that made your blood run cold.

“Then let me enlighten you,” he said, leaning in closer. “It’s Heeseung. And you’d better not forget it.”

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth. “Because if you do… I’ll make sure you never forget. I’ll carve it into your mind, your body, your soul.”

Your heart raced as his words sank in, his soft, mocking tone making your skin crawl.

He straightened up, pulling his violin from his back with a flourish. Heeseung’s eyes never left you as he adjusted the instrument beneath his chin, his gloved fingers dancing over the strings.

“And now,” he said, his voice almost playful, “I leave you with a parting gift.”

He raised his bow, but before he began to play, he blew you a kiss—a mocking, exaggerated gesture that sent a chill down your spine.

“Until next time, my dear,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Then, he walked away, the haunting melody of his violin filled the air. You hung there, trembling and bleeding, as his tune echoed through the empty theater.

And all you could think, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, was how he and Ghostface would make the best buddies. If they hadn’t already.

You could practically imagine it: Ghostface with his twisted sense of humor, showing pictures of his victims, while Heeseung played a chilling melody in the background. The thought almost made you laugh—a bitter, hysterical sound that was quickly swallowed by a wave of pain.

"Perfect little psychopaths," you muttered under your breath, your voice weak and trembling.

And yet, part of you wondered if they had met. The Entity’s domain wasn’t small, and the killers had their own ways of crossing paths. You could imagine Ghostface mocking Heeseung’s perfectionism, while Heeseung would likely call Ghostface’s theatrics "childish." Still, their combined sadism would leave anyone unfortunate enough to cross their paths wishing for a quicker end.

“Maybe they’re pen pals,” you muttered weakly, clinging to the absurdity of the thought to distract from the throbbing pain.

"How funny would that be," you mumbled to yourself, letting out a breathless, bitter laugh as the Entity’s claws dug deeper. The pain was unbearable, and you could feel your strength fading fast. The realization hit you like a brick wall: no one was coming.

You glanced around weakly, but the map was eerily quiet, void of footsteps or whispers of another survivor. It was just you—hooked, bleeding, and alone.

With a sigh of resignation, you let your hands drop, giving up the fight against the Entity’s claws. “Guess this is it,” you whispered to yourself, closing your eyes as the final pull of the Entity claimed you.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t been through this before. You knew you’d wake up in the survivors’ camp, alive and unhurt. But this time… this time felt different.

When you opened your eyes again, you were sprawled beneath the familiar tree in the survivor camp, your body whole and your wounds gone. The gentle hum of the campfire reached your ears, and the familiar sounds of chatter surrounded you.

But you didn’t join the others. Instead, you sat there, frozen, your thoughts a whirlwind.

Your fingers absentmindedly moved to your lips, grazing the soft skin as if to confirm something. Heeseung’s kiss had been like his music—intoxicating, haunting, impossible to forget. You hated that you could still feel it, like a ghost of his touch lingering there.

You clenched your fists, cursing under your breath. What the hell was wrong with you? He was a killer. A deranged, sadistic monster who found joy in tormenting you. And yet…

You shook your head, trying to banish the thought. But the image of him wouldn’t leave your mind.

The other survivors’ voices seemed to fade into the background as you stared into the campfire, lost in your thoughts. You’d faced countless killers before, survived their wrath, even laughed off their brutality. But this… this was something else entirely.

Heeseung, you thought, his name echoing in your mind like a song you couldn’t forget.

Heeseung.

Heeseung.

Heeseung.

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[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 1: The Second of Three

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: A traffic collision throws you into the path of Wanda Maximoff. In the chaos and confusion, she's the one thing you can hold onto, the one person who's there.

Word count (Chapter 1): 6k

Warnings: none for this chapter

A/N: This is chapter one of my current (and first) fanfic. If you like this then please check out the remainder of the fic on AO3 (link at top and bottom of post) — I've posted sixteen chapters and 93k words so far, so there is lots to sink your teeth into. Hope you enjoy!

It comes out of nowhere, the truck. A flash of navy blue in your periphery, a sudden impact to your front wheel, and you are tumbling through the air like a rag doll. A clatter, a screech of tiles. The dull thud of your body against a bonnet. The crack of your helmet — and within it, your skull —against the unforgiving ground. 

Consciousness returns slowly, lagging behind the awakening of your senses. First you see the tarmac beneath you, feel the roughness beneath your skin. The taste of blood is what prompts the questioning in your mind. 

What happened? 

Your brain is foggy, thoughts disconnected. You try to press yourself up with your hands but one of your arms buckles beneath you.

“Don’t try to get up,” someone warns you; a woman’s voice, urgent but kind.

The pain arrives like a second collision, held back by adrenaline but released now that your brain knows you are safe. Your shoulder screams out, winning your full attention at once. It’s bad, you can tell that much. Beneath the thick layer of agony radiating from the top of your arm, you can just about discern the stinging of your cheek. Running your tongue over your lips you find them raw, ragged and wet. The taste of blood intensifies, and you anxiously do an inventory of your teeth with your tongue. They all seem to be there, solid. Just the outside then, you think numbly. 

“Where am I?” you wonder aloud, trying to lift your head but finding it heavy and difficult to move. There’s something wrapped around your neck, something extending from your forehead which scrapes on the ground at the slightest movement. A helmet? The pieces begin to connect; your bicycle helmet. So you were cycling somewhere.

“My bike!” you squeak suddenly, your priorities jumbled in the confusion of the situation. “Where’s my bike?”

“Don’t worry, it’s here. You got knocked off by a car. Do you remember?”

You look up with the smallest tilt of your head to see a woman crouched down beside you. Her hair is long and wavy, in a shade you’d call ‘strawberry blonde’ back home. She looks so worried, her eyebrows frowning in concern. She has nice eyes, you think. You’re sort of staring up at her now, blinking as you try to process both her beauty and her explanation. Your brain isn’t sorting them out properly; it keeps revolving back to thinking how pretty she is, every time you try to understand what she said about what happened.

“I — I don’t…” Your words come out stilted, and you can’t finish the sentence. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart — you knocked your head, it might take some time to remember.” She’s smiling down at you, this woman. A worried sort of smile, but a smile nonetheless. The pain remains, but some of the panic dissipates. A calm energy emanates from her, and it’s helping you feel safe, despite all the unknowns which sit ominous and black in your head like redacted words on a page.

Slowly, this stranger reaches out her hand and tentatively places it on your fingers. Cautious and gentle, waiting for resistance. It’s your good arm she’s chosen, so thankfully it elicits no extra pain. In fact, your fingers grasp at hers automatically, seeking out the comfort without express permission from your brain. You watch it happen with interest, almost amused by your instinctual movement. It takes a moment before you register that she’s asked you a question: “What is your name?”. You open your sticky lips again, and manage to murmur out your full name, first and last, as if you are meeting at some formal occasion. You don’t even perceive this as weird, it just comes out, product of your foggy brain.

She smiles at this. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. My name is Wanda.”

You’ve never met someone called Wanda before. The name seems so fantastical, and paired with the beauty of this woman, you begin to process some doubt about your current situation. After all, you can’t remember anything from before. Rather like the fragmented details of a dream. Suspicion floods you, and again you try to sit up, wanting to investigate.

“Hey,” Wanda says, squeezing your hand gently. “Careful, sweetheart. The ambulance will be here soon — can you stay still for me, until they get here?”

You lean back again, settling back on the concrete. The pain in your shoulder amplified so much from even the mere activation of your core muscles to initiate sitting up, so you’re almost thankful for the encouragement to desist. Plus, you can feel her stroking your fingers gently in her warm hand, and you don’t want it to stop. 

There’s a wailing sound in the distance, and you’re so out of it that it takes a while to realise what it is. They sound a little different here, maybe less scary but more sad. Still, your brain is focussing on the wrong things, and it takes the quickly intensifying siren sound to make you wake up to the practicalities of this scenario.

“My bike?” You look up at Wanda in panic. “What will happen to my bike if they take me away? I can’t leave it!”

Wanda looks back behind her for a moment, then returns her gaze to you.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures you. “I can take it in the back of my car, and meet you at the hospital maybe?”

Her words sink in slowly. Yes, that seems to work, you think. You try to nod, but it’s too awkward with the helmet, the straps seeming to tighten around your neck as you try. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thanks, Wanda.”

She smiles down at you, then looks up to something behind you. “They’re pulling up now, Y/N. You let the EMTs help you, and I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Between the cacophony of noise building around you and the burgeoning pain in your body, you can’t find the focus needed to decipher what on earth she had meant. The acronym is gone already, the letters scrambled and faded into meaninglessness. Instead, you concentrate on the constant, calming pressure of her hand in yours.

Until it is taken from you, removed by gloved hands and strange faces. You can't help but whimper at the loss of Wanda’s comfort, combined with the painful ramifications of their manoeuvres. They speak words to you, words you don’t really hear or understand. You can just about make out Wanda’s voice joining a conversation, asking a question, but by the time you realise it’s her they have already answered, they have moved on, moved you, and closed the doors between you. 

During the journey, something is given to you, somehow, which eases the pain and obliterates what little perception you still had. You give in easily to the sweet senselessness, and meet all their verbal offerings with a blissful, aloof smile.

At some point, you become aware that the rattling, wailing inside of their vehicle has been replaced with clean white walls and a comfy bed. You wonder if you had missed the waiting room, or if such things simply don’t exist over here. Everything is subtly different, in a way which might have been disconcerting, if you’d had all of your senses intact. Instead though, it washes over you like a humorous anecdote. The one thing you remember is Wanda, and you wonder when she’ll come. If she’ll come. You hope.

The door opens, and a doctor walks in, easily identified by the white coat and confident stroll as he enters, even before he introduces himself as Doctor Schwartz.

Looking down at his clipboard, Doctor Schwartz reads out your full name, his eyebrow rising questioningly at the end. You nod a confirmation, and he gives a cursory smile.

“And… you were hit off your bike this morning?”

“I think so,” you answer quietly. “I, um… don’t really remember.”

“Right.” He scrawls something on his clipboard, the pen making a scratching sound as he writes. “Were you wearing a helmet?”

“Yes, I was.” You’re glad to be certain of something, finally — even though your helmet seems to have disappeared somehow. “I always wear a helmet,” you state, possibly more to reassure yourself.

“Good, good.” He murmurs distractedly. “Well, I think we should do some scans, see what’s going on. The guys from the ambulance said you hurt your shoulder, is there anything else we need to take a look at?”

It takes you a bit longer to process this. Whether it’s because you really did hit your head, or his thick New York accent — you’re not sure. It’s been less than a week since you moved here, and you have no idea how long it will take to get used to the different sounds people make, compared to home. This doctor in particular has quite a monotonous voice, making it harder for you to hear whether he’s asking you a question or making rhetorical statements.

Trying to focus, you do a mental scan of your body. In truth, everything aches, but it’s only really your right shoulder that radiates an acute kind of pain, the kind that alerts you to more significant damage.

“Just my shoulder I think,” you finally reply.

“Right,” he says. It’s not until he raises his head completely and gives you a significant look that you realise there was a question mark at the end of his word.

“Oh — yes, it’s my right shoulder.” You feel your cheeks reddening a little at the miscommunication. 

“Alright, I’ll organise for someone to take you to radiology and bring you back here when it’s done. I’ll come back when I get the results.”

He starts to leave, and you just manage to call out a weak little thank you before he exits your room. 

It’s maybe a couple of minutes before a woman walks in, though you feel so foggy that maybe you aren’t the best judge of time at the moment. She’s wearing blue scrubs and a far more engaging smile, and she introduces herself as Gina, a Nurse Assistant. Gina wastes no time in helping you out the bed and into a wheelchair. You start to protest that you can walk, but as soon as your feet touch the floor you feel yourself swaying a little, and end up leaning into her a lot more than intended. After that you swallow your opposition and let her wheel you out and along the many corridors, making you feel more dizzy. She chats the whole time: throughout the journey; between the scans of your head and your shoulder; all the way back to your room. You’re grateful that she doesn’t ask too many questions, since you still feel confused from the accident and she’s talking far too quickly for you to keep up. Mainly she warns you about how dangerous cycling is here, and gives you a lengthy run-through of culture shocks to expect as soon as she hears your accent and pegs you as a recent immigrant. By the time she helps you back into bed and bids you a cheerful farewell, your head is swimming with words like bodega and brownstone and Bronx.

Not long after Gina leaves, the door opens again. You sit up a bit more, expecting to see Doctor Schwartz, but you’re surprised to see Wanda. Kind Wanda from the scene of the accident, looking at you with a gentle smile from the doorway. Still holding the door, she asks “can I come in?” and positively beams when you nod. 

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here, it was a bit tricky to find a parking space and then they weren’t sure where you’d got to at reception for a while.” Wanda approaches your bedside, and shakes her head slightly. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

You can feel your body warming at the pet name, though you know it’s probably just her style of talking, nothing particular for you. 

“Um, I’m doing okay, thanks. They gave me something in the ambulance for the pain, and they’ve done some scans of my head and my shoulder but I don’t know anything yet.”

She nods, smiling down at you from her position standing at the side of the bed. Wanda is so pretty, it’s hard to take in. She’s maybe in her thirties, you think? Older than you, for sure. She has a mature elegance to the way she holds herself and talks, something you can’t imagine ever being able to emulate successfully. She wears a white t-shirt, black blazer and black tailored trousers. The sort of outfit which would make you look like a schoolchild, whereas on her it looks effortlessly sophisticated.

“That’s good,” she says softly. She reaches out, her hand travelling towards you fingers briefly, then she hesitates. Looks at you. You look back at her, wondering how to communicate that you want it, without seeming desperate for her touch. She seems to make a decision though, gently laying her hand over yours, letting you be the one to intertwine your fingers together. “Y/N, have you been able to call anyone? Family, friends?”

You blush at this, and shake your head slowly. Swallowing, you try to find the words, but they won’t come in time.

“I can call people for you, if you want?” she offers. You smile weakly at this thoughtful gesture.

“Thanks, Wanda, but — well, there’s no one really to call.” You see her tilt her head at this, frowning a little with concern or pity. You hastily explain, not wanting to make her feel bad for you. “I’ve just moved here, a few days ago. I don’t know anyone here yet, and this — it’s really not worth bothering people about, when they’re too far away to feel helpful.”

Wanda squeezes your hand. “I see,” she says quietly. “I understand, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say automatically, even though it isn’t. The move, now the accident — it’s all too much really. You’d love to be the adventurous, independent type, you’ve tried to convince everyone of it, but really you need people. This move has confirmed it, exposed your true nature. But it’s too late now. You are committed to your apartment, your Visa, your graduate programme…

Your graduate programme. Shit, things are coming back to you now. You were meant to meet your supervisor in person at 9am; that’s why you were cycling — to get to campus. 

Panic sets in quickly; you’re whipping your head round to find a clock. When you see it is after 10 already, you realise you have just made the worst possible impression…

“Y/N, honey, what’s wrong?” Wanda asks, reaching out to put her free hand on your shoulder (thankfully the good one). Her touch is grounding, and even though you are still spiralling inside, you are able to look her in the eyes and see the inquisitive, caring expression on her face.

“I was supposed to meet someone — my supervisor — at 9,” you explain, voice catching on an anxious sob which you strangle in your throat, trying to contain. “She… I don’t…”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Wanda soothes, interrupting your broken rambling. “It’s okay. We can call them, and explain. You have a very good reason for missing it. They will understand.”

Your breathing is still fast and shallow, but you manage a nod as her words sink in. She’s right, what better excuse could you have for missing a meeting, than being in the hospital?

“Do you want to phone?” Wanda asks. When you hesitate, she adds another option for you. “If it’s easier, I can phone for you?”

“Could you, please?” you ask, sighing out the last remnants of your panic. “I don’t think… My words keep getting jumbled.”

She nods. “Of course, sweetheart, it’s no problem. Do you have a number, or at least a name so I can find it?”

Oh god, you’re an idiot. You should have saved the office number in your phone, but instead it will take logging in to your university account (which would be a feat, in this state) and trawling through emails to find it…

Wanda, seeing the panic returning on your face, intervenes. “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t have it. Where does your supervisor work?”

You can do this, at least. “Um, the psychology department, at Columbia,” you manage to say between little gasps. The anxious breathing has agitated your shoulder, and it’s starting to send waves of pain through your arm again. “Her name is Francesca… something. She’s a professor.”

“You’re doing a really good job, honey,” Wanda praises you, and you feel something else running through your body. A warm feeling that contrasts with the sharp pain. Even overrides it for a moment. She squeezes your hand again, then removes her hands from you to find her phone and start searching for a phone number. 

You lean back against the pillow, allowing yourself to wince and grimace now that she’s distracted. Your shoulder really hurts. Maybe whatever you were given in the ambulance is wearing off now?

“I’ve found it,” Wanda tells you quietly, then she starts a phone call, giving you a brief reassuring smile before it connects and she looks at the wall to focus. 

You tune out her conversation, because for some reason the idea of Wanda talking to your supervisor makes you feel embarrassed, like the way you used to feel on parents’ night at school, knowing the adults were discussing you. So you focus instead on trying to remember the accident, now that you at least have a grasp on where you were going. But your memories are so fragmented, and trying to piece it all together makes your head hurt and your shoulder ache. 

Wanda drops her hand to her side and turns to smile at you. “She says she hopes you get better soon. And that you can reorganise the meeting when you’re better, there’s no rush.”

You nod, a little awkwardly. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you’re glad that she returns to your bedside, and reaches for your hand again. “Wanda,” you begin tentatively, suddenly realising how self-centred your thoughts have been. “Don’t you have… work or something to be going to?”

She smiles. “Don’t worry about me, darling. I’ve already sent in word.”

You nod again — it feels like all you can do at the moment, small gestures and scared words. You wonder if you should ask where she works, or whether it might be seen as intrusive. This whole scenario is so bizarre that you’re not even entirely sure whether the typical social norms would apply. And even if they do, you’re constantly worried about putting your foot in it, doing something which is normal back home but somehow rude over here.

Thankfully, you are saved from the conundrum by the return of your doctor. He waltzes in, absorbed by his clipboard which seems to have amassed new sheets of paper since it last graced this room. Only at the last minute does he look up and notice the new body in the room.

“Oh, hi,” he says in acknowledgement. Then he looks to you. “Is this your mom?”

You don’t know who should be more offended, who he’s misread, though you have a feeling it must be you. Despite being in your mid twenties, you’re used to people assuming you’re still in high school. You’ve been cursed with a baby face and since you stopped growing at thirteen, people often make the mental shortcut and assume you’re still a kid due to your height. No matter how many times people tell you “it’ll pay off when you’re older”, it remains frustrating — and embarrassing — to be so consistently viewed as a teenager. 

“No, I’m a friend,” Wanda corrects him easily, saving you the trouble of responding. Even though you know she was just smoothing things over, it feels nice to hear her say you’re a friend. Today, you really need one.

“Right, I’m Doctor Schwartz,” he says, looking entirely unbothered by his faux pas, and very focussed on his clipboard. “So, Y/N, I’ve reviewed your scans and the physical exams they did, and it’s safe to say you’ve got a concussion, and you’ve fractured your clavicle.” Doctor Schwartz looks up, and perhaps sees confusion, because he clarifies. “Also known as your collarbone.” He taps the bony part of his shoulder for good measure, then flicks over a page and rotates the clipboard so you can see a photocopied scan of your shoulder. He briefly points out the fracture, which is difficult to see, but you suppose he doesn’t really need you to fully understand. 

“Luckily your fracture’s not too bad so you should be fully healed in six weeks, as long as you take it easy. I’ll get a nurse to sort you out with a sling. So no cycling, no colliding with trucks for six weeks, alright?” And he gives you the first hint of a proper smile, which you shyly reciprocate. “As for the concussion, I need you to rest properly for 72 hours, with a responsible adult to keep an eye on you. Since you seem like the adventurous type with your bike jaunts, you might want to have a look at this leaflet about safely returning to sport.” He unclips a leaflet from his clipboard, and starts to hand it to you, before changing his mind and passing it to Wanda. “Or at least, have a responsible adult look at it, hm?”

You’ve still not got a good enough gauge on him to tell whether he’s teasing you, seriously thinks you’re a child, or just doesn’t trust you because of the concussion. So you just nod, to let him know you’ve been listening. Even if it’s not really sunk in. In a way, it’s a relief to know there’s a reason for the fogginess, and you’re not just losing your mind.

“Alright, I’ll make sure a nurse is here soon to sort you out with the sling and such, then you can be on your way.” He pauses, looks between you and Wanda. “I guess your friend here can give you a ride, rather than you cycling home, huh?”

You freeze awkwardly, realising the predicament you’re in with all this “responsible adult” stuff, but Wanda just gives him a little chuckle, and you a reassuring smile. “Of course, Doctor. Her bike’s in quarantine in my trunk, so she’ll be sitting in the front with me.”

This is confusing and comforting at the same time. If she’s serious about giving you a lift, then where does it end? 

“That’s good to hear. Well, Y/N, best of luck on your recovery.”

“Thank you,” you manage, as always awkward with goodbyes.

“Thanks, Doctor,” Wanda smiles, and he leaves the room with a strong swing of the door.

Wanda turns to face you, and begins speaking before you can find the words to decipher her intentions.

“Y/N, you may already have other options in mind, but I want you to know you’d be most welcome to stay with me and my wife whilst you recover. For 72 hours or longer, if you need.”

You are speechless at both this immensely generous offer, and the revelation that Wanda has a wife. Somehow, it almost feels worse when you know the women you find beautiful are queer. At least when lusting after straight women, you know there’s a bigger reason, beyond yourself, why they wouldn’t want you. But now, knowing that Wanda is into women, you feel terrified that she might be recognising your gormless looks for something more than mere admiration. All you can hope is that the concussion may excuse any of your more cringy behaviour, today and — potentially — over the next couple of days. Because of course you want to stay with Wanda.

“Do… do you really mean it?” you ask, then kick yourself for not phrasing this better, doing a polite refusal first. “Because, I’m sure I can work something out otherwise. I don’t want to be a bother.”

She squeezes the hand she’s still holding, and your fingers automatically clutch her a little tighter in return. “No bother, sweetheart,” she promises. “It would be lovely to have your company a little longer, and it’s the least I can do, to look after you a little while.”

Your confusion only increases at her phrasing. “What do you mean?” you ask, wondering if you’re missing something. “You’ve already done so much.”

She smiles a little sadly at this, shaking her head. “You don’t remember, do you?” she says, and you just stare at her, baffled. “Y/N, you were hit by a truck pulling out at the intersection. But with the impact, you were thrown onto my car.”

Very, very briefly, you feel a flash of recognition in your mind. One, two, three impacts. The truck. A bonnet. The ground. Wanda’s car must have been the second of the three. When you look into her eyes again, you see they look a little misty. 

“Was it bad?” you whisper. A stupid question, but you don’t remember, you can’t visualise it beyond the vague knowledge you were piecing together in retrospect.

Wanda bites her lip, clearly working through her own memory, deciding what to say. 

“It was pretty scary,” she says. “I didn’t know if I’d stopped in time, until I got out. All I saw was this flying object, and I slammed the brakes. But it was you. One moment you were on your bike ahead of me, and the next…”

Now it’s your turn to squeeze her hand, offer comfort. Even though you’re the one on the hospital bed, bone broken and brain mixed up, it suddenly seems preferable to having seen it happen. It sounds awful. Knowing you’ve hit somebody, not knowing if they’re alive.

“Wanda, I’m okay,” you tell her, managing a smile though it’s probably more of a grimace because your shoulder is vying for your attention in increasingly volatile ways. “You did everything you could. It wasn’t your fault.”

She wipes her eyes, squeezes your hand back and gives a stoic smile in return, nodding like she’s trying to make herself believe it is true.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” she says. “But please, even just for my own peace of mind, can I accommodate you for a few days?”

You let out a laugh, which you didn’t know you had in you. “I guess I’d be cruel to refuse, in that case,” you reply wryly, and you feel glad that your humour is returning. And proud to see her laugh a little in return.

“Yes, you would be,” she agrees, joining in the joke. “Plus, I must admit it would be nice to have a chance to get to know you when you’re not concussed.”

“Hey,” you protest, feeling defensive for some reason. “I’m fine — I’m doing much better!” 

She just laughs. “Darling, there’s still a good few seconds between me speaking and you answering — and I’m sorry to say you look very confused in those moments.” 

You fold your arms and pout a little when you’ve processed this, but by the smirk on Wanda’s face it seems you must have proved her point. Especially because the movement of your arms was an automatic, emotional response — which really hurt your shoulder.

“I think Doctor Schwartz was right,” she says, lowering her voice and using her free hand to brush a wisp of hair behind your ear. “I think you need a responsible adult to look after you, sweetheart.”

You feel your pout faltering at this, and your heart thudding heavily behind your folded arms. Given what she’s just said about your processing time and vacant expressions, you feel a little worried that your body might be betraying you in other ways, when she behaves like this around you. When this thought occurs, it brings on the realisation that your cheeks are burning hot inside, and must surely be glowing traitorously on the outside. You duck your eyes and hug your folded arms into your sides, trying to pull yourself together.

Before you can be embarrassed any more, a nurse enters with a trolley, smiling at the scene of Wanda by your bedside, holding your hand. 

“Hi there, Y/N, my name is Nurse Amanda, it’s lovely to meet you!” This nurse has a rather overbearingly cheerful attitude, which makes you bristle slightly. “And who do you have with you today, Y/N?”

Well, she hasn’t assumed that Wanda is your mother, but she’s certainly treating you like a kid, and not in a way that makes you feel cared for. No, this feels disrespectful and cheesy. Especially because she’s already given up on you, looking expectantly at Wanda as if you’re unable to answer.

“Wanda’s a friend,” you pipe up, spurred on by annoyance at her treatment of you. You quickly glance at Wanda, to make sure she’s okay with you using the same terminology. She smiles at you, and nods, confirming your words.

“Oh, don’t you have the sweetest accent!” Amanda gushes. You chew on the inside of your cheek, irritated and unwilling to yield any information about yourself. Your folded arms become a little more stiff, sending another shockwave of pain in both directions from your broken collarbone. “Now, this is going to be a bit sore, but you hold on to Wanda’s hand and you squeeze tight when it hurts, okay Y/N?”

You barely resist rolling your eyes. Wanda gives your hand a gentle stroke with her thumb. You look up at her, wondering if she’s on the same condescending wavelength as Amanda, but when she meets your eyes she rolls hers a little, and you have to stifle a laugh. 

Amanda thankfully goes quiet after that, focussing on sorting the sling. It does hurt, a lot — but you’re too stubborn to let it show too much, wanting to be stoic and grown up, more out of spite to Amanda than any intrinsic part of your ego. Once she’s finished, she explains about caring for the sling, how to bathe, when to change it, how someone will come soon with your medication and discharge notes… etc. Given your concussion, you could be excused for zoning out or not fully absorbing all this information. But since Amanda seems to be addressing it all to Wanda and not you, you exhaust all your energy on studying her words and nodding to show your comprehension. When she leaves, with a rather annoyingly chipper “good luck!”, you breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Well, she was…” Wanda begins.

“A right cow,” you mutter glumly. Wanda laughs, but reins it back in when she sees you wince. Now that Amanda is gone, you feel suddenly fragile. Like the spiky walls you put up for her have crumbled down, revealing the pain again. 

“It looked really sore, getting the sling on,” Wanda comments, and you nod. “You’re pretty stubborn, huh?”

You look at her, a reluctant grin cracking through your grimace at her shrewd recognition. “Hmm, maybe a little,” you admit.

Another wave of searing pain rushes through you, and you begin to feel a tear breaking through the barricades you are trying desperately to uphold. Embarrassed, you blink it away and apologise hastily.

“Sorry,” you whisper, grimacing slightly with the effort of holding it all in.

She perches on the side of the bed beside you, puts an arm around your back (careful to avoid your damaged shoulder) and ducks her head to meet your bleary eyes.

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head in a gently chastising manner. Your breath catches slightly at the term of endearment, but you hope she either doesn’t notice, or puts it down to the pain. “It’s okay to cry. Let it out.” And she tenderly strokes your side, where her fingers are lightly wrapped around your waist. 

To your shame, you lean in to this stranger and sob on her shoulder. It’s so wrong, so humiliating… but now that it has started, you can’t seem to close the gates of your defences again. Maybe it’s the pain, or the concussion — or just you, responding to her soft permission. Whatever it is, you’re in too deep now. Surrendered to the compassion and the comforting touch. Somehow hoping it will persist even though it is accompanied by, and only providing for, the pain.

It’s a good few minutes before the sobbing subsides and you begin to slowly sit up again. You can feel the heat in your face, branding you with your embarrassment — though perhaps this is the only appropriate way to be feeling after such a display, you think.

“Your shirt…” you begin awkwardly, glancing at the damp patch on her sleeve where the tears — and, oh god, maybe also your snot — have left their mark. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” 

“There is nothing to apologise for,” she says simply, cutting you off with her soft tone and a rather serious look. She uses her free arm to press her purse against her stomach, unlatch it and rummage about for something. She pulls out a packet of tissues, and hands it to you. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, moving your arms to open it and wincing when your shoulder protests. 

“Here.” She takes the packet from you, pulls out a tissue and passes it to your unaffected hand.

You smile a thanks, and begin dabbing at your (surely puffy) eyes before attempting to blow your nose without making an obnoxious noise. 

The door opens, and another doctor walks in, a woman in a white coat, holding her own clipboard and a pill bottle. She’s a lot more to the point, clinical and respectful, which you appreciate after the ordeal with Amanda. She hands you the pills, and explains how often you can take them, as well as potential side effects. Then she’s passing you the clipboard, and asking you to sign the discharge form with the pen clipped to the side. 

You read the whole form, knowing the concussion is making you slow, but wanting to do the proper thing rather than appearing flippant or immature in front of Wanda and this new doctor.

And then you’re told you’re free to go, and the doctor is gone. 

It’s all a bit sudden, the swift change from treatment to freedom. You blink a little, still catching up. 

“I can take your bag,” Wanda says, turning around and picking up your backpack, but holding it up first to give you time to see — and maybe to protest. “Just because you’ve got the sling, it might be hard to carry at the moment,” she explains, as if worried you might react badly to the suggestion you can’t manage. But — and you realise this is a bit weird as you think it — you don’t seem to mind Wanda doing stuff for you, or calling you sweet names, or treating you softly. In fact, you kind of like it. 

“Thanks,” you say, shaking yourself out of your daydream. You slowly swing your legs over the side of the bed and slide off, briefly airborne before your feet meet the floor. Standing up, you feel wobbly. But as soon as you think it, Wanda has gentle hold of your elbow on your good side, steadying you.

“It’s just the concussion,” she reassures you. “You might be a bit wobbly for a couple of days. Do you want me to hold you, or do you want to try on your own?”

You nibble your lower lip, considering. It would be embarrassing to fall over as you leave the hospital. But also? The idea of Wanda holding you is kind of nice. 

“Maybe…” you link you arm through hers, then look up at her for permission. She smiles, and squeezes your arm to let you know it’s okay.

“C’mon, let’s get you to the car. You’ve already met, but I hope it leaves a better impression this time.”

It does take a while, but when you finally get her joke, you giggle. Your head leaning into her shoulder as you walk out the hospital, linked arm in arm together.

Thanks for reading!

If you would like to read the full fic (so far), you can find it here.

[mmmilkweed]

There's no winning with these people. I'm sorry you're going through this. You're getting dogpiled and don't have the brain capacity to write a full apology yourself, so you get a friend to help so you can address it quicker. People take this as insincerity. But if you'd taken enough time to gather yourself you'd be accused of trying to brush it off.

This is what I mean when I say they will never be satisfied. First it's a nothing burger white lily comic. Then it's the discord. You take steps to fix it. But people don't think you've groveled enough or in the right way, so now it's a nothing burger au about having an unrequited crush on your teacher. You apologize. You didn't grovel hard enough. Now they accuse your first two apologies of being fake. You write one yourself. You didn't grovel hard enough.

Humans are social, and rejection hits harder than acceptance. We're not really meant to be able to process this level of interaction. And getting brigaded by what feels like the entire fandom (it isn't. I know it feels like it is, but these are VERY online people) is gonna send your animal brain into panic mode. This will pass. Both the accusations and the feeling.

You'll get through this.

the first one WAS written by me, and then made to look 'professional' by my friends. The second, I kept stressing how I'm afraid of my words coming apart, like they have many times before, I'm sorry im using your kind message to talk about this, but i think i'll break again if i don't tell at least someone.

i was scared and i felt alone

i just woke up

is it so wrong that i took the help form a native english speaker?

I saw it only as a template, a structure to keep my wandering words at bay.

had i not taken the template and made it my own? I can't explain enough how i could not trust myself to find the words i needed, or the thoughts to express myself. The agony from a day before bleeding directly into the morning. Funny thing about that - today i woke up weeping, dreaming my apology hurt even more people. I'm already dreading going to bed tonight, knowing i'll wake up in the same state tomorrow. And here, have the notes of the first apology. The thoughts, the feelings are ALL MINE! I simply no longer trust myself to type them. Paranoia has me in its clutches, I'm looking over every word i type, even now, trying to see if there's a second meaning behind it.

Oh Anon, I'm sorry I'm using you as an excuse to vent about this, I really am.

I thought a lot, and i mean a lot about your message. I've cried several times about it now. ''and rejection hits harder than acceptance.''

Even though my discord was flooded with kindness, with messages that truly did help a little.. I still feel so utterly alone. I can't even look at my wife without feeling guilty. I can't look at my contemporaries without feeling like a wolf in sheeps clothing, even when so many of them told me they see i had no ill intentions. I went to church today - I could not stand before God, I stayed in my pew holding back tears. I begged for his forgiveness too, even when I know he knows my intentions were never to hurt anyone, even when I know he stood beside me through all of this. I feel like one of his lambs, left behind by the herd. No, not left behind. I am willingly staying behind because I'm afraid of hurting people again. There's only a small resemblance of peace within me, knowing He'll stay behind with me. I'm sorry, I know listening to religious people can be a trigger to some

i hope you can forgive the rant. I thought I could do well isolated, but i still find myself panicked and.. alone.

[natalievoncatte]

There was a knock at Lena’s door, and it startled her awake. She was awake, but also wasn’t, sitting in a side chair beside her sofa with a glass of whisky still in her hand, loosely held by tired, nerveless fingers. It nearly fell from her palm when the sound jolted her from the twilight between fitful wakefulness and falling asleep sitting up. By her side was that goddamn picture, the glass still cracked. She grabbed it and forced it down so she didn’t have to see her grinning face, feel the ghost of a warm soft cheek lightly grazing hers.

The whisky made a fiery stab at her heart as she finished it and went to the door. She already knew who it was, the only person who’d dare disturb her at this hour, and who could get past her security.

Kara stood in the hall, clad in fluffy pajamas and disbelieved, tracks left by hot tears still cut into her soft rosy cheeks. There she was, the pretty little crying princess again.

It was an act. It was bullshit. The real her was hiding behind it, standing tall, appraising Lena’s faults with eyes that could burn mountains, the cold judgment of an extinct empire carved into her godlike, inhuman beauty. Lena made herself see that, refused to let her guard down.

“What, Kara?”

“Can I come in?”

Lena didn’t even answer. She began to close the door, only for her movement to be arrested by a single word.

“Please.”

Part of her made her stop. She seethed against it, hated it. She had carved icy knives of vengeance to carve it out herself. Alcohol had failed to drown it and the sharpest logic was dull against it. It was both too hard to crush and too soft to squeeze, this hateful thing that coiled around her heart and made her feel when she had sworn never to feel again.

Kara took a halting step forward. Lena threw out her palm and pressed it into her chests, stopping her.

She shouldn’t have done that. There was something heady and intoxicating in it. Kara froze in place, and Lena could feel her pulse along her collarbones. The pinnacle of alien might, strength so vast that nothing could stand as her equal, and she stopped from Lena’s lightest touch. That was power.

“What do you want?”

“Just to talk.”

“I’ve heard your apologies. Don’t waste my time unless you have some new material.”

Kara licked her lips. “Maybe.”

They couldn’t stay like this. Resting a hand on her chest had too many possibilities. Touching her had too many implications. It would be so easy to let the soft thing win and bring her hand up and hold her palm to that soft cheek and seek to balm those tears, make it better, care.

She let herself remember that Kara’s pain was a shoeld for Supergirl’s judging wrath and pulled back, but she didn’t close the door. Kara did as she slipped inside.

Thee was a heavy pause of silence, where Kara just breathed, soft and ragged.

“Why are you here?” said Lena.

“I needed to see you. I needed to know you’re safe.”

“Nightmares?”

“Worse,” said Kara. “It was so much worse.”

The agony in her voice shook Lena.

Forcing herself to composure, she poured another three fingers of single malt and flipped into her chair, extending neither drink nor invitation to Kara. The drink was a bad idea. It was dangerous. The smokey, hazy heat of it burned the soft bitter taste of regret from her teeth. Lena didn’t look at her.

“It was the imp.”

“Excuse me?”

“It calls itself Mxy. It says it’s from the fifth dimension but I have no idea if that’s true or not. All I know is that it has vast powers, even godlike. The last time it… it tried to force me to marry it.”

Lena knew what darkness in her birthed the hot rage in her gut, the possessive jealous fury that welled within her at those worse. This thing, how dare he.

She took a drink.

“It… he came to me tonight and said he wanted to make amends. He offered to let me change the past. I could fix whatever I wanted.”

“Hmm. Must have been a trick,” said Lena. “Let me guess, restoring Krypton had some ironic Twilight Zone twist.”

Kara blanched, blinking. “No, I… I didn’t even think of that. I asked him to help me fix us.”

There is no us, Lena began to say, but the words died on her tongue. She washed the taste away.

Something in her twisted, a cold shiver like a water dumped over her head. She knew Kara’s bullshit super senses would pick up on it and steeled herself.

Rubbing her arms, Kara paced.

“I tried telling you at different times, so you’d hear it from me and not Lex or someone else.”

“What happened?” Lena said, trying to look more interested in her whisky than the answer.

It was purely an intellectual curiosity, she told herself.

“You died,” Kara said, blunt. “You died every time.”

“How?”

Every which way. Reign killed you five or six times. Mercy blew your brains out all over my chest. Lex… Lex could be creative. Poison, blades, fire once. He was fond of sadistic choices and clever tortures. Say, use red wavelengths to negate my powers and set up a sadistic challenge I could never pass, that sort of thing. It got so bad I stupidly wished I’d never met you.”

Her voice was ragged, breathing uneven. Fresh tears glittered on her cheeks and Lena felt herself lunge, start to stand. Kara’s pain called out to something in her, something beyond the physical or even the emotional. It was like something in Lena’s soul yearned to stop that terrible pain.

“The worst was when you drowned. Almost.”

Lena looked away, swirled her drink.

“Sounds like you kept trying.”

“I did. The timeline where we never met was one of the worst. I wasn’t there when your chopper crashed. Your mother… you tried to kill me and I couldn’t even fight back.”

“Is this where we segue into the ‘I would never hurt you’ lecture?”

“No. I did hurt you. I deserve your hate. If someone else did to you what I did, I’d snap their neck.”

Lena flinched. There was something cold in that admission, something brutal and beyond even Supergirl. Raw.

None of her rules matter for me.

A tiny voice in that darkness whispered to her: And if some poor bastard locked her in a Kryptonite cage the way you did, they’d be begging you for death. They’d know you’re a Luthor.

Lena shuddered.

“What do you do?”

“I kept trying. I thought… I felt… I had to keep trying.”

“Well, you gave up and came here eventually. You…”

Kara swallowed hard. “It thought it worked, finally. I picked the night I reached you from Corben. Remember that?”

“I remember,” Lena said, hesitant.

Kara Danvers believes in you.

“I told you when you asked me why I saved you. I took you home, made sure you were safe. Life went on. These… these timelines or whatever they were, Lena, they were real. I lived them. That one was, it was…”

“What?”

“A few days later after things calmed down we went to lunch. We were just chatting about something unimportant and you looked at me and our eyes met and it was like…”

Kara looked away from her, wrapping her arms around herself the way she did, not a smug Supergirl pose but a woman shielding her heart from the world that clawed at it.

“When I first arrived on Earth there was a night where my powers had just kicked in and I looked at the sky. I could see more than stars. There was an aurora that was invisible to humans. I could see invisible lines of energy crackling between the stars, the cosmic background radiation shimmering on the dark. Can you imagine that? I can see the remnants of the Big Bang when I stargaze.”

Lena’s had trembled, the dregs of her booze shaking in the bottom of the glass.

“It was like that,” said Kara. “I knew I’d never be the same. I was staring at you like a big goof and you just stopped talking and stared back. I blurted out ‘is this a date?’”

Lena clutched the glass so she wouldn’t drop it and forced the tears back with all her might, but she was weak. Always weak.

“I take it I said yes,” she managed to say, voice quivering.

“We got married three years later. Lori was born a year after that.”

“Kara,” Lena began.

“Then it happened.”

“Kara, shut up.”

“Kalibak killed you. My sister. My little girl. My everything.”

Lena hurled the glass and Kara snatched it from the air in a superhuman blur. Lena was already on her feet, stabbing an accusing finger.

“So what?” Lena demanded. “We’re star-crossed lovers, now? Is this your ploy to fix it? Make me realize how in love we are? It’s a sick joke, Kara.”

“I know I can’t fix it,” said Kara. “I don’t want to.”

Lena blinked, her rage momentarily cooled. “What?”

“I would rather live in a world where you hate me as long as you’re still in it.”

“Kara,” Lena said.

“We are star-crossed. I don’t know want I did to deserve this but I can’t fix it. There was never a right time to tell you. It was doomed from the start. I’m here to tell you to let me go, Lena.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I know about Non Nocere. I know what you’re trying to do. I’m here to ask you to stop. Please. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin you life over me.”

“Why couldn’t you just save me and leave?” Lena demanded. “That’s what everyone else gets. A quick rescue and a wave and a wink and you’re gone. Why did you have to drag yourself through my life and wreck everything?”

“I tried that.”

Lena screamed, bellowed at the top of her lungs.

“So what? So fucking what, Kara?”

Kara just stood there.

“I don’t know. I just… I just had to see… all I want is for you to be safe.”

Lena turned away from her.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” Kara choked out, behind her. “I did go back to Krypton one time. I told him I wanted to stay and die with my world, that it was the only way.”

“Let me guess, you did that and…”

“Car accident.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lena cried. “You have to be kidding me.”

“He made me watch. Not just you, everyone else that died because there was no Supergirl. I… I think I’m in Hell.”

Lena blinked. She turned slowly. A memory came flooding back to her from another time, a closed casket in a small Irish church with Lionel Luthor lurking, waiting for her with an entourage. She’d asked the priest in her precious child voice, am I in Hell, Father?

A sob forced itself out of her. She let herself look at Kara, standing there bedraggled and teary eyed in rumpled Hello Kitty pajamas and felt sick, like she’d swallowed a belly full of rancid oil. All she could see was the hurting, and she wondered if that was it, if this pain was the source of the unbreakable quantum entanglement that had dragged this alien being across a gulf of stars to fuck up her life.

Or save it.

“Kara,” Lena whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged you into my life.”

“I’m not,” Kara whispered. “It was a gift, every minute of it. I wouldn’t trade a single moment for anything. Even the ones that didn’t happen.”

“What the hell do we do?” said Lena.

“I leave. I keep saving you. You find someone else, live your life, be happy. I do everything I can to keep you in this world and watch you grow old. That’s it. I should go.”

Kara turned and Lena screamed, balling her fists.

“Don’t you fucking dare leave this penthouse, Kara Danvers.”

Kara froze.

“I went back.”

“Went back to what?” said Kara.

“I went back to let you out of the Kryptonite cage. I couldn’t stop thinking of you lying on that cold floor in pain so I had to go back, but you weren’t there. I… I… I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to stop this but I just keep going and I don’t know what to fucking do anymore. I’m so lost.”

Kara’s shoulders slumped.

“I would take it back if I could.”

Kara turned back to her.

“You don’t have to.”

Lena backed away, unable to look at her. Kara crossed the gap in seconds and tenderly rested her hands on Lena’s arms.

“I’m sorry. I mean it. I am truly sorry from the depths of my soul. I would fix this if I could.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” said Lena. “It makes my soul hurt, and I don’t believe in souls.”

Lena pulled her in, clinging to her as if she might disappear. Kara was tentative, testing with every movement.

God, they had a daughter. A child! Lena could imagine, almost see… what had she done?

“It’s going to be okay,” Kara said. “I think this is what I was supposed to learn.”

“What?”

“To own my mistakes, and if I don’t want you to be a villain, I shouldn’t treat you like one.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I should go home and let you rest. This is a lot, I know, and it’s late. I…”

Kara trailed off, and Lena looked up at her. Their eyes met, and Lena… knew.

“Will you come back?” said Lena.

“Always.”

[anantaru]

⊹ ‧₊˚ ᰔ ACE OF SPADES — PART TWO

part one. | rich boy aven masterlist.

synopsis. ⊹ ‧₊˚ ᰔ so far, your date with rich boy aventurine goes really well, and after going outside to take a fresh breath of air, you two cannot keep your hands off each other anymore. // ꒰ᐢ⸝⸝⸝⸝ᐢ꒱ wc. 1.8k ♡

cw. semi public (you're outside), heavy make out session, tit play & tit sucking, reader wears a dress <3 rich boy au, fem! reader ♡

a razor-edged cold hovers on your face and crawls underneath your dress, taking over your skin as dew does to drooping leaves.

you snug yourself into the jacket rich boy aventurine has draped around your shoulders as your nostrils pick up his signatory cologne— a balmy orchestra of lavish flowers greet you, well balanced with a manly musk that made your heart leap.

aventurine was irresistible— truly, he held an alluring, captivating aura that went way beyond his exterior.

in simple terms, beauty clung to his face and belonged to him, to his cheekbones and jaw, or inside the attractive glow smoldering in his eyes.

the frigid wind beats upon your cold flesh as aventurine grabs on to the collar of his coat to drape it around your tighter, the fleeting trace of his skin brushing along your own was tempting out a mellowness from deep within your bones, not ceasing until it conquered your entire form.

he smiles at you, eyes vivid and wide, "you okay?" and slowly, step by step, aventurine feels down from your shoulders to your arms before taking your icy hands into his warm palms.

a rich hunger captivated him, the strong need to explore more of you was devouring every fragment of life and energy that kept the lust inside of him restrained.

alas he continues, gingerly pulling your hands towards his mouth, "here, let me help," before watching you through his thick lashes.

he smirks, taking a long, deep breath and closing his eyes before exhaling through his lips softly, a warm smoke of air ascending along your knuckles.

it felt gentle on your freezing fingers as he ends it with a keen rub of his thumbs stroking over your cold knuckles.

a warm prickle manifests itself on your cheeks as he repeats it, and while he does it, you had the chance to admire his beauty all the more.

by the fourth time of a comforting breeze tickling your hands, your eyes stung at the focus on his face as he suddenly pulls you closer to his chest.

aventurine knew how to make you melt inside a chilly climate— and alas, he glares at you contently, his stomach twisting in agony as he couldn't help but wonder how your lips would taste like.

the idea of going in for a kiss was fixed into his mind and refused to leave— aventurine believes the date had been going well so far? to take it a step further would be okay, wouldn't it?

you didn't have to be a genius to figure out his musing— his red cheeks and dilated pupils told it all.

did you happen to make aventurine flustered? oh, such wasn't an easy deed to accomplish.

ah well, should he? should he not? that was the question.

not to mention that he was a lucky man, and if the gambler were to take this intriguing gamble, what were the odds of actually losing it in the end?

"did you make up your mind?" you murmur softly, your breath clinging on his lips as you narrow your brows, watching how the wheels in his mind were working restlessly.

"hah, you got me figured out, haven't you?"

"—but you see," aventurine whispers as he continues his sentence, placing his palms from your hands to your cheeks, "before taking a gamble, one has to calculate possible wins," a palm strokes over your jaw as he heaves out a low exhale.

"—and possible losses,"

his thumb taps at your bottom lip, focusing intently on their shape and quizzing your every reaction.

without hesitation he leans in, softening your tense muscles and limbs before pressing his lips on you. aventurine was certain it had an effect on you, but wow, how sexy it was that you made it so easy for him to kiss you— how you didn't fear calling him out.

you hold your breath as his tongue slides inside, the both of you moaning longingly against each other. his lips curl in satisfaction as saliva frames the corners of your lips.

the ache of wanting him to touch every sweet square of you sat heavy in your stomach as your tongue danced around his, lips clashing and hands melting into your bodies.

aventurine was an awfully good kisser— not to mention that he was very much aware of that. the coarse laps of his tongue tracing against yours were almost too perfect, too delicious that you felt your own face burning.

only the best for you, aventurine thinks, in fact, this date has been planned out just for you, under the guise of being a simple evening at the casino to get to know each other— when in reality, he made sure everything was as needed.

starting from your most liked music, to the colors you favored the most which were all represented in various decorations all over the casino— finished with handpicked beverages all on display.

holding a secret of precise planning and dedication.

unquestionably had he worked his mind to bits and pieces in order to have the most perfect first date imaginable.

for what felt like hours passing and at the same time, no time going by, his kisses were rough and searing as his palms began to explore your body, making it the most comfortable for you to rest your own against his chest.

his tongue was craving you, keen to taste your hypnotic lips or the specific flavor of your lipgloss.

he couldn't decide on it— was it strawberry or cherry flavored? in fact, it held an artificial taste, although after trapping your bottom lip between his mouth to nibble on the skin, he can finally taste it.

yes, aventurine was sure of it now, it was strawberry and he fucking loved it.

it feels so good when he touches you, and your entire body was hot and searing with a vigorous urgency manifesting in your precious whines.

embraced by his tenderness, aventurine pulls you closer to him.

he slides one palm up to your chest, testing the waters and seeing how far you'd be comfortable for him to go.

the gambler thought he was being patient, in fact, he still considers himself such— he wouldn't want to actually take this further and fuck you on the first date, which was okay, because no matter how good your chemistry has been this night, he still considered himself a gentleman.

aventurine slowly pulls himself from your mouth, the gloss on his lips making his features light up as he kisses along your cheek, then proceeds to lick over your jaw all the while his hands were toying with the straps of your dress.

"is this okay?" he mumbles out, tenderly nipping at your neck before trapping a bit of the flesh between his teeth, the sharp trail grazing above your boiling veins and making you squirm.

you cough slightly and nod, your eyes lidded as you watch him through an expectant look on your face, "yeah, please keep going,"

for balance, you slide your hand into his tousled hair before scratching over his scalp softly.

you cannot shake the excitement from yourself but the sheer imagination of him touching you underneath your pretty dress made something in your brain click and fold, click and fold.

and among your fight against your knees fearing to give up on you, aventurine skillfully slips two fingers into the strap of your dress before sliding it down just a bit— not too much, well yes, you were still outside but concealed behind a secure spot, yet he only needed your breasts to pop out just enough, so he could take them in his mouth.

aventurine doesn't know if the sight of your erected nipples sticking through the thin fabric of your dress was more maddening or actually seeing them bare and naked for the first time.

you will truly be the death of him.

fuck, you're so beautiful, your skin looks so soft and kissable and perfect that he cannot wait to devour you whole.

his jaw clenches as he gulps out, attentively moving his lips towards one breast while settling his palm on the other to roughly squeeze the mound.

you keep your balance by lightly tugging at his blonde hair and holding at his shoulders as your back arches into him, your eyebrows pulled together.

your pussy flutters around nothing as pleasure shoots through your veins the moment he takes your tit inside his mouth.

aventurine laps a heavy lick across it and moans into your spongy flesh before observing you through under his lashes, "you're sensitive here," he drawls and clicks his tongue, slightly pulling away to fling the tip of his muscle up and down, kitty licking your nipple.

you whine at his words as your noises break into a thousand pieces,  lolling your head back as your blood raced in anticipation, relentlessly rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction, really.

aventurine loves to hear you, so he knows he was doing a good job in pleasuring you well.

perhaps one day, you could tell him how fucking nicely his tongue felt covering your tits while he messily slurps on your breasts with saliva dewed on his chin— or if your poor, little cunt was waiting to be filled too?

he can tell you're trying to keep your voice down due to the fact that you were outside— although your whispers told another story, the gasp of a shaky and desperate fuck, f-fuck told him everything he needed to know.

in comparison, aventurine couldn't care less if people were hearing you both, "you scared someone will see us?"

he grins, his tongue lapping up the saliva on his lips, "watch how i'm doing this," as he moves to your other tit, squeezing the flesh together to properly take it in his mouth and suck.

he repeats it; squeezing, licking across your nipple, sucking and drawing out everything he could until your mounds were so sore and sensitive, pulsing and throbbing at the loss of him.

aventurine hums before popping your tit from his mouth, placing his pointer finger over the stinging nipple and stroking it, "can only imagine how much they wish to be in my spot right now," he winks cheekily at you, his dick throbbing at your embarrassed face that was more hot and delirious than actually embarrassed.

in a tangle of making you endure the heaviness of his palms and lips all over you, your eyes slide shut as he rolls the pads of his fingers right there, oh fuck, there.

"be quiet for me, okay?" the overstimulation on your chest was too much, almost painful as you whine, nodding and puffing out a little okay before you feel the rumble of aventurine's groan press into your skin, "good girl, that's all i need you to do."

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[namelessgakusei]

Extra EP. 1.3 Conflagration

Devil May Cry x Reader Insert

Warnings: It's DMC. Based on the New Netflix Series. Spoiler warnings for the actual show. Not proofread.

EP. 1.2 COMBUSTION (prev.)

EP. 2.1 Lead us not into temptation (cont.)

Synopsis: Unbeknownst to you and Dante, there are people plotting to bring the two of you down.

Deep within the Whitehouse gathered various people of authority, united for the same agenda of addressing the strange Vatican City Bombing. Dr. Fisher explains that a network of terrorist demons might be behind the attack, a claim immediately questioned by the general of the military, saying that America shouldn't entertain such ridiculous notions. Suddenly, a voice cuts in, defending the doctor's claim.

Vice President Baines turned to the general to his left, the glare accumulated from years of tactical management visible in his face. "I assure you, he is serious."

Dr. Fisher continued his presentation, saying that demons are related but separate from humans when it came to the evolutionary branch, having tested the DNA left on the scene. He explains that they exist and are natives from another universe, a parallel plane to Earth. While the talk about their place of origins continued to escalate, Vice President Baines furrowed his brows, deep in thought.

Mythology exists to explain Reality, said the doctor.

Apparently, there exists an interdimensional rift that acts as a bridge between the two universes, although it has been blocked for millennia by a field of quantum interference. There had been natural disruptions that makes way for demons to pass through, but are unstable enough to only let lesser ones in, enabling them to blend in the crowd. The president sputters and struggles to keep up, asking what this all means.

"Which means the big demons are stuck on the other side." Dr. Fisher nods. When asked about his employer, the presentation changed to reveal the organization. "Dark Realm Command." The bright red color contrasted the black screen as the insignia reveals the rest of the name. "DARKCOM, as our PR department insists we call it."

"DARKCOM is an independent dimensional security firm, funded by private investments, such as my own." Baines' voice made everyone shift to his direction, understanding well on who has the real power within the room. The lull in the room was broken by a hurried employee who insists on making everyone see the contents of the tape he delivered.

The screen plays the last moments of the group of criminals who raided the Vatican City Museum, revealing the culprit behind the attack, the White Rabbit. He spoke of a name, Sparda, as he marvels at the sword. This ignites the curiosity of the doctor, having heard the name before. But what soon followed in the feed was the brutal deaths of the men and the Rabbit's taunting words. "The gates of Hell will open soon enough."

"To any sapiens wishing to join the celebration," It's clear that the Rabbit planned for this video to be found, as it's like he's speaking directly to the leaders of America. "If you want to catch a rabbit, find the hunter."

"Hope to see you all there♡"

The thief screamed in agony as the Rabbit continuously stabbed him, laughing manically as the man dies.

The president staggered to get up on his feet, still shaken from what he saw, saying that this is all too much to deal with. Baines assured him that this is all real. Hell is real. And this is the start of the Holy War that Humanity should win.

"I believe the demon is toying with us." Dr. Fisher's expression hardened, nodding to the executives in front of him. "Giving us a clue to its next move. We need to figure out who this hunter is, which can only mean..."

"A Demon Hunter."

Baines' posture straightened up as he barks a command, voice low like a storm about to hit. "Find every demon hunter you can. And bring them to me."

Paranormal offices were raided, hunters were captured, beaten up if they resist, as they were all brought together in interrogation rooms. Frauds were weeded out from actual hunters, but it didn't saved them from getting hurt here and there. No matter how much they fight, they were always asked the same thing.

Do you know the White Rabbit?

Finally someone spoke up. A man, tanned with dyed blond hair, asked for a cigarette in exchange for his information. He said he knows a guy, a broker for demon hunters and mercenaries, a hustler who feeds off the bottom of the bottom feeders. "Last time I saw him, he told me how he'd set up this job for a talking bunny."

"I didn't give him much thought, coming from a serial liar and a drunk." The chained up demon hunter smirked at the other side of the one way glass.

"But maybe he wasn't lying." And perhaps he wasn't, and if it adds up, it means the White Rabbit was operating in New York. "Give me a name." Baines glared back, although he knew that the man can't see him from the other side of the glass.

The club was crashed in by a SWAT unit, their black uniforms completely out of place under the colorful lighting, demanding the whereabouts of Enzo Ferino. People screamed in surprise but didn't budged, either too high or drunk to care, but their target wasn't. Enzo jumped over a table and bolted upon seeing the cops, passing through the dancing crowd, who weren't too pleased by his hurried movements.

He thought he was safe when the fire exit was on his sight, cackling at his escape from imprisonment once again, only to get a door slammed to his face. The staff member gaped as Enzo was apprehended.

Enzo woke up with a start, handcuffs on his wrists and an electric shock clip about to get connected to his skin. "Before we start, you should know that I'll tell you anything you ask me about any subject!" He sputtered, narrowly avoiding getting electrocuted. That seemed to work, as the clip was withdrawn, but it didn't stopped the information broker to try and get the situation "under his control". "Now, let's talk compensation—"

The clip was nearly shoved to his face.

"Alright, I'll do it for free! You guys should really learn how to negotiate properly."

"Tell us about the White Rabbit." Baines' voice boomed from the speaker. Enzo chuckled and started recalling the events of their meeting. "He showed up at my office with a job that needed expediting."

"And that didn't seem strange to you?" Baines looked like he was about to murder someone as he leans closer to the mic. "A six-foot talking rabbit." But it only made Enzo scoff, saying that in his line of work, it's only a slow Tuesday. "Some demons making noise over on the west side that he wanted clipped. Calling too much attention to themselves and whatnot."

"Why? What did it mattered to him?"

"Y'know, I saw the price he was offering and I must've forgot to ask." Enzo shrugged and grinned. "One thing about it that struck me as funny is that, he has a particular demon hunter he wanted me to hire." He grimaced, shivering at the memory. "Wouldn't take anyone else."

"Who?"

"Kid named Dante."

Enzo frowned after that, saying that he's a sweet kid. "Bit of a troubled past, though. You know how it is, Dad not around. Mom and twin brother brutally murdered by demons. Y'know, that sort of thing." Before grinning again with a, somehow, proud expression. "Got attached to my kid though! They're practically hip to hip! Can't separate them for too long, else they get antsy."

The last part was promptly ignored in favor of digging up information on Dante. Dr. Fisher successfully pulled out his file and began snooping for details they could use. "Dante. Last name unknown." His mugshot was unserious, picking his nose and not standing straight. "Looks like he also works as a standard hired gun. Oh! And if half of what I'm reading here is true, his capabilities are extraordinary."

"What else do we have on him?" Baines frowned while the doctor marveled at what he saw. "Anything that explains the Rabbit's interest?"

"Hmm. It is said here that he always works with another demon hunter regardless of any mission. And he's recorded going AWOL from five separate jobs."

"Why?"

"It just says... Ugh." Dr. Fisher looks disappointed. "Got bored?"

Baines frowned, and asked about the other demon hunter, making the doctor pull out another file. Dr. Fisher's eyes widened at your document, there you stood properly for a mugshot photo, only glaring too much at the camera.

[Demon Hunter PII]

Name: (Y/N)

DoB: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Address: 862 Divine Street, Brooklyn, NY, 11206

Sex: [redacted]

Nationality: Unknown

H: [redacted]

W: [redacted]

EC: [redacted]

HC: [redacted]

Skin: [redacted]

Prof: Hunting High Ranking Demons

[Document Title]

Demon Hunting Evaluation Report

[Subject]

Name: (Y/N)

Occupation: Mercenary, Demon Hunter, Information Broker

Affiliated Group: None

[Overview]

This report serves to outline the evaluation of (Y/N), a demon-hunting mercenary and information broker, in both their job performance and comprehensive performance.

[Contents]

- Successfully completed every mission using a variety of self-made guns inside their briefcase.

- Capable of dealing with multiple enemies alone with their physical ability and agility.

- Always accompanied with the Demon Hunter, Dante and vice versa.

- Often acts as a mediator between Dante and their team mates, keeping him in line and solving conflicts before it arises.

- Their great combat skills and quick thinking are well-acknowledged, but their mutual reliance to Dante showcases their codependency.

[Combat Experience & Skills]

- 10+ years of being an information broker

- 5+ years of demon-hunting experience

- Has an excellent reputation in the black market and the demon hunter community.

- Experienced in battles with various types of demons; specializes in tracking and documenting demons.

- Highly skilled in marksmanship and weaponsmithing.

- Outstanding crisis management ability in dangerous situations and great tactical knowledge

- Skillful with military weapons and firearms, creates makeshift weapons within record time.

- Specializes in close-combat.

[Personality]

- Level-headed and cautious

- Confident in their ability and power

- Constantly seen bickering with Dante, even in dangerous situations, but compliments each other in combat.

- Can be flexible and work together as a team to complete missions, but usually works with Dante.

- Sharp and observant.

[Remarks]

Unauthorized access to classified missions.

Reason: DANTE GOT BORED AND I WAS CURIOUS. Y'KNOW, OLD HABITS DIE HARD.

*Assumed to be referring to their occupation as a broker, further investigation is due to find out if there will be a leak.

[Evaluation Report]

Mercenary (Y/N) demonstrates distinguished demon-hunting abilities. However, they need to be able to operate independently.

Further caution needs to be exercised when interacting with them due to their tendency to dig into your background.

"This is quite the combination." The doctor beamed. "This must be the kid that Mr. Ferino talked about. If they are really attached to each other..."

"We could use them to lure Dante out." Baines narrowed his eyes towards your picture.

"I heard a rumor once about demons who were too powerful to cross over, so they learned how to project their consciousness into our world and possess stuff, poltergeist-style." Enzo's warden was the unfortunate victim of his ranting. "You ask me, that's what this White Rabbit is. A possessed kid's toy." The broker grins towards the speaker, which replies to him with—

"I didn't asked."

"Look, look, look, that's all I know. If you're after his location, I can't help you. I only saw him once." Enzo shrugged and groaned, but Baines assured him that they already know where to look, as a man with a rabbit head can only avoid surveillance for so long. This made the broker scoff, saying that there won't be any survivors even if they send a team. But Baines replied with a cold voice.

"There was only one."

Before he sighed over the mic, asking of what he knows about the Sword of Sparda. Enzo tried retelling the tale that everyone knows, about the demon that rebelled against his own kind and sided with humanity, but the vice president cut him off, demanding him to give new information. This made the broker raise a brow but nonetheless complied, having no choice, as he reveals the existence of an amulet. The doctor immediately went to work and realized that it was the missing piece of the puzzle, that it was the transmitter that enabled the separation of the two worlds and while the demon technology is medieval, their understanding of the quantum principles is far more advanced than Humanity in its current era.

But Enzo said that the amulet was split into two, so there will be no way for the realms to be open to each other without limit; so long as the amulet remains broken, so will Armageddon remain as just a myth. It didn't stopped the doctor from listing out the worse possible scenarios, however, before being silenced by Baines, saying that they won't let it happen as it is the DARKCOM's purpose.

Their divine charge.

To be the last line of defense against the Inferno.

The Vice President mulled over the fact that the Rabbit already have the first half of the amulet, only for the door to swing open, with a jittery soldier coming out of it. It's the survivor, the doctor says, Anders from the J-Squad. The soldier insists on having sensitive information that he just had to say it directly to Baines, concerning the Rabbit and the end of the world.

"I heard the Rabbit say something after he'd done this. He was pissed off, furious, sir. He knows where the other half of the amulet is, and he tried to get it back already. But his plan failed."

"He's gonna try again. Soon."

Baines narrowed his eyes at Anders, inquiring more of the plan that the Rabbit said. But the soldier shook his head, saying that he doesn't know that much, only something about hiring someone for a set-up job. "Whoever it was, that's who has the other piece, sir."

Realization dawned to both Baines and Dr. Fisher as they both turned to the yawning Enzo.

"Dante."

taglist!: @mischiefmanaged71 @tamashithe2nd @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @96jnie

[outsideratheart]

A Night To Forget (Leah Williamson x reader)

A/N: What a shit show that game was. What were they doing? They do know it was a must win in the title race right?

The tackle in this fic was based off this video.

Leah knew that she played a big part in Arsenal’s shocking performance. Never did she think she would let her frustrations take over in the way that they did. 

You were having a near perfect game with scoring the opener and assisting the other two goals. Arsenal were playing into your hands and they were making it easy for you to dance around the pitch. 

It was near the end of the game when the away team was beginning to get sloppy with their tackles. 

Erin had played you a lovely through ball and you were off. You saw Leah running at you but even she knew she wouldn’t be able to match your pace if you got free. It’s what lead her to doing what she did. 

As she stuck her foot in she missed the ball completely and her studs connected with the inside of your knee. You were on the floor in agony within seconds. 

“What was that!” Erin shoves Leah backwards, far away from you. 

“I didn’t—it was an accident” 

“Bullshit” the Scottish woman was furious. 

Meanwhile you laid on the floor clutching your knee. You didn’t hear a pop but you can’t lie and say the three letters weren’t floating around in your head. 

“Speak to us Y/N” one of the physios told you. 

“ACL?” It was a question that you dreaded the answer to. 

Leah heard you say the three letters and she thought that meant that was the diagnosis and it made her feel sick. The referee had given her the red card but she refused to leave the pitch, not until you had. 

“I didn’t mean to Lia” your girlfriend tried to get closer to you but this time it was her team mate who pulled her back. 

“Give her space” Wally hated to admit it but the tackle was bad and she wasn’t sure what your reaction would be to seeing the blonde. 

The physios removed your hand from your knee so they could access the injury. When you saw your hand it was covered in blood. Clearly the studs have cut you and from the amount of blood it must have been bad. 

“We don’t think it’s your ACL. We need to stitch you up so you obviously can’t continue” 

“I’m not getting on a stretcher, no way” 

The two physios look at each other, shake their heads and laugh a little. They knew full well that you wouldn’t get on a stretcher if you could walk. 

“We know but you will let us help you” you nod your head. Guro, who remained by your side, helped you up and took the place of one of the physios. 

You see Leah and it’s enough to make your blood boil. 

“Y/N. I didn’t—“ 

“Stay away from me Williamson” it was as impersonal as it could be and you meant every word. Leah was the last person you want to see right now. 

“Please I—“ 

Again she was cut off but this time by the Norwegian. 

“No! You heard her. Stay away” 

Leah stopped in her tracks. You never let anyone talk to her like that. That is until this moment.

Millie was waiting for you at the sidelines and the look she gave Leah was one of disappointment. Never in her mind would your girlfriend do anything like this to you. She was your biggest protector but tonight it was her you needed protecting from. 

The full time whistle is blown and the member of staff that had been sat with Leah tells her she can go back out. She lingers at the door to the Chelsea locker room where she he hears you laughing with Sam, Millie and Guro who must have been subbed off. She is in two minds whether or not to knock. She knew she wanted to see you but did you want to see her? If your previous reaction was any indication then the answer was no. 

Leah was doing her lap and was just near the end of the away stand when she heard the stadium break out into cheers. When she looked around to see what was the cause was, she saw you. She saw you walking near the home bench wearing a black compression sleeve and a matching knee brace. Millie was carrying a pair of crutches but laid them on the bench. 

You were injured. Leah didn’t know what the damage was but she knew that you were hurt. She also knew by the looks on your friends’ face that she wouldn’t get close to you right now. 

It was a hard thing to process for you. You tried to masque your hurt with a grin but it wasn’t very believable. You wanted to celebrate with your team, this win was huge, but your mind was elsewhere. 

“She didn’t mean to” Sam, of all people, came to Leah’s defence. 

“And that means I can’t be mad? You saw the replays, she could have ended by career with that tackle” you didn’t know what to feel, you didn’t know how you should feel. 

“But she didn’t” 

“Why are you defending her!” You covered your mouth in case a microphone and camera on you. 

“Because no one else will and you know it” Sam really was trying to do the right thing but maybe it was wrong of her. 

“Well then she shouldn’t have done it” your response was scarily calm. 

The girls in red stayed clear of you and rightly so. It was only Alessia that was brave enough to come to you. 

“You’re very annoying to play against. Good game tonight, you deserved to win this one” her genuine words earned her a smile. 

“Thanks Less” you pulled her in for a quick hug as you walked down the tunnel together. 

“Is it bad?” She wasn’t sure if she wanted the answer “Leah was asking about you” 

“Well you can tell Leah that I don’t know the severity of the injury she caused” 

“But it’s not, you know….” the forward daren’t speak the words that had now rivalled the Macbeth superstition. 

“No. I needed stitches and the brace is because the two cuts are on the joint. It’s so I don’t reopen them” 

Leah looked up at the sound of Alessia entering the locker room. She saw you through the gap, immediately stood up and started walking towards you. 

“Y/N” she begs you to look at her. 

“Thanks for checking in Less. I’ll see you at home” you didn’t address Leah but you did look at her. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing though because there was a numbness in your gaze. 

She waited and waited in your shared apartment. Hours passed and she was close to giving up, she thought that you must have changed your mind. Could she have blamed you if you had? 

Leah blew out the candle, your favourite one, and turned off the lamp. Just as she got into bed she heard the front door open and close. She was on her feet in a flash and running towards you. 

“Y/N. I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry” 

“What were you thinking? It was sloppy, dangerous and unnecessary” 

“I needed to stop you. I hadn’t been able to stop you all game” 

That was her defence and you found it pathetic. 

“You played terribly Leah. I won’t stand here and sugarcoat things. You made mistakes but this wasn’t one of them. You knew exactly what you were doing when you came flying in” 

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I—” Leah pauses for a moment. She didn’t mean to hurt you but she also couldn’t know for sure if her subconscious wanted to stop you by any means. 

“You didn’t mean to hurt me but you knew the tackle was reckless and it could end badly yet you did it anyway” 

When you put it that way Leah found herself agreeing with you. 

“I love you Leah but I have every right to be mad at you. You can’t dismiss my feelings“

That wasn’t Leah’s intention but she knew that was what she was doing. 

“I’m not. I mean I won’t. Do you want space from me? I can sleep on the sofa or even go to one of the girls’ houses” Leah was ready to give you your space if that is what you wanted. 

“No, I don’t want that. I just want to be mad for a little bit but I can do that with you in bed beside me” 

Leah found herself smiling. She was in trouble, big trouble, but you were going to forgive her. 

“Don’t be surprised if I punch you in my sleep. Dream me might want revenge. Now carry me to bed. I don’t know how you put up with this thing. It’s so annoying” 

Just when Leah began to forget about what happened, you remind her. To be fair the black brace was very bulky and hard to ignore. 

“How bad is it Y/N? Tell me the truth, please” Leah carried you bridal style whilst waiting for the verdict. 

“8 stitches and I have to wear the brace while they heal” you told her everything that you knew. 

Leah laid you down gently on the bed and her fingers lingered on the velcro of the brace. You knew what she was asking without her having to open her mouth. You lean forward and undo the straps. Gently you pull the compression sleeve down, revealing the ugliness of the injury. 

Your girlfriend gasps and takes a step back. She hurt you, she hurt you really bad. When you first started dating she made a promise to never be the reason for your pain, only for your happiness. She broke that promise tonight at Stamford bridge. 

“I have a hospital appointment for scans tomorrow morning. They don’t think there’s any serious damage” 

“I’ll take you” Leah tells you. 

“Damn right you will Williamson. I am clearly in no shape to drive” 

“Please don’t call me that” you could have sworn you saw Leah shrink in size “Call me Leah if you have to, but not Williamson” 

Here’s the thing. Leah loved nicknames and you called her plenty of them. Each had a different meaning and you used them in different scenarios. It’s why this struck her so deeply. 

“Leah” you wait until she is looking at you “come to bed” 

The blonde does as told but she does it goes so gingerly. You were fragile in her eyes and no way was she going to hurt you more. 

That night the two of the slept poorly. That is until you pull Leah into your arms. You tried your best to forget about the incident because you knew Leah blamed herself for the loss. In this specific moment she simply needed to be held by her girlfriend. 

[quinzzelx]

Shadows and Starlight

Part 2

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: It's Starfall and with Starfall come some unpleasant memories. But your excitement to finally see Azriel again wins you over. Catching up with your family, you find that the evening is approaching fast. What happens when Azriel returns and you finally see each other again?

Chapter 01 // Chapter 03

Word Count: 8.8K Well, this is a lengthy one.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Trauma, Flashbacks of Torture, Mentions of SA, A lot of Family bonding, Angst, Teeth rotting Fluff, and Sexual content. I have not proofread this yet, since I wanted to get this up as quickly as possible. A/N: Oh my god, GUYS!!! I am overwhelmed by the positivity and love you showered the first chapter with! You have honestly no idea how happy this makes me. I'm so glad people seem to enjoy it and I truly hope that this part will do the first one justice. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts. Feedback is always appreciated! Also, come chat with me in my inbox!

☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆●~☆~●~☆~☆~●~☆

As you wake up on Starfall morning, a sense of weariness washes over you, the remnants of a night spent tossing and turning, haunted by dreams of the past and the phantom pains that still linger in your scars. Despite the soft caress of your satin nightgown against your skin, every movement sends a twinge of discomfort coursing through your body, a reminder of the battles you've fought.

Tracing your fingertips over the pale, jagged carvings that mar your stomach, you're transported back to the horrors of Amarantha's trap, the allure of her twisted game pulling you deeper into her web with each passing moment. Rhys had begged you to stay home, his instincts warning him that something wasn't right about this meeting, this gathering, but something inside you knew that you couldn't sit idly by while he faced danger alone. And so you insisted on accompanying him, despite the protests and the danger it posed to you both. There were moments of doubt, fleeting glimpses of regret that whispered in the recesses of your mind.

Especially in the darkness of those colder, harsher nights. Nights when even the simple act of opening your eyes felt like an insurmountable task, weighed down not just by the heavy iron chains that bound you to the ground, but by the imposing weight of impending death that hung heavy on your shoulders.

Turning onto your side, you wince as you feel the numerous scars on your back, traces of the lashings you sustained at Amarantha's hands. She was cruel in her efforts to use you as a tool to hurt Rhys further, inflicting pain upon pain in her relentless quest for power. But despite the physical scars that mar your skin, it's the emotional scars that run the deepest, the memories of your shared trauma with Rhys threatening to pull you back into the depths of despair.

Your wounds festered, infected by the cruel hands of Amarantha, who took perverse pleasure in keeping them open and inflicting new ones upon you, layering pain upon pain with each lash of her whip. Faebane slowed your healing, leaving you vulnerable to the biting cold that seeped into your bruised body, each breath a struggle against the suffocating grip of agony. On one such night, Amarantha's rage burned brighter than usual, her fury directed solely at you. Bound naked to her bedpost, your emaciated form contorted in unnatural ways, the strain and angle of your bindings causing one shoulder to scream in protest. She carved vile curses into the soft flesh of your stomach, taunting you with each cruel stroke of her blade.

And then Rhys entered, his horror evident in the fleeting glimpse you caught of his face before the mask of stoicism fell back into place. But his appearance ignited something within Amarantha, sparking a twisted idea that would haunt you for years to come. Forced to watch as Rhys administered the next lashes, forced to endure the searing pain as he used his Deamanti powers on you, you felt a sliver of relief amidst the agony as his apologies echoed in your mind, his powers soothing the raw edges of your suffering. He tried numbing your pain, taking away the searing heat that your wounds imposed. But Amarantha wasn't satisfied with just inflicting physical pain – she wanted to break you completely, to strip away every last shred of dignity and humanity. And so she made you watch as she rode Rhys, fucking him without hesitation, with favor, your body still bound to the bedpost, blood dripping down your exposed skin, your chest heaving with shallow breaths. She got off on it, the hot tears running down your face, leaving streaks in the dried blood on your face. Even in your state then, your eyes beheld a promise of death. But never had you felt this helpless, having to watch as Amarantha used Rhys as her personal sex-slave. Rhys was your family, your High Lord! And all you could do was watch.

It was a night of unspeakable horror, one of the darkest moments of your life. And yet, amidst the despair, there was a glimmer of hope – She was this mad because of Feyre, because she wanted to break the curse. As you lay there, on the floor of your cell, embracing the cold arms of death, Rhys hurriedly came barging in. He knelt beside you on the cold stone floor, tears streaming down his face as he cradled your head in his hands, offering what little comfort he could in the face of such unimaginable pain.

"Gods, what have I done?" Rhys whispered, his voice choked with sorrow and regret. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted this for you. I never wanted any of this." His words were like a knife to your heart, each apology cutting deeper than the last as you struggled to cling to consciousness. "Rhys," you managed to rasp, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault." But he shook his head, his tears falling freely now as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I should have protected you. I should have never let this happen to you."

You reached up, weakly grasping his hand as you tried to offer him what little comfort you could. "It's not your fault," you repeated, your voice growing fainter with each passing moment. "I love you, Rhys. Please... don't blame yourself."

But Rhys's anguish only seemed to deepen at your words, his sobs wracking his body as he pleaded with you to hold on, to fight against the darkness that threatened to consume you both. "Please," he begged, his voice raw with emotion as he called your name. "Don't leave me. I can't bear to lose you. Please, stay with me." And as you felt the cold embrace of death drawing ever closer, you clung to his hand, drawing strength from the love and warmth that radiated from him. "I'll try," you rasped, your voice barely audible now. "I'll try, Rhys. I promise."

And with those final words, you drifted into darkness, leaving Rhys alone with his grief and his guilt, his tears mingling with yours as he prayed to the Mother for a miracle, for a chance to make things right.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you try to calm your mind, to push aside the memories that threaten to overwhelm you. Today is supposed to be a day of celebration, a time to put aside the pain of the past and focus on the joy of the present.

As someone knocks at the bedroom door, you groan, burying your face in the pillow, exhausted and emotionally drained from the tumultuous memories that still linger in your mind. Calling out for the person to enter, you brace yourself for the intrusion, the weight of the world pressing down upon your shoulders. To your surprise, it's Rhys who enters, his presence like a balm to your weary soul. As if sensing the chaos within you, he seems equally stressed by the preparations for the day, Nyx cradled in his arms. Your eyes soften when they land on the toddler, his small wings flapping excitedly as he spots you, extending his arms out in a silent plea to be held. Rhys sits down beside you on the bed, a gentle look on his face as he takes in your tired form. Nyx immediately pounces on you, his laughter filling the room with infectious joy. Despite your exhaustion, you can't help but smile at the sight of the young boy, his innocence a welcome distraction from the weight of the world.

"Hey there, little one," you murmur, scooping Nyx into your arms and showering him with kisses. He giggles in delight, his tiny hands reaching out to touch your face with a sense of wonder. Rhys watches the exchange with a soft smile, his violet eyes filled with warmth and affection. "I thought Nyx might help cheer you up," he says gently, his voice laced with concern. "It's been a rough morning, hasn't it?" You nod, unable to find the words to express the whirlwind of emotions that have been swirling inside you since you woke up. But as you hold Nyx close, his laughter echoing in your ears, you feel a sense of peace settle over you, if only for a fleeting moment. Rhys leans closer, his hand finding yours on the bed, offering silent support. "Are you okay?" he asks softly, concern etched in his eyes.

You manage a weak smile, squeezing his hand in return. "I'm... trying to be," you admit, your voice tinged with exhaustion. "It's just... a lot, you know?" He nods understandingly, his thumb tracing comforting circles on the back of your hand. "I know," he murmurs, his gaze softening. "But we'll get through this, together. I promise." The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the bond that binds you both, even in the darkest of times. "Thank you, Rhys," you whisper, your voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."

He smiles, a gentle expression that lights up his features. "Anytime," he says softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. "We're in this together, remember? No matter what."

As you settle into a more comfortable rhythm, the conversation shifts to lighter topics, a welcome distraction from the weight of the morning's emotions. "So," Rhys begins, his tone lighter now, "did you hear about Cassian's little mishap with the ladder this morning?" You raise an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in your eyes. "Oh? Do tell," you urge, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. Rhys chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, apparently he thought he could single-handedly take on the task of putting up the decorations," he explains, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "But Feyre and Elain had other ideas."

You laugh at the mental image of Cassian attempting to navigate a ladder while Feyre and Elain guided him from below, their laughter echoing through the halls of the House of Wind. "And then," Rhys continues, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "just as he was reaching for the top, the ladder slipped out from under him, and down he went!" You can't help but giggle at the thought of Cassian tumbling to the ground, his pride wounded but otherwise unharmed. "Poor Cass," you tease, shaking your head in mock sympathy. "I hope he's okay." The Highlord says, his smile widening. "Oh, he's fine," he assures you. "Just a bruised ego, I think."

Before you can respond, Nyx interrupts with a babble of his own, his tiny hands reaching out to grab at Rhys's hair. You laugh, gently untangling Nyx's fingers from Rhys's locks as you listen to the toddler's excited chatter. Rhys grins, his eyes sparkling with affection as he looks down at his son. "I spoke to Azriel yesterday," he says casually, shifting the conversation back to more serious matters. "He should be back today, just in time for Starfall."

You feel a surge of anticipation at the mention of Azriel's return, your heart skipping a beat at the thought of seeing him again after his absence. "That's great news," you reply, trying to keep your voice casual despite the butterflies in your stomach. "I'm sure he'll be relieved to be home." He nods, a knowing glint in his eye. "Oh, I'm sure he will be," he says cryptically, a teasing smile playing at his lips. "After all, there are certain people who have been eagerly awaiting his return."

You roll your eyes, unable to suppress a smile at Rhys's playful teasing. "You're incorrigible," you tease, giving him a playful shove. "But I'm glad Azriel's coming back. It's not the same without him." The conversation ebbs into comfortable silence as you play with the toddler sat on your lap. When you notice Rhys’s eyes glaze over, the violet of his eyes dulling just slightly, you look at him with a cocked eyebrow. “Is our Highlord required somewhere?” You ask with a small smile on your lips. “Yes, I fear duty calls.”

As Rhys leaves with Nyx in tow, a sense of tranquility settles over you, the bustling energy of the morning quieting to a gentle hum. With a sigh of relief, you make your way to the bath, the promise of warm water and solitude beckoning to you like a beacon in the storm.

Sinking into the soothing embrace of the bath, the warmth seeping into your tired muscles and easing the knots of tension that had been building within you. With each passing moment, the cares of the world seem to slip away, replaced by a sense of peace and calm that settles deep within your soul. With each passing moment, you feel yourself growing lighter, the weight of the morning's emotions gradually fading into the background as you focus on the simple pleasure of being present in this moment. Only when the skin on your hands starts to wrinkle, do you decide to leave the comfort of your bath.

After drying off, you quickly set about getting ready for the day ahead. With practiced ease, you slip into your clothes, the fabric smooth against your skin as you dress. You run a brush through your hair, smoothing out any tangles and pulling it back into a simple yet elegant style. With one last glance in the mirror, you nod in satisfaction, a sense of determination settling over you. Today is a new day. Starfall to be exact. You would not let the past control the present.

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As you make your way downstairs, noon is just beginning to unfold, the soft light of the early sun filtering through the windows of the House of Wind. The air is filled with the gentle hum of activity as preparations for the evening's festivities are underway. You take a moment to admire the decorations that Cassian had so painstakingly put up, a fond smile playing at the corners of your lips as you remember his earlier mishap with the ladder. Despite the chaos of it all, there's a sense of excitement building in the air, a unmistakable energy that sets your heart racing with anticipation.

Making your way to where Feyre and Elain were sitting in the kitchen, you exchange greetings with them, falling into easy conversation. The smell of freshly brewed tea fills the air, and you can't help but relax as you sink into a chair at the table. "So, what's on the agenda for today?" Feyre asks, pouring a cup of tea for each of you.

Elain smiles softly, her doe-eyes lighting up with excitement. "I was thinking of spending some time in the gardens," she says. "I've been working on a few new plantings, and I'd love to show them to you." You nod eagerly, honestly intrigued by Elain's passion for gardening. "I'd love to see them," you reply, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Whilst you sip your tea, the conversation turns to lighter topics, and you find yourself laughing and joking with Feyre and Elain. It's moments like these that remind you of why you cherish your time with them. Suddenly, Elain's voice breaks through your thoughts, her tone soft and earnest. "I'm so glad Azriel is returning today," she says, her eyes shining with sincerity. "I've missed him." A pang of jealousy and irritation shoots through you at her words, catching you off guard. You quickly brush it off as simple irritation, unwilling to acknowledge the twinge of envy that lingers in the depths of your chest. Elain, oblivious to your internal turmoil, continues to speak, her words pulling you back into the conversation. "And I've missed you too," she adds, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

You nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I missed you too." But inside, you can't help but feel a twinge of envy at the thought of Elain's closeness with Azriel. Before the awkwardness can settle in, however, Elain changes the subject, her eyes lighting up with excitement as she again talks about the new plants she's planted in the gardens of the Riverhouse.

"That reminds me," you say suddenly, a spark of delight igniting within you. Your eyes sparkle as you remember the gift you brought back for Elain, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a small packet of seeds. "I found these at a market stall on the continent and thought of you. They're seeds for a flower called... um...“ you stumble over the name for a moment before recalling it. "They're seeds for a flower called Moonlight Blossoms. I thought they might be a nice addition to your garden."

Elain's eyes widen with delight as she takes the seeds from you, her expression one of pure joy. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaims, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. "I can't wait to plant these in the garden. They're going to be beautiful."

After spending a pleasant morning and noon catching up with Feyre and Elain, you accompany Elain to the garden to see her new plants. The garden is a riot of color and fragrance, and you spend a blissful hour wandering among the flowers and chatting with her about her latest botanical discoveries. As you bid Elain farewell and make your way back inside, you realize that the day has flown by in a rush of activity. You quickly run a few last-minute errands for Starfall, picking up some supplies and making sure everything is in order for the evening's festivities.

Time seems to slip through your fingers like grains of sand as you hurry through the bustling streets of Velaris, the excitement of the day building with each passing moment. Before you know it, the sun is beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the city as evening approaches.

With a sense of urgency, you hurry back to the House of Wind, eager to get ready for the evening ahead. Mor had promised to get ready together, and you don't want to keep her waiting. As you enter your room, the blond is already there, surrounded by an array of dresses and accessories strewn across the bed. She looks up as you enter, a bright smile lighting up her face.

"Hey there, gorgeous!" she greets you, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Are you ready to get glam for Starfall?" You return her smile, feeling a rush of anticipation at the thought of the evening ahead. "Absolutely," you reply, crossing the room to join her. "I can't wait to see what you've picked out." Mor gestures to the dresses laid out on the bed. "I've narrowed it down to a few options," she says, a mischievous grin playing at her lips. "But I think I already know which one I'm going to choose." You chuckle, knowing that Mor always has a flair for dramatics when it comes to dressing up. "Well, let's see them then," you tease, eager to get started.

Together, you sift through the dresses, examining each one carefully and discussing their merits and drawbacks. There are dresses of every color and style, from sleek and elegant to bold and daring. Finally, Mor settles on a stunning gown in deep maroon red, its flowing skirts and intricate beading catching the light as she holds it up.

"This is the one," she declares, a satisfied smile gracing her features. "What do you think?" You nod in agreement, admiring the dress's beauty. "It's perfect," you reply. "You're going to look absolutely stunning." Mor beams at your praise, clearly pleased with her selection. "Thanks, love," she says, reaching out to give you a quick hug. "Now, let's get you sorted out. I have a feeling you're going to steal the show tonight."

As you slip into the dress that you had bought the day before, a soft sigh escapes your lips, the sensation of the fabric against your skin sending a shiver of delight down your spine. The deep midnight blue hue wraps around you like a lover's embrace, casting an delicate glow that seems to illuminate the room. The neckline plunges low, offering a tantalizing glimpse of your cleavage. With each movement, the dress seems to come alive. Mor's eyes widen in admiration as she takes in your appearance. "Wow," she breathes, her voice filled with genuine awe. "You look absolutely stunning."

A soft smile graces your lips as you meet her gaze "Thank you, Mor," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't have found this without your help." She beams at your words, her pride evident in the curve of her lips. "It was my pleasure," she replies, her tone warm and sincere. "But really, the dress suits you perfectly. I almost forgot how it looked on you overnight."

Shortly after she also put on her dress, Mor expertly braids your hair, her nimble fingers weaving intricate patterns, you can't help but admire her skill. With each twist and turn, your hair transforms into a work of art, cascading down your back in elegant waves. You close your eyes, savoring the sensation of her touch, the gentle tugs and pulls lulling you into a state of relaxation. "Your hair is like silk," Mor remarks, her voice filled with admiration. "It's going to look stunning tonight." Once your hair is styled to perfection, Mor moves on to makeup, applying each layer with precision. The dark, alluring makeup enhances your features, accentuating your eyes and highlighting your cheekbones.

Whilst the blond puts the finishing touches on your makeup, you take a moment to admire your reflection. The sultry gaze staring back at you sends a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins, the promise of the evening ahead hanging in the air. "Ready to turn heads?" Mor asks, a playful smirk gracing her lips. "Absolutely," you reply, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Let's make tonight unforgettable."

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As you and Mor descend the grand staircase, the sounds of laughter and music fill the air, signaling the start of the evening's festivities. The House of Wind is alive with energy, the vibrant atmosphere drawing you in as you make your way through the bustling crowd. Mor heads straight for the wine table, her graceful movements drawing the attention of those around her. She expertly pours two glasses, handing one to you with a knowing smile. "To a night to remember," she says, raising her glass in a toast. You clink your glass against hers, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "To a night to remember," you echo, taking a sip of the rich, velvety wine.

While mingling with the other guests, you can't help but notice the admiring glances and whispered compliments that follow you wherever you go. Cassian whistles at your appearance, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he offers a playful wink. Even Amren, usually reserved and stoic, can't help but be impressed. "Not bad, girl" she remarks in her typical deadpan tone, her lips quirking up in a rare smile. "You look good." While chatting with Cassian, his easy grin and infectious laughter filling the air, you can't help but feel at ease in his presence. He regales you with stories of past Starfall celebrations, each one more outrageous than the last, and you find yourself laughing along with him, caught up in the magic of the moment and the memories.

Amren stands beside him, her sharp gaze surveying the crowd with a mix of curiosity and amusement. She interjects with the occasional dry comment or witty observation, adding her own unique perspective to the conversation. Cassian nudges you playfully, a naughty glint in his eyes. "So, have you seen Az around yet?" he asks, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You roll your eyes at his question, knowing full well where he's going with this. "Not yet," you reply with a smirk. "But I'm sure he'll make quite the entrance when he does," you add, your tone dripping with playful sarcasm. Cassian chuckles, his grin widening as he leans in conspiratorially. "You know, I heard he's been practicing his dramatic entrances," he whispers, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Amren, who had been silently observing the exchange, scoffs in amusement. "Practicing? Please, Azriel was born with dramatic flair," she interjects, her voice dry as ever. You can't help but laugh at Amren's remark, nodding in agreement. "True," you concede, unable to deny the truth in her words. Cassian's grin widens, mischief dancing in his eyes as he leans in closer. "You know, Y/N, if you keep talking about Az like this, people might start to think you have a crush on him," he teases, his tone light but teasing. Mor joins in on the teasing, a playful smirk on her lips. "Oh, come on, Cass," she chimes in, "we all know Y/N's got it bad for Az. I mean, who wouldn't? He's mysterious, brooding, and let's not forget those dreamy eyes."

You roll your eyes at their teasing, but heat creeps up your neck nonetheless. "You two are insufferable," you mutter, trying to play it off coolly despite the warmth you can feel in your chest.

They share a knowing look, their grins widening. "Oh, don't be shy, Y/N," Cassian says with a wink, "we all see the way you light up whenever Az is around."

You sigh in mock exasperation, knowing there's no escaping this. "Fine, you caught me," you admit with a chuckle, "but can we please focus on something other than my nonexistent love life for once?" Mor and Cassian exchange a glance before bursting into laughter.

With an exaggerated sigh, you down the rest of your wine in one swift motion, the cool liquid soothing the annoyance bubbling within you. Setting the empty glass down, you grab another from the nearby tray, filling it to the brim with wine. Cassian and Mor exchange amused glances as they watch your reaction, but you pay them no mind, determined to drown out their taunting with copious amounts of alcohol.

As the night wears on, the rhythm of the music pulls you onto the dance floor, the enchanting melodies winding their way through the air and into your soul. Lost in the music, you move with grace and elegance, allowing the melodies to guide your every step. The lights overhead cast a warm glow on the dance floor, illuminating the faces of those around you as they sway to the music. Couples twirl and spin, lost in their own worlds of love and passion, while laughter and joy fill the air. You watch as Nesta and Cassian sweep over the dancefloor together, having the crowd watch in awe.

With each passing moment, your gaze darts from one corner of the room to the next, hoping to catch sight of him. Your heart beats faster with every shadow that moves, every figure that passes by, as you search for the one person who has occupied your thoughts all evening.

Dancing with an attractive Fae male, his presence envelops you, his hand warm against the small of your back as you sway to the soft, slow tunes. Despite your initial reluctance when he asked you to dance with him, you find yourself enjoying his company, lost in the rhythm of the music and the warmth of his gaze. His blond hair were neatly combed, his bright green eyes gentle and kind as they take in your facial features.

But as his hand begins to wander over your scarred skin, trailing dangerously close to where the fabric of your dress starts again, a shiver runs down your spine. The heat of his touch sends a jolt through you, igniting a familiar sensation. Just as you feel yourself becoming lost in the moment, a sudden shift in the air catches your attention. Without even turning around, you know he's here. As the music continues to play, you can sense him drawing closer, his presence casting a spell over you that leaves you spellbound and breathless. Just as you're about to step away, you sense a familiar presence behind you. The scent of cedar fills your senses, and you turn to find Azriel standing there, his tall frame looming over you.

Before you can even process his presence, he reaches out, gently touching your arm. "May I cut in?" he asks, his voice soft yet commanding. You meet his gaze, the intensity in his eyes sending a shiver down your spine. "Of course," you reply, unable to tear your eyes away from him. As the Fae male steps back, Azriel takes his place, his hand finding yours as he pulls you close. The music shifts to a slower, more intimate melody, and you find yourself swept up in the moment. "It's been too long," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the music. Azriel's gaze softens, his fingers tracing light patterns on your back. "I've missed you," he admits, his voice low and filled with emotion. A surge of warmth washes over you at his words, and you find yourself drawn closer to him. "I've missed you too," you confess, your heart racing in your chest. As you continue to dance, the tension between you and Azriel is palpable, crackling in the air like electricity. His hand lingers on your waist, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"I can't believe you're finally back," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the music. You meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. "I can't believe it either," you reply, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "It feels like it's been an eternity." Azriel's eyes soften, a hint of sadness flickering in their depths. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you returned," he says, his voice filled with regret. "I wanted to be the first one to welcome you home."

You reach up, gently touching his cheek. "It's okay," you assure him, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I know you had your duties to attend to." A faint smile plays at the corners of Azriel's lips then, and he leans into your touch. How he had missed it to feel your gentle reassuring touch. "Still, I wish I could have been here for you," he murmurs, his voice deep and husky. As the song comes to an end, you stare at each other. Reluctantly, Azriel releases your hand, his touch lingering for a moment longer before he takes a step back. The music fades into the background, drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, lost in each other's gaze, the world around you fading away until there's nothing left but the space between you. Then, with a soft smile, Azriel breaks the silence. "Would you like to take a walk?" he asks, his voice gentle and inviting.

You nod, a warm feeling spreading through you at the prospect of spending more time with him. "I'd like that," you reply, returning his smile. Together, you slip away from the dance floor, the night air cool against your skin as you step out onto the balcony. The city sprawls out before you, its lights twinkling in the darkness like a sea of stars.

Feeling his gaze upon you, you can't help but shift slightly under his scrutiny, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you realize just how closely he's examining you. You bite your lip nervously, suddenly hyper-aware of every curve and contour of your body that's on display in the dress. As Azriel's eyes linger on your figure, you can't help but notice the way his gaze seems to heat up, his breath catching in his throat. A thrill shoots through you at the intensity of his stare, igniting a fire in the pit of your stomach.

For a moment, neither of you says anything, the air between you charged with unspoken desire. Then, with a slight cough to clear his throat, Azriel tears his gaze away from you, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice husky with emotion. "I didn't mean to stare." You shake your head, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. "It's okay," you reply softly. "I... I don't mind."

You reach out tentatively, your hand finding his arm in a comforting gesture. "Azriel," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "there's something I've been wanting to tell you." He turns to face you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. "What is it?" he asks, concern lacing his every word. You take a deep breath, summoning all your courage. “I-“  Before you can finish your sentence, the door to the balcony swings open, and Feyre steps out, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees the two of you standing there together.

"Oh, sorry," she stammers, quickly averting her gaze. "I didn't mean to interrupt." Azriel clears his throat, stepping back slightly to give Feyre some space. "It's alright," he says, his voice a little strained. "We were just... talking." she nods, though there's a knowing glint in her eyes as she looks between the two of you. "Right, well, I'll leave you two to it then," she says, retreating back inside. You and Azriel exchange a glance, a silent understanding passing between you. It seems that fate has other plans for your conversation, at least for now.

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When Azriel winnowed into Rhys's study earlier that day, he was greeted by the familiar sight of his brother sitting behind the desk, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Rhys's gaze meets his, and Azriel's eyes widen as the scent of you fills his senses, sending a jolt of anticipation coursing through him. It wasn’t dull and faded, not like the pillows in your bedroom. No, you had to have been in this room today. Rhys raises an eyebrow at his brother’s dumbfounded face, his smirk growing more pronounced. "Took you long enough to notice," he says, amusement lacing his tone.

Azriel's lips twitch into a half-smile as he strides further into the room, his movements fluid and graceful. "I was preoccupied," he replies, his voice gruff. "But I'm here now." Rhys chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "I can see that," he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, how was your mission?" Azriel takes a moment to compose himself, his mind still reeling from the unexpected encounter with your scent. "Successful," he replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within him. His resolve snapped. "But I'll fill you in on the details later. Right now, I have other matters to attend to."

Rhys arches an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Of course," he says, his tone teasing. "Wouldn't want to keep her waiting, would you?" Azriel's cheeks flush slightly at his brother's teasing remark, but he maintains his composure. "No," he says, his voice tinged with determination. "I wouldn't."

As Azriel takes flight for the House of Wind, his mind races with a whirlwind of emotions. Excitement courses through his veins, an unexpected thrill at the thought of seeing you again after nine long months apart. He hadn't dared to hope that you would be back, hadn't allowed himself to entertain the possibility of your return. And yet, here you were, your presence filling him with a sense of longing he just started to realize he'd been harboring.

The memory of your scent lingers in his mind, haunting him with its intoxicating sweetness. It's a scent he knows all too well, one that has the power to drive him to madness with desire. Even now, as he flies through the night sky, he can't shake the memory of you, the way your scent wraps around him like a warm embrace. Only yesterday had he thought about that exact smell while fucking his hand wishing it was yours instead.

Cursing himself for his wayward thoughts, Azriel frowns, attempting to push aside the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to consume him.

As Azriel lands gracefully on the balcony of the House of Wind, he braces himself  for their reunion. He had just made his way here in record time, flying like his life depended on it. His heart pounds in his chest, the anticipation of seeing you again after so long almost too much to bear. With each step he takes, his eyes scan the crowded room, searching for your familiar form amidst the mass of guests.

And then he sees you.

His breath catches in his throat as he takes you in, his brain short-circuiting at the sight of you. You’re wearing a dress, and it clings to you like a second skin, accentuating every curve and contour of your body. His gaze lingers on the scars that trail across your back, a witness to the battles you had fought and the strength you possess. But it's not just your appearance that captivates him. It's the way you move, the grace and confidence with which you carry yourself, as if you own the very air around you. And you do, completely oblivious to the hungry and captivated stares you gain, turning heads everywhere you appear. Then his attention finally shifts to the Fae dancing with you, his hand lingering dangerously close to your exposed skin, and a surge of possessiveness courses through him. You’re wearing his colors, he realizes with a jolt, a flicker of irritation igniting within him at the thought of someone else daring to touch what belongs to him. A growl rumbles in Azriel's chest, low and threatening, as the surge of jealousy within him reaches a fever pitch. He takes a step forward, hazel eyes blazing with anger, his wings flaring out instinctively behind him.

But before he can make his move, Mor appears at his side, a knowing smirk on her lips as she nudges him playfully. "Easy there, big guy," she says, her voice low and playful. "No need to start a brawl on Starfall."

Azriel grits his teeth, torn between his desire to protect what's his and the knowledge that Mor is right. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to reign in his emotions. While Azriel briefly exchanges pleasantries with Mor, his mind is consumed by thoughts of you. He can hardly focus on their conversation, his attention drawn inexorably back to where you stand across the room. He can feel his Illyrian instincts surging to the forefront, urging him to claim what's rightfully his. Shadowy tendrils dance around him frantically, pushing, pulling, as if they too wanted him to whisk you away from the other male’s embrace.

Finally having had enough, he excuses himself from Mor's company. Azriel prowls across the room with purposeful strides. His presence alone is enough to send a ripple of unease through the crowd, his menacing aura palpable as he approaches. When he reaches your side, the Fae male dancing with you seems to shrink back in fear, intimidated by the intensity of Azriel's gaze. But Azriel pays him no mind, his attention wholly consumed by you.

His shadows whispering words of possession and desire in his ears, chanting “Beautiful, beautiful” over and over. ”Ours, ours” Azriel can hardly contain the primal urges that surge within him. All he can think about is claiming you, marking you as his own for all the world to see. And as he draws closer, the air crackling with anticipation, he knows that he won't be satisfied until you’re in his arms, where you belong. He just wants to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck. Suppressing a groan, he twirls you around, his hands easily finding their way onto your hips, softly squeezing them while leading the dance.

When the song came to an end, he felt like he was stood in the summer courts afternoon sun again. He needed some fresh air, some more quietness, and he selfishly wanted to be the sole bearer of your company.

By the Cauldron, as you made your way onto the balcony, him trailing behind you a few steps, he silently swore under his breath. Suddenly he was questioning his decision to be alone with you. Again, he asked himself why. Why have the last nine months been such a torture? Why did it feel like there was no oxygen left in his lungs when you and Mor had winnowed away and departed for your mission? And only now could he breathe again, truly breathe. And with every inhale, the scent of sweet lilies and freshly fallen rain assaulted his senses, clawing into the very essence of his being.

Only as you shifted on your feet slightly did he notice that he was straight up staring at you. Shit. As a soft blush made its way onto your cheeks then, he wanted to melt. Did you like the way he looked at you? Had the past nine months felt as maddening for you as they had felt for him? Questions upon questions infiltrated his mind as you looked upon Velaris together. And when you spoke again, wanting, no, needing to tell him something, he felt his stomach drop. Had you found someone on the continent?

When Feyre interrupted you mid-sentence solely by appearing, he didn’t know if he should curse or thank her for the disturbance. But the way your brows furrowed and how the light in your eyes ebbed out a little bit, made him feel a pang in his chest.

He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sudden tension that had settled between you. And as Feyre excused herself again, he spoke up. "What were you saying?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He needed to know, needed to hear your words, even if they shattered his heart into a million pieces. You hesitated for a moment, the words caught in your throat as you searched for an excuse, anything to deflect from the truth. "It's nothing," you replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Just... something I've been thinking about lately. But it's not important." A lie.

He studied your expression, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features before he masked it with a small smile of his own. "Alright," he murmured, though he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to your words than you were letting on. Turning back to Azriel, you couldn't help but notice the way the moonlight danced across his features, casting a soft glow around him that made your heart flutter again.

"You know," he began, breaking the comfortable silence between you, "I never expected to find you here tonight. It's... a pleasant surprise."

You chuckled softly, the sound carrying on the gentle breeze. "Well, it's not every day that we get to celebrate Starfall together," you replied, a hint of warmth in your voice. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." There was hidden meaning in your words that he didn’t fail to miss.

His eyes softened at your words, a silent understanding passing between you. "I'm glad you're here," he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. "It wouldn't be the same without you."

Wearing a tender smile, Azriel reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours. "You look beautiful tonight," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A soft blush crept onto your cheeks at his compliment, and you couldn't help but return his smile. "Thank you," you replied, your voice filled with sincerity. "You don't look too bad yourself."

He chuckled softly, the sound like music to your ears. "High praise coming from you," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement. You laughed, a light and carefree sound that echoed in the night air. "Well, I do have good taste," you quipped, nudging him playfully.

With trembling hands, you reached out to touch him, your fingers grazing lightly against his cheek as you traced the contours of his face. His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he leaned into your caress. Every nerve in his body seemed to come alive at your gentle caress, his senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating sensation of your touch. With a shaky breath, he opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with a depth of emotion that words could not express. In that moment, he felt as though he could drown in the ocean of your eyes.

With a tender yet sure touch, Azriel pulled you into his embrace, his arms enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth and safety. The scent of cedar and winter air surrounded you, his presence filling every corner of your senses. Azriel can't help himself, his urge to feel you pressed against him. He had missed you too much, and the way you just looked at him had him questioning why the hell he waited so long to do this. His hazel eyes glint as he lets them roam over your face, examining the gentle curve of your full lips, dipping down to follow the line of revealed skin, ending where your breasts are pressed firmly to his chest. The intensity of his stare sends shivers down your spine, your skin tingling with a delicious combination of desire and longing.

With each passing moment, the space between you seems to shrink, until there is barely a breath of air separating your bodies. You can feel the heat emanating from him, warming you from the inside out. His eyes, darkened with lust, hold you captive, their intensity rendering you speechless. You can't help but shiver under his gaze, your entire being yearning for the touch of his lips against yours.

As he leans in closer, his brows furrowed in concentration, you can't help but tremble under his touch. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, a subconscious gesture. You feel the gentle pressure of his body against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin as he presses you back against the railing. Unable to contain the rush of emotions coursing through you, a soft whimper escapes your lips. "Azriel." His name leaves you sounding more like a soft whine than anything else. He inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath as he savors the way his name rolls off your tongue. "say it again." he pleads, his voice husky with longing, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "Azriel..." You breathe out again. A sinful moan escapes his lips at the sound of his name spoken by you, his head bowing forward as he presses his forehead against yours. Your hands claw at his chest, fisting his shirt.

“Can I kiss you?” Azriel’s voice sounds strained as he asks you. All you can manage is a whimpered “Please.” And that’s all he needs, as if your words just shattered his restraint, he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You melt into each other’s touch, lips slanted over another, one of Azriel’s marred hands comes up to cup one of your cheeks, tilting your head back slightly to deepen the kiss. You press into him more, gasping when you feel a muscled thigh lodged between your legs, the friction causing you to shake slightly. Azriel swipes his tongue over your bottom lip then, venturing further as you gasp, tasting you. Both of you, completely tangled into each other, breathe heavily when you part. Only then do you realize that the stars had begun their journey, thousands upon thousands of bright streaks flashing through the sky.

The sparkling light of the falling stars reflected in Azriel’s eyes, making them shine even brighter than they already were. You followed his gaze as you saw his orbs wander to look behind you. The night sky shone with glittering starlight, painting Velaris in a colorful bright hue. In complete and utter awe, you shift slightly, watching the stars make their way to whatever destination. “Breathtaking.” Azriel mumbles huskily and you can’t help but agree. When you turn to face him again, you realize that he was still looking at you. A soft blush makes its way onto your already flushed face.

Azriel was a warrior, the Night Court’s Spymaster and Shadowsinger, he had fought plenty of battles before, always coming out on top and alive. But as he stared at you then, his heart rapidly beating in his chest, he found himself on his knees for the first time, loosing his restraint, loosing his composure. Because when he looked at you then, face bathed in the soft lights of the falling stars, skin flushed and lips swollen, it snapped. And when it did, everything made sense.

His eyes were wide and filled with something you couldn’t quite place. As you feel his lips crashing against yours once more, any words you might have spoken are lost in the fervor of the moment. The intensity of the kiss leaves you breathless, your mind swirling with a heady mixture of desire and adoration.

When you finally break apart, your chests heaving with the effort of controlling your racing hearts, you find yourself lost in the depths of his wide, expressive eyes. There's something in his gaze that speaks volumes, something you can't quite put into words but can feel deep within your soul. "Your face is a work of art," you whisper, the alcohol lending a soft haze to your words. Excitement clouding your head, the compliment spills from your lips. Azriel's features, sharp and defined, seem to glow with an ethereal light in the dimness of the night. His hazel eyes, like pools of molten gold, capture your gaze, drawing you in.

"Yeah?" he hums in response, his hands finding their way to the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume every inch of your being. And when he inhales deeply, the scent of your Arousal hits him with full force and he snarls lowly. "Your legs should frame it then,"

Your breath hitches at his words, eyes widening at what he suggests. Speechless you try to regain your composure. Then, with a coy smile, you lean in closer to him, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Careful, Azriel. You're playing with fire." The teasing tone in your voice betrays the longing that simmers beneath the surface, aching to be unleashed.

As the flames of desire engulf you both, Azriel's lips part in a husky whisper, his voice dripping with primal need. "I don't mind getting burned," he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck. With a trembling hand, you reach up to cup his cheek, your touch gentle yet filled with an intensity that mirrors the blaze in his eyes. "Then let us burn together," you whisper.

In a raw display of desire, Azriel's demeanor shifts, his jaw clenched with a fierce determination as he gazes at you with narrowed eyes filled with unbridled hunger. Without a word, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, his hands roaming possessively over your body as he pulls you close. With a soft gasp, you wrap your legs around his hips, feeling the heat of his body against yours as you press closer together. The sensation of his hands wandering to your ass, squeezing firmly, sends a shiver of anticipation coursing through you.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel winnows you away. The world blurs around you, the sensation of movement disorienting yet thrilling. Before you can fully comprehend the transition, you find yourselves standing in the intimate sanctuary of his bedroom. Around you, the air is charged with anticipation, heavy with the promise of what is to come. Azriel's gaze meets yours, smoldering with desire as he sets you down gently on the bed, his hands still lingering on your hips. And as he looks at you then, looking deep into your eyes to search for any hesitation or regret on your part, you speak.

“Claim me.” Your voice is confident and soft. “I’m yours, Mate.”

With a primal growl, Azriel's restraint shatters, consumed by the raw, unbridled desire coursing through his veins. He leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, a fierce hunger driving his movements. In that moment, there is no holding back, no inhibitions—only the primal instinct to claim you as his own.

☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆●~☆~●~☆~☆~●~☆

I Can't believe it!! What do you guys think? Let's just say Part 3 will be very steamy. I truly hope you enjoyed reading this.

Tag-list:

@impossibelle @paleidiot @tele86 @namelesssaviour @sstrohma @that-one-little-soybean @mybestfriendmademe @durgenyx @shinyghosteclipse @katherinejess

[slytherin-pen]

Loved And Lost

pairing: Bodhi Durran x Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: angst city

tags: no use of y/n, fem!reader, angst, post break-up

summary: You had grown tired of the secrets, and despite still loving him, you had to leave for your own sake. Now, Bodhi is stuck watching you from afar.

a/n: heavily inspired by the fact no matter how hot these men might be, i am too traumatized to not know where tf they’re going for hours every few nights. written for day 5 of Bodhi Week @empyreanevents

Bodhi Masterlist

Bodhi Duran had grown used to keeping secrets. He’d gotten good at slipping away when needed, at dodging questions with a crooked smile, at wielding half-truths like a sword. But nothing had prepared him for the agony of keeping secrets from you.

The worst part? You weren’t even angry. Not in the way people usually are when something ends. You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t thrown anything or cursed his name or made a scene in the middle of the courtyard. You had just looked at him.

And in that look, Bodhi had seen the whole thing unravel.

Because he knew you. Gods, he knew you like he knew the rise and fall of his own breath. He knew how you added five scoops of sugar to your tea, always joking that you weren’t sweet enough without it. He knew the way you kicked off every blanket in your sleep, only to burrow back under the sheets sometime before dawn. He knew how fiercely you loved.

And he knew what happened when you didn’t feel safe.

The worst part wasn’t the fight—because there hadn’t really been one. The worst part was the quiet. The moment you stopped asking where he was going. The moment your face no longer lit up when he came back. The moment he saw you just stare at him with that far-away look in your eyes, and he knew you were thinking of your ex.

The one who had cheated. Lied. Disappeared and came back with flimsy excuses. The one who made you believe that trust was a fragile thing that could only be broken once before it was beyond repair.

And Bodhi? He couldn’t even blame you for the comparison. Because what was he, if not another boy sneaking away without answers?

He’d never forget your voice the night it ended.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you had said, your voice so small and soft.

He still remembers the feeling of his heart stopping, his stomach sinking. He’d tried to fight it, of course. He had told you it wasn’t like that. Told you he wished he could explain. But you were too smart, too strong, and too hurt to accept words without substance.

“I know there are things you can’t say,” you had whispered, eyes shining. “But I can’t live like this. Always wondering, always worrying. I won’t put myself through that again. I deserve better.”

And Bodhi, deep down, had agreed.

Now he lived in the purgatory of proximity. He watched you every day from a distance.

From the corner of the dining hall as you laughed with your squadmates. From the sidelines as you beat an opponent on the mat that was twice your size, a grin splitting your face as your squad erupted in cheers. From across the field as your arms were thrown around a squadmate after winning war games.

He saw it all. And he clapped with everyone else. Pretended to be just another face in the crowd.

But gods, did it ache.

Because he used to be the one you’d run to. The one you’d let see the wild joy, the sharp pain, and the quiet moments in between. Now, all he had was the window he was forced to watch through.

And the hope that one day, maybe, he could tell you the truth. That it hadn’t been you. That it had never been about you. That the revolution was bigger than either of you, and if he’d had a choice, you would have known every secret he carried.

But you weren’t a marked one. Born and raised within the safety of the wards in Navarre, you’d never been touched by the horrors the way he had. You didn’t know the truth of the war. The venin. The rot beneath the surface of the very country you served.

And because of that, Bodhi had been forbidden from sharing the truth—even with the person he loved most.

Even when it meant losing you. Because despite his belief, his fellow marked ones and the people in danger beyond the wards were more important than his relationship with you. And telling you risked everything.

He hated that he knew how you worked. Knew that if someone broke your heart, you didn’t let them back in. Not even as friends. You didn’t give second chances. Not to people who left you wondering. Not to people who made you feel small.

You’d told him that once, a whisper in the dark as his fingers trailed down your bare back.

“I don’t do crumbs, Bodhi. I’m either all in, or all out. I won’t beg for someone to treat me how I deserve to be treated.”

The irony of it all, because now he was eagerly taking what little crumbs he could lick off the plate.

Xaden, for all his faults, had offered those scraps of knowledge without judgment.

“She earned a patch last week,” Xaden had said once after a briefing, not looking up from his maps.

Bodhi’s throat had closed.

“She���s one of the only ones who figured out the raid pattern,” Xaden had added, more quietly. “Smart as hell. You always said she was.”

Bodhi had nodded and said nothing. But the pride had bloomed in his chest like it always did.

Other times, it was less direct.

A glimpse of your silhouette through a window at night as he returned from a weapons drop, pacing your room in socked feet, just like you used to when you couldn’t sleep.

The way you still carried your dagger at your left hip, even though you were right-handed because he’d taught you to train both sides.

The way your eyes, when they met his across the courtyard, still held that flicker of something. A memory. A wound. But you always looked away first.

And Bodhi would take it. Because he had nothing else.

There was a time when your world had been threaded together with his. Lazy mornings curled up under the covers, your laughter muffled against his chest. Tea shared in silence while the campus roared to life outside. Fingers brushing against his jaw before you kissed him.

Now he drank bitter coffee and didn’t sleep. Now his bed stayed cold, his nights long and lonely. Now he looked through every window, around every corner, through every doorway—and looked for you in every crowd.

And he hated himself for it. Hated that he couldn’t say what he needed to say. Hated that he might never get the chance. Because you had always deserved honesty.

And instead, all he’d given you were lies and apologies.

Tonight, he stood under the archway overlooking the courtyard, hands in his pockets, watching.

You were there laughing with your squad, tossing a rolled bandage back and forth like a ball. Your hair was tied up, a smear of dirt across your cheekbone. You looked radiant.

He ached to walk toward you, but he didn’t move.

Someone cracked a joke and you threw your head back laughing, hand to your stomach, tears forming in your eyes.

Bodhi had seen that laugh a thousand times. Knew how it started in your belly, how it made you snort if you tried to hold it in.

He hadn’t realized how badly he missed it until he saw it again.

“Still torturing yourself?” Garrick’s voice cut in quietly, stepping beside him.

Bodhi didn’t glance away from you. “Every day.”

Garrick sighed. “She’s doing okay. Better than she was.”

“I know.”

“She still asks about you sometimes. To Imogen.” He paused. “She asked Im to keep an eye on you.”

Bodhi’s jaw clenched. “Sounds like her”

“She still loves you, even if she can’t be with you,” Garrick said.

The bandage-turned-ball flew a little too far and you chased after it, disappearing behind the bushes. Bodhi’s eyes followed until you vanished from view.

Garrick clapped him on the shoulder. “You should tell her. One day.”

“When it’s safe,” Bodhi murmured. “When it won’t put her in danger just to know.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Garrick said, already walking away. “You’re not the only one who sees how great she is.”

And that? That was the gut punch Bodhi didn’t need. Because he knew. He’d always known.

You were everything that made this broken world feel like something worth fighting for. And you were good—so achingly good.

So he would wait. He would wait until he could tell you the truth. Until he could look you in the eyes and say, “You were right to walk away. But gods, I never stopped loving you.”

And maybe, just maybe, you’d give him another chance. Until then, he’d take the glimpses.

Because sometimes love wasn’t about holding on. Sometimes it was about watching from afar, and hoping the person you lost would find their way back.

[vultbae]

water and oil ✩

tashi duncan x female reader blurb

↳ summary: the two female college tennis archenemies play against each other.

↳ warnings: angst, being closeted.

↳ notes: english is not my first language pookies! also, I couldn't believe there aren't almost any Tashi fics??? and happy pride! not proof-read btw

word count: 1.1k

An ear-piercing scream rips through the air, slicing through the ambient noise of the tennis court like a knife, instantly making your body freeze. Your chest aggressively compresses as you watch your lifetime opponent, Tashi Duncan, fall on her back and crumple to the ground in agony, hands clutching her injured knee as if trying to hold herself together. 

Everything has diverted into penetrating silence, and you feel your racket gradually slipping from your fingers, the once-familiar weight slipping away unnoticed as you stare at Tashi Duncan with shock and a rigid, fast-pounding heart. Her face is a torturous portrayal of suffering, with knitted eyebrows and a constant audible sob escaping her lips.

You can't —or are incapable— of moving a muscle; they have locked themselves with a key you forgot where you placed. Instead, you stare with tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over but held back by sheer will. Suddenly, the sour mutterings from the crowd began to stab the thick fog of your shock. At first, the voices were just a faraway hum, but soon, the words became crystal clear.

"Why isn't she helping her?" 

"Look at her—she doesn't even care. She will win by default."

"They hate each other; she won't help." 

You are aware that the public perception of your rivalry with Tashi is intense, fueled by years of competitive clashes on and off the court. So, technically, they aren't wrong. You kind of hate each other, at least publicly. Even college recruiters had recognized early on that your rivalry was too severe to coexist on the same team—you for UCLA and Tashi for Stanford. You are polar opposites in playing style and temperament, each embodying traits that clash rather than complement. 

While other tennis players in your age group get praised for their ability to work beautifully together, Tashi and you resemble more water and oil.

And water and oil don't mix. 

Your heart sinks further as your gaze shifts from Tashi Duncan to the male figure now hysterically rushing onto the court. He is tall and good-looking, with blonde curls and an exaggerated expression of concern that you find melodramatic and infuriatingly genuine all at once. Recognition dawns upon you like a dark cloud—Art Donaldson, the young tennis promise Tashi had been talking to lately, also from Stanford.

The sight of Donaldson crossing onto the court, jumping over the net without hesitation, and acting like a wannabe hero stirs a mixture of sour emotions within your core—jealousy, resentment, and a deep sense of helplessness. Of course, it makes absolute sense Tashi Duncan is dating a handsome, talented tennis player from her same school... and guess what? He came to the rescue! You internally cringe at the horrid thought of everyone applauding him for caring for your girlfriend.

The crowd's accusatory murmurs continue behind your back. Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you follow Art Donaldson's silhouette kneeling beside Tashi's body with eyes filled with hostility and envy. You watch as he gently takes Tashi's hand in his, his facial expression softening as he murmurs charming words of reassurance to the girl deliriously in pain. You can't tolerate it. You stay there, still torn and immobilized, with your mind racing and endeavoring to decide what to do. 

"Sometimes I wish I was a dude," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper in the quiet of Tashi's dimly lit college dorm. Tashi's fingers lightly brushed through your hair but abruptly stopped. "If I was that Patrick dude or the other blonde guy, my life would be ten times easier."  

You heard her sigh. 

"But you wouldn't be as good at tennis," Tashi softly replied, and you could tell she was avoiding conflict at all costs. 

A beat.

"But I would have you," you said, turning your head to face Tashi, whose expression remained reflective and contradictory as she stared into the soft glow of the lamp lying on her night table. "I promise that's all that matters to me, Tash," you reassured.

Your eyes met, each with equal sorrow and frustration. Tashi broke eye contact first.

Tashi knew that picking arguments with Patrick was very easy, and she didn't have the urge to speak of anything else annexed from tennis and sex with him. You somehow managed to actively amuse her with conversations regarding your crusty dog back home, the food you have tried when you travel abroad, and everlasting anecdotes that provoke you to giggle and steal a genuine smile from Tashi's lips every single time. 

And it wasn't too long after you exchanged your first words in private for her to realize she loved you. But not in a chummy way. Tashi romantically loved you.

But she never said it. Tashi just guessed you would assume she maniacally loved you, and you would satisfy yourself with that.

But the belief of Tashi loving you felt unimaginable in situations like this.

And now, the panorama of them together reflecting a couple straight out of a film—Art's concern etched on his face, Tashi's distress requiring attention—served as a stark, fucking bitter reminder of the captivating image they could market for years. They look perfect, they look—right.

So, why bother ruining Tashi's career? If her key to branding conquest is right there, kneeling next to her aching body in the form of a six-foot gorgeous tennis player.

In that rare moment of clarity, you make a sore, silent vow to honor your secret, to continue navigating the labyrinth of hidden tenderness and affection if Tashi doesn't decide to drop you after this.

But, as you are one intrusive thought away from stepping out of the court —or, better said, escape— Tashi's hazel orbs, flickering with anxiety and in between dried and brand-new tears, disembark on your outline. Internally, she wonders why you cry —at least as much as her, and you wish you could clarify is because you feel powerless. You are powerless. 

Tashi stares one, five, fifteen, thirty seconds. She doesn't quit. You stare back. Encircling her, the Stanford medical team consoles her and provides instructions to which she doesn't pay attention. To her right side, and almost covering the view of her, the blonde guy starts to question what —or who— she is looking at.

You mouth, "I love you."

Tashi's eyes widen slightly in surprise, and you can see that little pout of hers appearing over her lips.

Art turns to track Tashi's gaze, falling over you.

And when he's not looking, Tashi mouths back.

"I love you too."

And that's what matters because no one else needs to know that water and oil can mix.

[queersyourgender]

Hiiiii I have a request for Dana please. F!reader is talking to colleagues (maybe Cassie, maybe Trinity, or someone else, you decide who fits best for this) about her feelings for Dana, they’re encouraging her to go for it but reader isn’t so sure because Dana is way out of her league and reader is insecure because she’s younger than Dana. Dana accidentally overhears some of the conversation. Reader is flustered and embarrassed and pretty much runs away from the situation until she realises that Dana feels the same way. Thank you!!!

Out of Her League — Dana Evans x F!Reader

Notes: WLW for the mf win!!! Thank you for this lovely request, enjoy <3

———

“Donnie,” you bemoan in agony, leaning over the crates in the storage room as you watch your fellow nurse take stock and resupply the shelves instead of helping him like you're supposed to be. “Donnie, I'm dying.”

He shoots a deadpan look your way, entirely unamused after having heard the same sentence how many times in the past thirty minutes alone. “Do you think you could use your dying breath to work with me here?” He asks, half-joking and half-not, as he gestures to all the things he has to arrange. “This is a lot of stuff.”

With a begrudging grumble, you move along and do your job. But your pathetic, morose expression and sagged shoulders make Donnie groan, relenting within seconds and turning to you again. “Look, I don't know what else you want me to say,” he tells you frankly. “I already gave you my piece. Just tell her.”

“But she's going to think I'm a creep!” You exclaim, immediately abandoning your task at the opportunity to talk about what's really important to you as you throw your hands in the air in frustration. “She's going to think I'm one of those weird fetishists that's just looking for an older woman! And like, it's not like she's not a total banger MILF, but that's not why I'm in love with her!”

Donnie's face goes on a journey of expressions ranging from extremely horrified to pleasantly surprised to mildly exasperated. “Okay, one: do not refer to Dana as a MILF where I can hear you ever again,” he begs, putting one finger up as he speaks. “And two, did you just say you're in love with her?”

At the second question, you give him an incredulous look. “Was that not obvious?” You demand, almost upset by the fact that he somehow didn't catch on. “I've been waxing poetic about her since I started working here, Donnie, of fucking course I'm in love with Dana! Have you seen her? She's so… so… She's everything!”

When you bury your face in your hands to muffle a quiet scream, you miss the way Donnie's eyes glance at the doorway, widen in surprise, then fall back on you. He schools his expression before you see it and casually, very nonchalantly, crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the wall behind himself.

“Alright, humor me here for a second,” he tells you, a strange lilt to his voice that you can't quite place, making you look up at him with a curious expression. Donnie looks like he's holding back a smile, for some reason. “Tell me some reasons why you like her so much.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets at the words, because that's the first time anyone's ever asked you to talk about it rather than the opposite. You keep watching him for a moment, wary of his intentions, but when he gives you an encouraging nod, the floodgates open.

“Well, for starters, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life,” you start strong, turning away from him slightly as your wring your hands in your lap. “I'm talking ethereal levels of beauty here, Donnie. She's gorgeous. So gorgeous that, already, with her looks alone, she's way out of my league.”

Donnie doesn't seem to quite like your choice of words because he frowns at that, opening his mouth to most likely protest, but you don't give him the chance. “And she's so caring, Don,” you soldier on, your heart racing at the mere thought of your crush. “She cares so much, genuinely, about everyone. She's got such a wonderful soul, her laugh could heal me from the plague itself. She's so kind, and she's so fucking funny. She makes every day so much better by just being.”

Your friend's eyes soften at your words, both amusement and something else, something weirdly mischievous, glinting within his unreadable gaze. “Okay,” he says simply, and you give him a baffled look when he suddenly grins at you. “Could you do me a favor and turn around?”

Every particle of oxygen in your lungs dissipates upon hearing those words. No, you think with horror, he wouldn't do this to me. He wouldn't. But as you very, very slowly turn around to look at the doorway, your heart stops beating in your chest altogether at the sight of Dana standing right there, looking at you with wide eyes and parted lips.

You make a shrill, mortified sound, slapping your hands over your mouth in disbelief. You barely pay Donnie any attention as he apologetically pats you on the shoulder then walks out of the storage room, leaving the two of you to your own devices to hash things out.

For a while, nobody says anything. A beat passes with nothing but a terse silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, Dana tilts her head head at you, watching you with careful eyes as she asks: “Do you really think I'm out of your league, sweetheart?”

It's not a new pet name, she uses it on you all the time, and yet it makes your face burn hotter than the flames of a thousand suns in this moment. “Uh, yes?” You reply, like it's obvious. “Look at you, Dana. Why the hell would you go for a young, inexperienced idiot like me?”

The older woman frowns, walking further into the room and right up to you. Your breath hitches in your throat as she comes up so close, so close to you, that you can feel her exhale on your skin. Gently, she raises a hand and tucks a stray lock of your hair behind one of your red-tipped ears.

“You're not an idiot,” she corrects, first and foremost, a small, displeased crease forming between her brows at the mere notion. It clears up when she smiles at you, and you physically feel your brain shoot out a burst of serotonin at the sight. “Maybe you should let me decide who I want to be with? Over a drink or two, preferably.”

Your eyes widen significantly and your jaw drops. “Did…” You starts to say, stammering and stuttering as the gears turn in your head and you connect the dots of what she just said. “Did you just ask me out on a date?”

Dana laughs, and unfathomingly, blushes slightly at your words. “That I did,” she confirms, sounding oddly shy about it, which baffles you completely, totally, and utterly, because what does she have to be shy about? Did she not hear how gone you already are on her? “So what do you say?”

You beam, bright and wide, and nod your head. “Yes, please.”