#after the death road despair

[villainartist]

i do not like when people say kaede would be a static protagonist if she survived the game like as if she wouldnt have 5 whole additional chapters for shit to be thrown her way and see how she'd change and adapt... plenty of writers have pulled off this idea with flying colors so idk why ppl say "ok but IN CANON kaede would just vote hope/despair in the end!" like LITERALLY WE DONT KNOW THATTT THOUGHHHH . shuichi was very different in ch1 compared to ch6 why is kaede exempt from this logic...............

[silicon-tmblr]

Found a good book series so I've been busy

[wisteriasonthemoon]

"And in the end...it still wasn't."

... and?

[gnomishcunning]

there’s something delightfully angsty thinking about rolan, trying and failing to cope with his (seemingly) unrequited feelings for tav.

there’s this person, this hero, who has a magnetic attraction or second sense for whenever rolan is experiencing despair. they swoop in and play a first-hand witness to every godawful moment in his life. from keeping them from leaving the grove and perishing on the road, to finding him drunk off his ass at last light, to walking into sorceries sundries and blatantly questioning the bruises on his face.

worst off, they do everything in their power to fix it: they keep him and his siblings together, they save his only family from the depths of moonlight towers and his own ass from the shadowlands, and then beat up his abusive master and hand him an Archmage’s title on a silver platter.

by act 3 of baldur’s gate he owes all his success to this person he can only mentally rectify as his personal guardian angel. he has his life, his family, and he’s living his lifelong dream thanks to them. they’ve seen him at his worse and they did everything in their power to help him anyways, and what does he get?

an ego that died a quiet death somewhere in the shadowlands, that got buried under Lorroakan’s boot heel. a tower and a magic canon that, gods help him, may help him find a way to repay a single iota of the multiple life debts he owes his hero. memories of his mistreatment of them along the road to baldur’s gate.

and these feelings, these godsawful feelings he can’t bring himself to put a name to. a longing so great it hurts, admiration so deep it he hasn’t found the depths of it, a love so great it scares him, so desperate it has him making awkward, stilted jokes about being friends, pledging his help to fight a literal netherbrain, jokingly (not jokingly) referring to himself as the dashing master - trying and failing to endear himself to his seemingly-insane savior while they prance about in a party full of insanely attractive bachelors, all gunning for their attention.

he knows he can’t compare, after how he treated them. he just doesn’t measure up. they’ve seen him at his worst and he can’t be loved by someone like them, after that, but-

his grumpy little jokes always earn him that weird little sideways smile, and it sends his heart a-fluttering.

so he’s going to try.

he’s always been good at embracing hopelessness, anyways

[acapelladitty]

bereft of grace

Summary: Defeated by Messmer, you find that his plans for you, a mongrel tarnished, are far different than what you might expect.

(tw: non-con, humiliation, forced stripping, restraints, mild tit torment, rough sex, size difference, stretching, vaginal fingering, creampie, overstimulation, pain)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

You feel the infernal chill of his helm pressing against the side of your face as he lowers his head to your own. His words, soft-spoken and laced with cruelty, brush across your ears as your naked back remains pinned to his chest - restrained by both the strength of his arm pulling tightly across your stomach and the unshakeable wrap of the snakes which lace across your wrists to keep your hands useless and pinned against your sides.

"Mongrel tarnished." He growls the words like a slur, silken hatred pairing with the predatory knowledge that you were truly helpless in his arms. "Thy kind are good for naught."

A serpentine tongue slips free of his lips to stroke a languid line across your neck, tasting the sweat of your battle and the fear that had long since laced your skin since he had deprived you of your torn clothing; the shredded materials laying in a discarded pile below your suspended frame. His tongue is warm, wet and the sensation of it brushing along the sensitive skin of your throat is as arousing as it is repulsive.

"Stripped of gold."

Thin fingers force their way between your legs, widening your thighs as they push at and grope the skin there so roughly that you know small, circular bruises will be left in their wake. His hand slides further, your breath hitching with despair as he presses against your most private flesh; lengthy digits stroking along your slit to test the skin there as they tease your slightly-wet hole before slipping up to graze across the ultra-sensitive nub of your clit.

"Stripped of grace."

Gasping as he pushes two of his fingers within you with little preamble, the sudden stretch of the intrusion burns like hellfire and you cry out as he starts to pump them inside your walls. Your body responds despite itself, his long digits stroking areas which were quick to ignite a warmth in your cunt that made your brain feel fuzzy despite the hollowing discomfort.

"Stripped even of thy paltry linens."

The heat is oppressive, the flames which he was able to conjure in an instant making his body feel like a furnace where it touches your own - even through his armour - and it pairs with the shameful warmth which rolls from your own body as you find yourself pressing down into his hand like a bitch in heat.

As soon as he had robbed you of your weapon, you assumed death was to swiftly follow and a genuine fear of being impaled like so many of the corpses which littered the road to the Shadow Keep immediately made you compliant to his commands. You had dropped to the floor and awaited a swift death which was not to come as his hand had stayed, something almost like amusement playing in his drawn face as he noted the instant submission and ordered you to approach him.

He had ripped your clothing from you, tearing it with a demigods strength as you shivered and ignored the hot shame which paired with the fear in your heart. His snakes followed their masters will without verbal instruction, the infernal heat of them as they slid across your skin making you gasp as forked tongues tasted their way across your shuddering frame to lock your hands in place.

After that, it didn't take long for Messmer to make his move. His gaze, split between hues of gold and the abyssal void, had taken its time in your appraisal - peering into your anguish and fear-laced expression before roving across your ample breasts and lower half. A rail-thin hand had struck like one of his many serpents, harshly gripping at your upper arm to spin you in place and allowing him to scoop you close as inhumane strength lifted you from the floor as though you weighed nothing.

Nothing in the face of a demigod.

Thoughts snapping back into the moment as a third finger breaches your hole, a pained howl slips free of your lips as you writhe in place - attempting to pull away from the pleasurable pain with a futile struggle. Sex and bodily pleasure wasn't unknown to you, but the sheer power which rolled from the demigod who seemed determined to amuse himself with your flesh made it difficult to focus on anything outside of the humid air and the sensations he was forcing upon you.

"Thy kind are fit for use as a fleshly pleasure. No more. Strip all thoughts of lordship from thy desires before my hand is pushed to strip thy skin from such soft flesh."

Fresh snakes slither across your chest, the thin bodies wrapping around the globes of your breasts and tightenening to the point of true discomfort - the rope-like restraints making a wicked pressure quickly build up in your abused chest. Sinking their fangs into the sensitive skin just below your chest, the snakes showed no sign of letting up their firm hold and you almost sob with relief as Messmer's thick fingers pull free of your cunt.

It's a short-lived peace though, as his slickened fingers are quick to establish how tight the hold his snakes have achieved and a guttural cry breaks free of your throat as his large hands move to pinch at your chest roughly. Nipples perked due to the pressure and arousal which is rolling through your stimulated frame, he's careful to snatch the sensitive nubs between his fingers, one at time, until fresh tears spring into your eyes and your back arches violently into his chest while your lips form a constant stream of pleas and whines.

"For one so cursed and devoid of all, thy voice is surprisingly sweet." And although you cannot see his face, you can hear the predatory arousal which accompanies the words.

He was enjoying himself, attempting to force you to do the same.

"You are the cursed one."

Finding your voice, you yelp out the words like an accusation - arousal, shame, and mild horror sparking a momentary boldness which you immediately regret as his body stiffens and a sharp chill replaces the cruel warmth of his earlier tones.

"True, little tarnished. My curse is borne in the void of the abyssal serpent. Naught more than a monster, I will force thee to embrace thy oblivion and know such suffering."

Something blunted presses against your hole and your panicked struggle renews as you feel just how big he is, the girth making genuine fear lance your spine as you realise that his earlier rough treatment with his fingers was a necessity more than anything else. Aside from the stretch which his fingers provided, you were horrified to feel just how wet you were as his cock grazed along your slit; collecting your arousal to ensure an easier entry as he forced himself inside such a tight-fit space.

The noise that slips free of your throat is inhumane, guttural and raw, as the head of his cock breaches past your hole. It feels like it's going to split you apart and the sheer burning ache of the merciless stretch instantly overpowers any other feeling in your body - your toes curling as a wracked sob shakes your trembling frame.

"Please! Please, st-stop." The words are a babble, stuttered and broken, as you try to force yourself to relax around him, to adjust to his infernal size. "My lord, please."

The unexpected use of his title earns a rumble of approval and his lips are hot against your neck once more as his sharpened teeth graze across the sensitive flesh while he considers the plea with a low hum.

"Thy slickened folds tell of a differing desire, little tarnished." Messmer growls, keeping his cock still as he allows himself to acclimatise to his gripping tightness of your spasming cunt. "But I am not a rutting beast, devoid of all mercies. Ask it of me and I shall see to thy own pleasures."

Fresh shame flushed through your frame, adding another layer of heat to the already sweat-slicked skin as you listen to his offer. He would force you to ask this of him. To make you accomplice to your own unmaking. A cruel mercy, but a mercy which you would take him on as the alternative seemed impossible to bear.

"I beg you, my- my lord. Please, use me."

His chuckle is victorious and wicked in its joy as Messmer pulls you lower on to his cock, forcing another two inches of him within your aching hole. However, true to his word, his free arm, the one not pinning you to his chest, slips down between your legs and you gasp as his finger circles itself at the top of your cunt, seeking out your most sensitive flesh.

He knows he has found it when you jerk in his arms, an electric bolt of pleasure arcing across your skin as his calloused finger grazes your swollen clit. It sparks him to pick up a slow pace, his cock breaching your hole until it presses flush against your cervix before pulling free until only the head remains. A slow pace, but a brutal one as every thrust makes it feel like he is pulling your walls free with him - the friction immediately sending your body into overdrive.

His finger never lets up the pressure on your clit; alternating between grazing along it directly and gently thumbing circles around it as the dual manipulations forced your legs wider, your body seeking more pleasure to offset the ache of the stretch. Pain and pleasure, both sensations at war within your tortured flesh until his thumb presses just a little too roughly against your nub and you came undone.

Clenching around his cock, your release brings with it a low scream as waves of pleasure roll across your body. Messmer seems to appreciate the forced pleasure, if the growing pace of his cock is anything to go by, but the continued stimulation of his thrusts only serves to make your orgasm draw out until your body twitches from the aftershocks.

"So easily pleasured. Were it not for thy warriors garb and weaponry, I would have assumed thee a courtesan. A temptress, well-versed in the pleasures of men."

Messmer grunts the insult as he continues to fuck you without mercy but his humiliating words barely register within your overstimulated mind as your whimpers fill the large room. His voice is full of excitement and you can hear the slight gasps which exist between the words and how they speak of his own coming release.

His cock having ruined your most sensitive walls, the dull ache of the stretch now only serves to enhance the pleasure and you cannot help but clench around him, pulling him to his finish as his cock twitches within you.

The arm around your stomach tightens, as do the snakes which remain bound across your suffering frame and you feel the heat of his release as it scorches you from the inside out, much hotter than any man you had been with before. Seeking his own pleasure, Messmer pulls you tight, forcing his cock up hard against your battered cervix as his mouth buries itself into your neck - teeth and tongue making a mess of your skin as he marks the territory like a beast.

It all proves too much and you come again, your cunt fluttering and squeezing his cock as low, animalistic noises break free of your lips. Your strength leaves you in an instant after the initial high and the loose limbs of your frame are only supported by his arm and snakes as he keeps you suspended like a puppet until he's finished with you.

His cock pulls out, the movement slow and certain, and the moment his cockhead slips free you feel the heat of his release trickle down your thighs as a gaping emptiness seems to fill the space between your legs. Despite the heat, you feel cold and you whimper anew as his snakes unlatch themselves from your chest and retreat back to their master.

Messmer's breathing is heavy and his chest feels as hot as ever against your naked back, even his armour having lost its metallic chill, as he continues to hold you in place. Aching, twitching, and thoroughly fucked you lay passively in his arm, your entire body feeling loose and untrustworthy.

After a minute has passed, Messmer speaks once more and his hoarse words are delivered to your ear as he lifts you slightly higher.

"My vague amusement with thee requires further consideration." As silken as before, you shudder at the close proximity as you rub your mess-slickened thighs together. "And so my offer is thus: remain in the Shadow Keep as a personal courtesan to myself, a role in which no other man nor beast shall lay hand on thee, or choose to return to ash and I shall grant thee a swift death until thy body is restored by the grace of gold which thee are unworthy of."

Your breath hitches, both options relaying in your mind as you recover from the shock of the unexpected offer. Messmer, however, did not appear to be a patient man and his arm jostled you slightly as he instsntly pushed for a response.

"Well, little tarnished, what is thy choice?"

[hereforthehitsbaby]

Behave | Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Synopsis: Eddie always told you to behave on game nights - but tonight you were feeling extra bratty.

Warning: Slight Smut, Finger Sucking, Mimicking Blow Job, Spanking, Dom!Eddie, Public Displays of Lewdness, Fingering Mentioned, Language, Drug Use, "Daddy," Choking,

Rating: E - NO MINORS!

Word Count: 3.6K

Best Friend; A person's closest friend. Someone who will be there for you no matter what, someone who you can trust with your deepest and darkest secrets. Best thing about having someone be that close, you could be comfortable with one another and know you will never be judged. That was the best part about it all, knowing you can openly be yourself without the feeling of dread or fear. Everyone needs someone like that in their life, whether they would like to admit it or not. It's the truth at the end of the day. Everyone could use a best friend who will be there through thick and thin, who will pump them up whenever they are feeling low. It isn't to make others jealous, but to help with your own brand of faults and doubts. Sometimes having someone who will openly reassure you is better than just being silent - instead of letting you wallow in your own despair. For you, he was the chosen one. He was the one to take those doubts away, and flourish you into the world of beauty. Though really, he loved when you were more; Teasing, taunting, overall sexy.

Being a tease was in your nature, whether you wanted to believe it or not. Something about riling up your friends was funny. Maybe it was seeing what flustered them, and what made them tick. After all, it was all in good fun - your friends didn't seem to mind. I mean, how could they when you're gorgeous? Especially when Eddie Munson was the bestest of your friends. He really enjoyed when you teased him, openly flirted with him, and even when you would climb into his lap like it was nothing. Though you both were heavily adamant, you were just friends. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. It was a safety precaution after all, in case if things didn't work out the integrity of your friendship would not be ruined. To the naked eye of your friend group, the two of you were platonic with a capital P, whilst in private you could've sworn you were lovers. Just the way he handled your body, making you bend to his will - how you'd give yourself up to him, he was damned if he fell in love. It was normal for you two to experiment with one another - to find what you like and how it should be done. All the best adventures, came from Eddie.

That 5"11' brown eyed beauty would be the death of you at some point, truly a gracious man who would take care of you at the drop of a hat. Eddie Munson was your person, your forever in such a brutal world. When he had slid into your life at fourteen years old, you were a goner. That was around the same time he had grown his mullet out a bit so it was more of a hair metal variety. Bright brown eyes were like a puppy's, constantly begging and pleading to be loved. That is all Eddie truly wanted at the end of the day - to feel the love neither of his parents had given him. Growing up with his uncle, it was rare to show any sign of affection - making him feel almost robotic at times. But, when you were caught on the swings smoking a joint in front of a bunch of kids - he knew you could love him like he needed. He offered you a light to reignite your end of the joint, suckling the smoke deeply as it swirled within your lungs. Simply you passed it off to him; That entire day you spent running through the fountains near Hawkins downtown, causing chaos every moment you could. He was in love with you from the start, it was obvious.

"Sweetheart, I need you to behave tonight. We are at the halfway point in the campaign. No distractions, okay?" Eddie pleaded as he drove down the rickety dirt road near Hawkins High. Thursday nights were dedicated to Hellfire - the D&D club Eddie has ran since Freshman year. When you became the new soul to Hawkins, Eddie was the first to bring you into the sacred circle - loving how easily you fit in with the others and how great of a rogue dark elf you are. It made his heart beam that the girl of his dreams, also loved the same music, books and games. But, Eddie wouldn't admit that he fucking loved when you were being a tease, purposely turning him on during the most inconvenienced of times. There was something about being bent to your will he could not get enough of, especially when he was heavily rooted in the campaign. It wasn't outlandish for all of the guys to see - but enough for Eddie to silently berate you. The other guys were oblivious, which was cute.

You turned to Eddie's side in the van, crossing your arms over your chest and pouting with an audible hmph, knowing that cannot be arranged. A chuckle slipped from Eddie's lips as he heard you sweet little sound, your pout the cutest thing he had ever seen. He was a weakened man for you, that was a no brainer. "I cannot make any guarantees, Eddie the Banished." You knew Eddie was a slut for you calling him by his Dungeon Master name - which you found sexy. Just seeing how his hands gripped the steering wheel a bit harder to make the leather crunch beneath his fingers, was enough ammunition you needed to keep going. With Eddie's eyes becoming hooded in lust, he strained his fingers against the wheel. "Fuck, you love I love it when you call me that, sweetheart." Indeed you did, hence why this was going to be an absolutely torturous night for sweet Eddie Munson - not when the love of his life was bound to kill him with teasing. "If you're going to tease me, at least get it out before the game." Eddie pleaded with you, turning his head to face yours as the light remained red, gulping his worries down.

"Aw, Eddie? Are you okay, baby boy?" You pouted playfully, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. You could hear the strain of the steering wheel beneath your fingers, causing his body to convulse in the slightest. His knee was bouncing up and down whilst waiting for the light, trying so hard to contain his raging hard on in his jeans, trying so hard to not fuck you in the back of his van in the school parking lot. You made Edie crazy, but he fucking craved it. Eddie slammed to 60 when the light turned green, speeding down the last set of dirt roads by the high school while you waited to tease him. Eddie wouldn't give you the chance to do so though, for as soon as he pulled into the parking lot, he left you in the van. No keys, no words, just grabbed his lunch box and that was it. In a way you silently wondered if you took this too far with him, if you made him angry by teasing. Your heart began to race with the possible realization that Eddie was mad at you, causing a sliver of doubt to shine within your bones. But alas, like everything else in life, you pushed it down and never thought of it again.

Slowly you crept the passengers side door open to be met with the cool early summer breeze against your freshly shaved legs; High waisted leather skirt caused the breeze to slide underneath. Adorning your torso was your very own Hellfire Club shirt, tucked into the band of your bottoms. With the blackened boots and studs on your feet, you hopped out of the van with a clank of the heels - sighing out softly. Truly you were worried that you may have pissed Eddie off, which would make the game that much more awkward. But as soon as you were about to be wrapped up in your worries, you heard the infamous giggle of one Dustin Henderson rolling through your ears, shoving your door closed with a smile. "Hello, Lady Thesa! Are you ready to completely annihilate the cult of Vecna?" Dustin smiled sweetly, tagging Mike and Lucas along with him. Smiling widely as you rolled your eyes, you bowed to the boys with a short curtsey, trying not to laugh. "Of course I am, ready to kick that slimeballs ass once and for all!" You exclaimed proudly, causing the three to scream in agreement.

The four of you made your way to the double doors of the school, the only set that would be opened tonight. It was cute hearing how excited the guys were to get to the halfway point - needing to level up and get their steel armor finally. If there was anyway you all would beat Vecna, it was with the best of the best armor. The halls of Hawkins high were bare from the world; Cold, almost decayed with the scent of death - and gym socks. It was weird always being back at the school late at night with nothing else around, no one else around for that matter. Principal Higgins, as much as he was a douchebag, gave Eddie a key to the school for these reasons - though he barely trusted Munson. It was funny, you and Eddie being the oldest of the groups - just due to the fact that he stayed back three times and you, well you had the unfortunate luck of your transcripts getting lost in the mail, meaning you had to repeat freshman year twice. Maybe its because Eddie officially ran Hellfire Club but, you always had a spare.

The chatter coming from the science classroom made your stomach drop, hearing Eddie's loud voice booming through the hiss of the lights overhead. Dustin, Lucas and Mike ran into the class before you did, screaming along with Eddie, Jeff and Gareth. Meanwhile you, you trailed into the class lastly, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you wandered over to Eddie's side. Plopping down next to Gareth, Eddie noticed where was a twinkle of something in your eyes - something that made you not want to look at him. Is she mad I walked away from her earlier? Eddie's mind pondered so many different possibilities and fears, wondering if he was too harsh in what he did. But really, this was just one giant fucking game. "Hey Gareth, could you please be a darling and pass me by dice?" You smiled sweetly at the flannel wearing guy, batting your lashes softly. His face instantly reddened at your flattery, fingers trembling as they grabbed your purple satchel from the pile. Sending him a wink as a thank you, you hummed softly as poured them out beside your character sheet. "You look really pretty today," the soft tone of Gareth's words made your heart soar, the heat creeping upon your cheeks.

You nudged Gareth's shoulder with your own, smiling sincerely at his compliment, not knowing exactly how to function after it. "Thank you, that's really sweet of you to say!" You made sure the sentence was loud enough for Eddie to hear. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Eddie's mouth screwed up into a solid line, his fingers gripping the ballpoint pen as if he was trying to kill it. His leg shook the entire table, making some of the pieces turn over accidentally. "Jesus Eddie, did you forget to pop your quaaludes before the meeting?" Jeff snorted, causing Eddie to slam his hands down on the table, everyone shutting up so quickly. Eddie's beady eyes bored into everyone's, mainly yours with fury. You had never seen Eddie so pissed off before, or just mad in general. Usually if the guys joked around like this then Eddie was all giggles too. But tonight, something was different - something was off. "Listen here you little shits, I am not in the mood to fuck around. Get your shit together, or get the fuck out!" Eddie snapped, surprised with the tone of his own voice. He jumped back slightly at his own harsh remark, wincing towards the group. "I'm sorry - just...a lot going on."

Everyone was understanding, nodding and keeping their lips sealed until Eddie began the campaign. You barely needed to do anything here tonight, Eddie was already frustrated because of you. In a way you felt bad for working him up, but on the same length you were only just getting started. As Eddie began to recite where you all had left off, you leaned into your fanny pack to grab out a lollipop, unwrapping the blow pop - cherry - your favorite. As you popped the candy into your mouth, you wrote down your updated stats on your character sheets, not giving a second glance to the DM. "Lady Thesa, you see a Rust Monster coming your way out of the darkened woods. It's body insect like, the color of rust with antenna's that can easily wrap around you. Do you fight, or do you flee?" Eddie recited to you, cocking his brow as you swirled the lolly against your tongue. Popping it freshly out, dripping with your saliva, you nod to him with a smirk; "I'll fight that fucker." Eddie's eyes were dazzling over the lollipop, breath hitching as you traced your tongue on the underside of the protruding top, wrapping your perfect lips around it.

You grabbed two D7 dice from your pile in front, the purple and black glittering in the overhead lights. Shaking them in your hand was phallic in itself; You were mimicking a hand job directly at Eddie. As the two dice fell down to the board, you noticed how you hit the rust monster with an attack of fourteen, meaning you wounded him enough to take fourteen damage. Everyone around you cheered and Gareth clapped your back, rubbing smooth circles over your shirt. A flush rose to Gareth's cheek as you rested your hand on his lower thigh, gently rubbing his jeans as you giggled. Eddie hated that someone other than him was making you giggle, making your smile so hard your cheeks hurt, fuck even making you shiver with delight. That is something Eddie always did - to see that he was almost being replaced hurt a lot. But he could not let you get away with this. Clutching the dice of the rust monster in his hand, Eddie threw the D20 down with haste, seeing how it landed only on five - meaning you got to do another hit of damage. The way Eddie perched himself in the chair, his back against the wood and his legs spread wide, made you shiver with lust. The way his sinful hands grasped at the arms of the chair, as if he would rip them off at any given moment.

"Kick his ass Lady Thesa, stun them with your beauty." Gareth was on a roll tonight with the compliments. You wondered if it was because Eddie wasn't being obsessive about you, wondering if he was doing it to get a rise out of Munson. Either way, it was sweet of shy Gareth to speak up finally, looking at you like you were a prize. When Gareth leaned forward to whisper in your ear, that was enough to made Eddie snap. "Time out!" His voice boomed over the chatter of everyone, causing the room to stand still. Before anyone could ask Eddie if he was okay, the brute stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door behind. His jackets were laid across his bag on the floor, you wondered if he had a smoke to calm his nerves. Sighing out loud, you slowly pushed out of your chair, rubbing your forehead before heading towards the door. "What's gotten into him?" Mike asked with confusion, causing you to shrug. "I don't know but we will be back, I am going to see what's up."

This was very out of character for your Eddie, and you wanted to do what you could to give him peace in the process. As you left the classroom, you looked up and down both halls - not seeing a lick of Eddie anywhere. Groaning to yourself, you quickly sped down the right side of the hall, heading towards where the gym and locker rooms would be. There were only about four classrooms - all senior level art, psychology, history and culinary. He could be hiding out in one of those, you pondered, but just which one? You reached for the first class which happened to be the art room. Elongated black tables lined each row - showcasing off eight of them with four chairs at each. It was weird to see one of your classes in the darkened night, fluorescent lightbulbs not burning your eyes. "Eddie?" You called out with a hum, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you sighed out. You were nervous he was mad at you, or worse yet - he wanted you to leave. "Eddie I'm-" you began, but were cut off with two strong hands pinning your shoulders back against the air. The slice of tension covered your body like a wet blanket, unable to move under the force. His left hand slid from your shoulder to your neck, pushing down on your pulse point like it was nothing.

"You must think you're real fucking cute, don't you?" Eddie hissed as he tightened his grip, his right hand coming to pin your hip to the board behind you. Easily you could feel your eyes growing darker as they dilated. Eddie was possessive sure, but he never used this sort of force outside of the bedroom. In all honesty, it was hot to you, knowing how much you loved to be choked. Giving Eddie your best impression of doe eyes, you slowly let your smile creep forth, showcasing your reddened lips and tongue from the lollipop earlier, you had discarded when you were rolling. "Mhm, of course I do, Munson." You challenged him back, looking him up and down for two seconds. He was lost in your words, how you played feigned innocence so well. This time around it wasn't going to work on him, no, he was already deep into his mind of fury. Still holding your throat in his hand, Eddie marched you backwards to the emptied desk of the art teacher Mrs. Callough, watching how your bared thighs trembled. Eddie paced himself out by removing one of his hands from your body, using it to push your tight leather skirt over the swell of your ass, showing how you had forgone your panties for the evening, letting your naked core be only a few inches away from exposure.

"Naughty, naughty girl - you fucking menace." Eddie growled from behind, laying a harsh crack against your right ass cheek. The sensation made you jolt forward, stifling a waning moan. Before you could speak out against Eddie's spank, he laid another one flush to the other cheek, feeling the skin heat under his touch. It was like rapid fire at that rate, he kept laying harsh smacks against your ass almost to learn your lesson, but instead it caused you to go dumb. Your mouth hung open, collecting your own saliva as broken moans slipped out. Your cunt clenched around nothing, hoping to god he would shove his fingers or cock within you. Each spank got rougher than the last, his fingertips digging into the rounded, pillowy flesh like it was nothing - almost to show you who you belonged to. After fifteen, you had lost count, the pain mixed with the pleasure, you couldn't control yourself from wanting your best friend. "D-D-Daddy," you let out, tearing welling in the corner of your eyes. "Have you learned your lesson yet, princess?" Ah, so this was a punishment, you thought, feeling your heart swell.

Rapid nods fell from your head as Eddie placed a soothing palm over your now heated ass, letting the cool tips of his rings cool your backside. "Y-Yes, I am s-sorry." You muttered, letting Eddie help you stand up to straighten your tight skirt. Eddie cupped your cheek softly, running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, watching how it puffed out just for him. "It's okay, sweetheart. I forgive you. If you can be a good girl, I'll let you come on my fingers under the table while we play - okay?" Eddie smiled softly, peppering kisses to your forehead, cheeks, nose and chin, watching how your heart raced with affection. Eddie did take amazing care of you, even when you were being a brat. That was what you loved most about him, and his darkened side. "I love you, Eddie." You let out louder than normal, causing his plush lips to turn up into a loving smile, leaning forth to kiss you so tenderly. "I love you, my darling."

[lalunanymph]

MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru

⟡ the day you met your demise is the same day you met gojo satoru, your betrothed from a world so different from yours—a cruel prince who is undoubtedly in love with someone else. as the stakes rise and you race against the clock to beat your brutal fate, can you make the ultimate choice between your heart or your happily ever after?

includes: fem!reader, reader is a florist in our world, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is in cerena's body, princess cerena is described to have pink hair and feminine features, isekai-ed reader, mentions of death, mentions of blood, assault, injuries, smoking, mentions of terminal illnesses (cancer), language

⟡ masterlist

ACT 1, SCENE 1: MIRI'S REPRIEVE

It was horrifyingly cold tonight. 

Your body seized with bouts of shivers the second you stepped out of your shop, the smell of roses lingering in your hair. The lights are already switched off, the tulips you were shearing just a few seconds ago placed in crystal vases by the shop window to keep them from wilting overnight. 

However, as much as you try to distract yourself, there’s a shake in your hands you cannot ignore.

Pulling out a crumpled cigarette from your jacket pocket, you burn the end of the white stick with your cheap convenience store lighter, watching the flickering flames cast shadows across the wet road as you’re suddenly struck by a thought from a long, long time ago. 

The great Greek philosopher, Plato, once theorized that humans were born whole. 

Each of us, regardless of race, creed, or religion, shared one body, four arms, four legs and two faces fused together on a singular head. 

However, the gods—vain as they were—feared the human’s increasing power and Zeus himself devised to split them into two separate parts, forever condemning mortals to search for their other half in a journey filled with despair, longing and loneliness.  

The first time you heard this in Philosophy 101, a part of you was intrigued, if not a little terrified at the notion. While you weren’t a particularly huge subscriber to the idea of having a soulmate, it did have a sense of appeal for a girl raised on stories of handsome princes saving dainty princesses from their castles of grief and isolation. 

But, tonight, your jumbled mind can’t stay on Plato or distractions for too long. It constantly circles back to your mom.  

The scans she took had came back positive, and the doctor’s bleak voice on the other end of the line read like a death knell to your flimsy hopes that the cancer hadn’t spread further than her stomach. 

Your eyes weighed heavily, the burden of knowing sanding you to the bare bones till you felt close to breaking down on the cold road, screaming and shaking your fist at the night sky; cursing the gods for tearing the only person in the world who still loved you from your side.

Why they did it, you will never know. 

You weren’t exceptionally powerful nor did you pose a threat to the deities above. You were a simple florist in the middle of the city, trying to make ends meet and pay all your bills on time; nothing but a tax-paying citizen and a role model for small business women trying to make it big in a competitive city.

Smoke curls around your figure and you suck on the nicotine, letting it coat the back of your throat and numb the ends of your fingers.

Oblivious to your surroundings, you tread past an alleyway, ignoring the scampering of rats and smell of garbage burning through your nose. You inhale another toxic breath, expelling it out and watching the plume of smoke disappear upwards.

“Hey.” 

Nothing could prepare you for what came next. 

Turning around to appraise the voice calling you from the shadows, white hot pain cracks through your head, leaving you blind from the sudden assault.

Your cigarette falls somewhere at your feet, and you tumble to the gravelly ground on your hands and knees, skinning your palms as your ragged breaths echo in this dilapidated and abandoned alleyway. 

A hand shoots out to grab your purse, and before you can croak a yell or blindly turn to confront your assailant, another blow cracks down your skull, making you collide face first into the dirt-packed ground. 

Pain explodes in your face, white-hot and agonizing. Your breathing and the sound of blood rushing through your ears is the only thing you can hear as you breathe in the smell of dirt and blood, your head feeling like a thousand sparks of pain were going off at once. 

Cracking open your good eye, you catch a sliver of light in the distance; it washes over you, potent and soothing. The light at the end of the alleyway shimmers, and you think this is it—this is the last thing you will see from this world. 

Not your mother’s smile, or your best friend’s laugh. There are no flowers in your hand, no loved ones standing over your sickbed to kiss your cheek one last time before you depart this world.

It’s you, the floor, the blood trickling in your mouth, and your consciousness slowly ebbing away.

The last thing you remember before your world snuffs out like a pathetic candle is seeing the beady eyes of a rat shining in the dark, its long tail curling around its dirty body as it scampers closer and closer to you. 

And then, nothing else remains.

“... care to explain yourself?” 

The world is too bright, much too loud and you cringe back, a loud ringing clanging in your ears like the high-pitched squeal of a thousand nails on a chalkboard. 

What… is this scene? 

Your eyes struggle against the bright light and you wince, throwing your hand up to your face to ward off the glare. 

When your gaze finally focuses, you’re confronted by a pair of ice cold blue eyes, his sneer tearing through your mind like a bloody gash on white canvas. 

“Are you an imbecile?” His chilling tone laced with arrogance and contempt sears through you, leaving you mute and dumbstruck from this stranger’s sudden hostility. “I asked you if you would like to explain the accusations brought against you for hurting Miri.”

A girl with bright red hair and freckles splashed across her cheeks looks up at you with fear in her eyes. You take a step back, assessing her attire and countenance with open horror. Her pale face like the moon, dirt-streaked hands with stubby nails and a uniform splotched with indiscernible stains. 

But, that isn’t what draws your attention: it’s the look of contempt secretly masked under her woeful and pitiful expression. Those green eyes burn through you with the force of a thousand deaths, each one more painful than the last.

“Cerena.” 

Your eyes grow wider when you realize this strange man is speaking to you—calling you by an unknown name. 

As your attention shifts back to him, you’re stunned and breathless. His shock of pure white hair, towering stature and cruel, azure gaze never yields from your expressions, thin lips twisted into a baleful grimace. His attire is one you have never seen before: a regal, embroidered jacket and matching pants in the darkest shade of navy blue. Regalia and military medals drip from the lapels of his jacket like icy tears, each metallic glint striking more fear into your heart as you take in his majestic and imposing demeanor.

“I said, speak, wench!” 

Dexterous and pale fingers, like that of a violinist, grasps your jaw painfully as he jerks your face towards him. Instinctively, you tense and push him away, a petrified look on your face.

“Who are you?” 

Obviously, it wasn’t a question he was expecting. The princely man gives a dignified scoff, the corners of his lips twisting into a terrifying sneer. 

“Oh, so now you're playing the short term memory loss card? Stop begging for attention, Cerena, and own up to your mistakes.” He moves aside and the maid cowering behind him lifts her teary eyes to him, her pitiful state clearly tugging on his heart strings and his protective instincts. “Miri told me you slapped her when she wouldn’t braid your hair fast enough, and you even threw your tea at her. Pray tell, is that a way how a princess acts, Your Highness?” 

His words drip with venomous sarcasm. You open your mouth and then close it, unsure of how to respond to him—what you could even say in these circumstances.

But inside of you, welling deeply and painfully, is a surge of anger at being falsely accused for something you did not do. You have no idea who he is, who Miri was to him and who even is this woman called ‘Cerena’ he keeps on referring to you as.

What you do know is that he has slighted you with his openly hostile tone and body language, and if years of being a florist in a cutthroat business has taught you, it’s that you should always stand your ground against unruly customers to safeguard your reputation and dignity.

“I have no idea what you are speaking of,” your words come out frostier than you intended. Your sharp gaze sweeps to the other maids observing the spectacle with stony faces. “I wish to go back to my room.” 

Turning on your heel, you take one step forward and realize just how heavy your gown is. Lace and organza with dangling pendants woven through the thick fabric, you move as if walking in a vat of molasses, slow and controlled, when all you want to do is storm off. 

“Hey. I am not done speaking to you—”

It’s easy for him to catch up and grab your arm, impeding you from making your swift exit.

“Is this how you are to treat your subjects when we become wedded, Cerena? I would think that the princess of Kraith herself would have better manners and not behave like a barbarian!” 

His words snap something tight in your chest, and your nostrils flare. You break free from his grasp and spin around, fists clenched to your sides.

“Do not touch me,” your deathly warning stills the entire room. “Do not speak to me like this and if you wish to protect her reputation—”

Your eyes fall on the maid still cowering on the floor, her eyes turned to the ground, but a shadow of a smirk on her face belies her true intentions. 

She was attempting to frame me… or, Cerena. She is trying to get us in trouble with this powerful, spiteful man. 

“—next time, choose someone else who doesn’t make it obvious that this is all a ploy to smear my name.”

mtt fun fact: maids are divided into different tiers according to the nobles they serve. miri is at the bottom tier, and her scope of work mainly focuses on cleaning the hallways and stables

dawn says: it's bit of a shorter chapter, but trust, the drama is gonna hit you like thief-kun when he smashed our heads in yayy <33

!! reblogs and feedback and asks about this series are so beloved and appreciated and will motivate me to update and write faster <3

©️ all rights reserve to lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, repost or claim as your own.

[p3achfilm]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈- in the midst of july, your partner proposes a road trip, which initially goes smoothly until you both find yourselves lost. as tensions rise along with sexual desires, the situation becomes more…sticky

𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈╰┈➤ connie x black y/n

𝒸𝓌ׂ╰┈➤ wordy plot,car sex,oral sex,praise, choking,fingering, dirtytalk,unprotected sex, fingering,18+

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ׂ╰┈➤ 4k

!

“admit it, connie—we are totally lost!” you muttered in exasperation, slapping the big map onto the dashboard, your eyebrows drawn tightly.

your phone lost service hours ago as your determined boyfriend drove deeper into the desert terrain. you observed the map without understanding a single thing. a painful throb pulsed through your head, either from the pounding stress of being lost or the relentless california heat.

the sun's heat kissed your glistening brown skin, and you were glad you’d applied ‘black girl sunscreen’ on both yourself and your boyfriend before you set off.you knew that when connie had suggested a road trip, some bullshit was bound to happen.

the first problem was the choice of transport,connie’s car.a white 1992 chevrolet camaro rs ,notorious for breaking down more than running.the second issue was that the heating and air conditioning didn't function properly, and california's heat was relentless.

the final issue involved the mysterious sputtering and jerking it did at times. you’d have to get into the driver seat to steer while connie pushed from behind. it was practically a death trap. you suggested driving your car, but connie refused.

you wanted to challenge him,but when you looked into those puppy-dog hazel eyes, you couldn’t say no.

having been childhood sweethearts with connie since preschool, you'd think you would be used to it.yet, after all these years it still tugged at your heartstrings.you vividly remembered that fateful day you fell off the swing.loud wails of despair upon seeing scraped skin and a rip in your new pink dress. a tap on your shoulder caused you to seize your sniffles and turn around, eyes settling on a boy with short hair.

he had grabbed your hand and helped you up, presenting a flower from behind his back with a 'tada!'. it seemed ridiculous now, but back then it left young you absolutely smitten with the boy.

from that moment on, you two were practically joined at the hip. you guys went through all of middle, elementary, and high school together. freshman year, connie had finally decided to ask you to be his girlfriend. you two landed your first apartment together right after high school, and you couldn't be more happier sharing your own space with your partner.

your gaze landed on the picture of connie and you,photo tucked into his speedometer.

that night felt like yesterday—you remembered the thunder and how scared you were. you called connie and told him that your parents weren't home and you were scared, he immediately reassured you. his sweet voice assuring he’d be there in ten minutes. that night had consisted of snacks, face masks, and making love.

you thought it was adorable that he'd printed off the picture you guys had taken that night, even turning it into a charming little polaroid.

“we’re not lost.” connie insisted, bringing you back to reality.

“right, any moment now we'll have to face inbred mutant freaks.all thanks to your dreadful navigational skills,“ you pulled down the sun visor and inspected your appearance. your makeup was creasing around the corners of your mouth,you frowned.if you had known it would be this hot, you would've opted out on a full face.

thank god for sweat-proof lace glue.

connie gave you a side-eye as you used the beauty blender to smooth out the creases. snapping the sun visor back, you glared at him with raised eyebrows and folded arms.

“you’re so fake,when were you gonna tell me i looked like a greasy pizza?” you questioned.

“i don't understand what you're getting at.you look beautiful as always,” connie reassured his girlfriend. he genuinely meant it; you were beautiful to him. your dark hair pulled into a ponytail, sides pulled out to frame your heart-shaped face. you attempted to intimidate him with a look, but your big doe eyes and pouty lips made you appear more like an annoyed puppy.

you wore an orange sundress that hugged your curves and accentuated your figure. you had chose not to wear a bra and connie could see the outline of your nipples. those large hoops he loved to play with dangeled in your ears.your lips shone with a clear gloss, lined with a brown pencil accompanied by butterscotch and cinnamon roll butter gloss.

connie squinted at you.

“actually, you do look a bit ugly”

you rolled your eyes at him and turned toward your window, letting the wind refresh you with its breeze.

“come on, lighten up! i'm kidding“ connie grinned and playfully poked your side.

“just trying to lighten the mood baby.” he said as he continued to poke you.each time you slapped his fingers away he would purposefully swerve the car. you sighed, believing the car might blow its head-gasket from the stress, and reluctantly shifted your focus to the man who’d been bothering you.

hunger gnawed at your stomach and caused it to growl.if only connie hadn't gotten you two lost.a juicy burger would already be in front of you,your mouth drooled at the thought.

“yeah me too.” connie mumbled at your stomach.

with his gaze remaining on the road, connie placed his warm hand on your thigh, causing your stomach to somersault. you didn't realize your fascination with hands until you started dating connie in high school.

you ruled it out as a fetish because you only liked his hands. they were large and veiny, with neatly trimmed nails finished in clear polish. connie cared a lot about his appearance, which you found endearing and sexy.

and just like that, your cunt was watering and you were horny. fearing you'd soak through your dress due to the lack of underwear, you squeezed your thighs together tightly. connie noticed you fidgeting and glanced over, his face flooded with concern.

you see connie and you had placed a bet during an argument two weeks ago. the two of you agreed not to have sex for a month, and whoever gave in first had to do the dishes for three months.

he had called you a spoiled bratty nympho freak that couldn’t keep your legs shut. just because you liked a little sex here and there didn’t mean you were a nympho. you would prove him wrong.

connie sure hadn’t made it easy for you to keep your hands to yourself, strutting around the apartment shirtless with that beautiful toned body. his sweats always hanging teasingly low, just enough to reveal trimmed pubes and a sculpted v-line.he’d oh so conveniently have to squeeze past you occasionally and you’d feel his dick in your back.

you’d be making breakfast and he’d wrap those inked arms around you. soft kisses peppered along your neck as he held you close to him.

it was driving you nuts not being able to touch him.

“you okay babe?” connie’s voice intruded your thoughts.

“im fine, just hungry“

you weren’t lying, you were hungry for meat. just a different kind of meat.

“let me pull over and we’ll look at the map together.there has to be a diner somewhere around here.” connie frowned. he felt bad that you were hungry because it was partially his fault. he blamed the other half on the poorly written map.

you had offered to pack a couple of sandwiches and other various snacks for the road, but connie insisted it wasn’t necessary. he’d planned for you guys to stop at an array of diners.he thought it’d be fun going to different places to eat, but he didn’t expect he’d get so turned around. they’d been driving for eight hours, two of those hours bickering about their location.

connie seemed to loom over you at six four as he spread the map across the hood of the car, muscles flexing as he doodled on it with a pen. you gulped, looking at him.you were standing behind him so you were free to gawk in secret.

his eyebrows were pushed together in concentration, jaw clenched as he rested his body against the car hood. he wore a black compression shirt, and you could see every fucking muscle he had under there. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing you with the black sweatpants he had on.

he knew they were your favorite.

each time the wind would blow, you’d get a hint of his smell, husky with a hint of spice.

it was fucking intoxicating.

you wished he would fuck you right here on the hood of his car. you didn’t care if people would see you getting your poor pussy pounded by him. you just needed him.

connie snapped in your face.

“y/n,are you even listening?”

“of course” you lied, acting like you weren’t daydreaming about connie pulling your dress up.he rolled his eyes at you, annoyed that he’d have to repeat himself.

“i said i know where we are, there’s a diner forty minutes from here” connie repeated, rolling the map up and tucking it underneath his arm.

“good, let’s get back on the highway” you muttered in embarrassment at having been caught staring like a creep.

you two were back on the highway, his hand placed on your thigh. the car had been moving for what seemed like ages, and you couldn’t take it anymore.you were bursting at the seams in sexual frustration.connie was right, you were a fucking sex addict and you needed him.

you unlatched your seatbelt and leaned over the armrest, a gasp leaving connie’s lips as you opened the fly of his sweatpants and pulled him out. bastard knew what he was doing, he didn’t even have underwear on.

“i knew you’d crack you fucking nympho, now suck daddy's dick. show me how much you missed it” he rasped, one hand burying into your hair and the other grasping the wheel. your mouth watered at his pink glistening tip, and it was clear he had been struggling to refrain himself as well.

you just had had happened to crack first.

you licked your lips,holding the base of his dick and swirling your tongue around the tip.

“a-ah shit,missed this mouth s’much.” he groaned out, clutching the steering wheel. he wasn’t sure if it was safe to be doing this while driving, but he didn’t care.

the way you were swallowing and choking on his cock had him mewling out in pleasure. his tip hitting the back of your throat repeatedly, and you nearly threw up but held it down. if having the back of your throat bruised meant you were going to get your pussy stretched out, you didn’t care. your face was a saliva covered mess as you slurped and sucked.

“mm’ you’re sucking my dick so fucking good,like the little slut you are” connie cooed rubbing your back reassuringly. tears prickled your eyes as connie violated your throat,a wet slurp sound each time your mouth lowered onto him. you decided to give your poor throat a break and grabbed his dick with both hands, stroking and twisting at the same time.

his eyes snapped closed in bliss as he forgot he was driving, his head resting back against the headrest. connie suddenly jerked forward as the car began sliding off the road, you continued stroking him, and he whined as his tip dripped pre-cum. you knew it was risky doing this, knowing there was a chance connie could lose control of the wheel. but you didn’t care you were going to suck him dry. it was his job to watch the road, not yours.

“s-shit i almost crashed and you’re sucking my cock like a whore.” connie groaned in bliss. he was nearing his end with each tug of your soft hands on his dick,he found it harder and harder to control the car. he wanted nothing more than to buck his hips into your mouth and use you as his personal pocket pussy.

he veered to the side of the empty road and shut off the car. instantly he grabbed your head with both hands, all you could do was open your mouth wide as he used you for his pleasure. cries of bliss left his lips as you choked repeatedly, disgusting wet noises filling the car.

with one last buck of his hips, his salty sperm was spurting down your throat.”ugh” connie gasped out as you sucked him through his high, licking every drop of cum from his dick until it was clean.

he almost snapped the seatbelt trying to get it off,ordering you out of the car to which you happily obliged. he tugged his shirt off, and you almost fell to your knees.carved abs heaving as he recovered from his recent nut,tan skin glistening beautifully in the sun.

he placed the shirt on the hood of the automobile so it wouldn’t burn you, you heard his sweatpants fall to the ground, and you knew he was about to rock your world.

it had been two whole weeks since you felt him inside of you.

and you yearned for him.

a smile crept onto your face as he hiked your dress up, hands flat on the hood of the car.a small whimper leaving your lips as he forced your cheek against the hood.he pinned your arms behind your back leaving you to his mercy.

“this is what you wanted, right?” he husked, a loud crack of his palm against your ass. you bit your lip as you almost screamed. “you wanted me to hike your dress up and fuck you.you don’t think i saw that look in your eye? so slutty,” he hissed, hand cracking off your ass again.

you cried out.

you could do nothing as connie spanked you, your ass was red and sore. yet, you craved for him to continue. you wanted to be punished for giving into your needs.a whimper left your lips as you felt his tip glide across your twitching clit, he groaned in pleasure as he glided himself between your wet cunt.he wasn’t even in you yet and you were leaking.

“look at you, so fucking needy” he said breathy.

he was right, you were needy. and you needed him.

“connie!” you screamed as he pushed his thick length into you, stretching your walls.he wasted no time fucking your pussy, pulling all of his dick out except the tip,just to slam back inside of you. mewls of pleasure fumbled from your lips, connie using your pinned hands to leverage his thrust.

you were too blinded by the rough pounding to care if people saw you with your ass tooted in the air as you got fucked. fucked,like the nympho you were.connie felt so good, a soft thudding filling the air as he rocked his hips into you.

his hand ran over the ‘connie♡︎’ tattoo on your ass, and he smirked, my crazy ass girlfriend he thought. maybe you were delusional, but you admired your man, and you loved tattoos, so it was only right you get his name tatted.

“b-baby!” you sobbed as he angles his hips, pushing deeper inside of you. connie’s thrusts were unrelenting and painfully pleasurable . his sexy grunts drove you crazy, and you begged him to release your hands so you can rub your throbbing clit.

“please, p-please let me touch myself!” you plead, tears streaming down your face. he delivered a few more hard thrust then freed your hands. you braced one hand on the car hood, other circling your tingling bud in time with his thrusts.

"mm, fuck me harder!" you gasp. he grips your ponytail with one hand, other on your back for support as he plunges into you. your eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy as a wave of pleasure tightens in your stomach.

connie’s head lulls back as he fucks you aganist his car,you feel so good around his dick.you’re wet and tight and it’s got his toes curling.he couldn't believe his sex addict girlfriend had him out in the open,fucking her.

"y-y/n.” connie groans as you work your hips on him. he grasps your ass with enough force to leave a mark. a rush of pleasure mixed with pain floods over you.

you nearly shout as he matched your rhythm, your butt bouncing off his toned stomach with a slap slap slap.

"fuck! right there” you cry out in bliss, teeth digging into your lips as his tip prods into your g-spot. you’re helpless beneath him, he takes full advantage of the situation, using all his pent-up sexual frustration onto you.

his balls slap against your ass as he pounds his hips into you.you looked so breedable to him,mouth agape, eyes shut in bliss.he imagined how sexy you'd look pregnant,stomach swollen with his seed.

you were wrapped around his twitching cock so tightly it made him shiver.

"connniee." you drew out,elongating his name. his intense movements made your head spin.

a rush of curses spilled from your mouth when the knot in your stomach gave way.

“let it all out love. cum on this dick” connie urged, still thrusting.he remained deep inside you but moved slower.you trembled at his steady rhythm,crying out as he fucked you through your orgasm.

his thumb clumsily found your clitoris and your back arched as he massaged the bud in circular motions. you were so sensitive but lacked the energy to protest as he had his way with you.

his erratic thrusts indicated he was on the brink of his own orgasm. his legs trembled underneath him before he abruptly pulled out, releasing spurts of cum onto the hot gravel with a deep groan as he stood stroking himself.

"fuckkk.” he drawled out.

in sheer exhaustion, you pulled your dress down still laying face first on the car.your eyes peered over at connie.his sweat-slicked body looked divine, dick still standing high and proud, wanting more.

“i’ll take that in my mouth next time” you purred,finally finding the strength to stand.”i wouldn’t doubt,freak” connie stated cupping your cheeks, making your lips pucker.

his normally hazel eyes seemed darker, filled with desire. you could sense he wasn't finished with you by the way he looked at you like a piece of delectable meat. he practically dragged you to the car,shifting the seat back as he sat down. you quickly straddled him, eagerly pulling up your dress once again.

with trembling hands you held the base of his twitching cock. his body tensed and he moaned softly, his low eyes watching you position him at your wet entrance. you rubbed his sticky tip against your wet folds making his already weak legs shudder.

he knew you were teasing him, which only made him more aroused. precum dripped from his tip as your wet folds continually slid across him. his head rolled back against the headrest when you finally sank onto him, hands gripping the leather seat in bliss as he stretched you once again.

"y/n." his deep, husky voice resonated like music in your ears.his hands sliding down the curve of your back as you adjusted to his size. he could tell it was slightly painful for you and as much he wanted to buck his hips up deeper into that pretty little pussy, he refrained ,not wanting to hurt you.

"doing so well, princess” his praise filled your tummy with butterflies. you rested your hands on his shoulders for balance and started sliding up and down.a surge of confidence filling you as his whines reached your ears. his stomach clenched as you wrapped perfectly around him,tight, wet walls clinging to him intimately.

he felt intoxicated by your touch, absolutely enamored with the way you fucked him. no other woman had ever made him feel this way. you had him wrapped around your pretty little finger and you knew it.

passionately, you rode connie at a consistent speed, your wet pussy squelching each descent of your hips. he looked irresistibly sexy with his mouth slightly open in pleasure, a hint of drool escaping from his lips.

who's the sex addict now? you thought.

“ooo baby, your pussy feels so good!” connie cried out, his face scrunching as you grind onto him sloppily. you leant down and kissed his lips, his hand latching around back of your neck. as your tongue danced against his.

"o-oh f-ucking me so good.” you breathed shakily into his mouth while he bucked his hips beneath you, the vehicle rocking wildly as you two went at it.

connie’s mouth devoured yours sloppily, leaving your lips swollen.you groaned softly when the all-too-familiar tension built up in your stomach.

"your greedy little pussy is eating me up” connie sputtered.

you were creaming on his dick now, you were so fucking horny and he was so hot.your head fell back in pleasure, one hand playing with your nipples while the other held his shoulder.you were so wet that occasionally he’d slip out and his dick would rub against your clit. a shaken moan leaving your lips each time it happened.

“wet ass pussy,so messy for me.i can’t wait till’ i clean you up” he murmured in that deep sexy voice.with one more thrust of his hips you came.a cry emitting from your lips as you welcomed your sweet release.

the sight of you cumming on his dick pushed him over the edge ,his hands cupping your thighs lifting you off of him.his dick twitched as cum spurted onto his chest.

a drawn out shit falling from his glistening lips.

a giggle left your lips, “it’s so much!”

you leaned over to grab napkins from the glove compartment,cleaning him. connie chuckled, “it’s your fault.that tight ass pussy does something to me” he breathlessly huffed out.

you felt your cheeks warm up.

“get in the back—i wanna clean you up”. connie gently demanded tapping your thigh. you slid into the backseat as he made adjustments for extra space.by this point, most of your makeup had melted away, and you were grateful for having packed makeup wipes in your bag.

you snapped out of your thoughts as connie parted your legs, gently cradling each thigh with his hands as you lay on your back. half of his large frame jutted out of the car, and he knelt on his pants so the rough gravel wouldn’t scrape his knees.

your pussy watered as he began placing kisses on your thighs,starting from your gold ankle bracelet with a ‘c’ charm on it, to right above your pussy.

you stiffled a moan as his middle and index finger pushed into you,thumb fiddling your clit.

"i-it’s sensitive!” you cried out, hands cupping your titties as your legs shook prematurely. you felt his fingers pull out,his mouth now on your wet cunt, lapping you up.

your head felt heavy and you couldn’t stop it as it fell to the side.your back arching as a guttural moan escaped from your lips, his tongue flicking over your pussy folds now.

“you taste so fucking good” he spoke, pausing after each word to take a slow lick with his long tongue. you whimpered and squeezed your eyes closed as you felt him pull your lips apart, revealing your pretty pink throbbing clit.

his eyes glistened,looking like he'd just hit the jackpot. without a second thought connie latched onto the sensitive bud. all you could do was whine and squeeze at his shoulders,his strong arms holding your squirming body in place.

"c-connie! you choked out," you're eating my pussy so good”

he moaned into your pussy, fingers back pumping in you with a nasty squelching sound. he curled his fingers each time he hit the base of your walls. dried up tears streaked your face and your lips trembled with pleasure, pussy pulsating around his fingers as your eyes rolled back in bliss.

you almost snapped your legs closed as you felt him brush against g-spot again, arms pulling you down further onto his face.

“i-i’m close, so fucking close” you gasped as his fingers fucked you. you were embarrassed to be cumming this fast but connie knew how to work your pussy. he knew your body like the back of his hand. his tongue was back on your poor little clit, and you realized he was spelling his name.

c o n n i e

as soon as he spelled out the last letter, the knot in your stomach snapped once again.your body convulsed with pleasure, legs clamping closed.connie talked you though your high, placing kisses on your ass as he traced the stretch marks on your thighs.

once you had calmed down you opened your eyes to see connie tugging his shirt back on.your tired eyes met his and he smirked.

“good to have you back princess, let’s go eat i’m fucking starving”

“agreed” you huffed.

“also, you’re on dish duty for three whole months”

“whatever, it was worth it” you shrugged.

“nympho freak.”

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭��𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭🍒

＠ ᴄɪɴɴɴ4ᴍᴏɴ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ.ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ sᴛᴇᴀʟ ᴏʀ ᴍᴏᴅɪꜰʏ. ᴍᴡᴀʜ, ʙʏᴇ♡︎

[needfantasticstories]

“Many places I have been

Many sorrows I have seen

But I don't regret

Nor will I forget

All who took that road with me”

-The Last Goodbye by Billy Boyd

This is an Adjuration by @not-freyja, after 86 chapters, 300k words, and 10 months of joy, laughter, tears, heartbreak and love, has finally reached its end. 

Adjuration is a tragedy that is nothing short of an act of love. That much is clear in the passion and dedication put towards the story, the characters, and the message Freyja is trying to convey. This fic will teach you about love. About death. About the inevitability of existence and why despite knowing it will all come to an end, there is still meaning in trying and hoping and loving each other. In loving yourself. You will laugh, you will cry, you will hope and you will despair as you read this story, but you will not be able to put it down.

It’s hard to say goodbye to something that has been so important to and loved by so many people. So we won’t. Instead, we will say thank you for this incredible journey and the community this fic has built. For the friendships that have been made and the endless inspiration you have given us. Thank you for wanting to tell a story, and for letting us join you around the campfire to listen.

Thank you.

(If you like Linked Universe and haven’t yet read Adjuration, see below for spoiler free reviews of this fic and artist credits.)

This is an Adjuration is the kind of story you fall in love with, the kind of story you think keep thinking about long after you put it down. The kind you keep finding hidden details in after you think you’ve got it figured out. 

The characters are distinct and people with their own voices, motivations, relationships and histories. You’ll have your favourites but love them all. They influence how you’ll see the characters in everything else. 

It’s full of moments where everything clicks and everything before is recontextualised in a way that’s so satisfying and make the whole story very re-readable. A time travel story where all loops are already closed, where you can know but not yet understand what will happen. It’s long, complex, and beautifully, meticulously planned and detailed. It’s clever and considered, funny and heartbreaking. 

A story that whispers ‘it matters’ over and over. It is worth it to love, it is worth it if it doesn’t last forever, it is worth it to give someone a little more time, it is worth it to fight. It’s about loving others and your world and finding grace for yourself. 

It’s loss and tragedy and the cruelness of fate. It is the sacrifice and the breaking. 

Full of heart to both fill yours and break it in the best possible way. 

It’s about love. Always.

By @toyouhellohowareyou

Sometimes, it’s hard to explain to others why art moves us.

I could tell you This is an Adjuration will make you cry, laugh, and sit at the edge of your seat in anticipation. And it’s probably true - I did all of that as I read, often with a coffee in one hand, early in the morning as I got ready for the day. 

But that’s not the reason why I’m writing this.

The real reason is how it followed me during the rest of the day.

You see, at a certain point I realized this isn’t a story about Links going on adventures. Well, it does feature Links, and they do go on adventures, so let’s talk about that for a minute.

The first thing that caught my attention about this book was the characters. Each individual is unique, interesting, and exciting to follow. Not only are the Links individually compelling, but one thing that stands out in Adjuration is how the relationship between each Hero and their own worlds matter, and these connections shift, evolve, break and grow as the plot progresses.

Freyja does an incredible job of bringing together impactful storytelling with humor and heart. This is an Adjuration starts with an interesting premise, and then twists and turns in directions you wouldn’t expect. It’s rich in thought-provoking moments, soft joy and intense action, blended in with carefully crafted time travel and magic.

Adjuration sucked me into the world it builds, combining believable characters with fascinating stories, an unnervingly devious antagonist, plot twists, and lovingly crafted details that slip unnoticed until you’re surrounded on all sides. It made me cheer for characters I feel as if I’ve known intimately for years, made me worry for their safety as I would for that of a loved one, kept me hunting for hints and hidden references, pulling on a thread to try to find the end only for it to twist and loop into itself and show me a completely new side to the story.

Yes, This is an Adjuration is a fanfiction piece that explores the winding river flow of the Legend of Zelda timeline and how the stories of each Hero merge into each other. It also stands out for its heavy emotional content, and it doesn’t shy away from angst and hurt.

But to me, Adjuration is an epic journey that taught me how the choices we make, make us in turn. It’s a tragedy that deals with pain and healing, and it bares naked the non-linear nature of grief. It’s a celebration of the things that make us unique, of our flaws, an essay of the impact of little acts of love. Indeed, it’s a story about love.

I can tell you now, This is an Adjuration moved me. It still does. It has a special way to surface in my mind in unexpected ways at seemingly random times, from something as simple as tossing an apple core, to watching a lightning storm in the distance, or finding a picture of an old friend.

And every time, without fail, it makes me think about love.

By @sunny-porridge

This is an Adjuration is a wonderfully and beautifully crafted story about love, loss, and choice as the various incarnations of Link come together and travel through time. Freyja seamlessly weaves a tapestry of setup and payoff across different timelines and loops, in the best-constructed time travel plot I’ve ever seen on page or screen. Even at its surface, Adjuration is an emotional rollercoaster involving tragedy and the soft moments that make that tragedy worth it. But the deeper you look, the more meaning you can pull from every chapter of this amazing work. This work has made me cry, squeal with delight, and think more deeply about its themes all while having an absolute blast reading it. So in summary: READ IT. READ IT. READ IT NOW. YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT.

By @life-in-winter

While I love that every chapter is emotionally enthralling, with carefully woven, visceral tension you crave in any good story, yet Adjuration is more than that, and you feel it in the careful weave of each character and plot point. Nothing is lost or unanswered. It's the kind of story that, by the end, makes you stop and take a hard look at your own life. Are you appreciating the now? Are you savoring joy? Are you so wrapped up in fear that you can hardly take care of yourself? Do you know who you are?

This story is more like an external experience. It's riding atop a tsunami. How do you handle that ride, Link?

There aren't enough words to describe how amazing this fic is.

@needfantasticstories

Artist credit

Legend: @gia-d

Hyrule: @bittirsweeteer

Time: @toonblade

Sky: @noorahqar

Warriors: @whitewinterstar

Wild: @weavingstarlight

Twilight: @bluury2

Wind: @thewitchdoctor39

Four: @lunaopus

Red: @peepthatbish

Blue: @glowingmin

Green: @winterfen

Vio: @waterfallstream

Shadow: @deleetrix

Wolfie: @linkiscool333

Fierce Deity: @awildsilver

Ravio: @lele5429

Malon: @tooner-tastic

Dink: @passerinesoncaffeine

[mandalhoerian]

Come on in, brave souls.

Welcome to a Halloween event where there are no happily ever afters, only the darkest and most twisted outcomes. During the last week of October, you're cordially invited to step into the world of Resident Evil with me, where every installment leads to either heartbreak, bloodshed, or loss.

Each story explores a different horror genre, dragging your favorite characters into the depths of despair with no chance of escape. Heroes are twisted, relationships shattered, and the very concept of survival comes at an unimaginable cost.

In this anthology, no one is spared the horrors that await.

Will you dare to face these bloody endings?

Read the summaries, and reserve your spot on this form (CLOSED.)

🥩 ⸺ you were the last good thing about this town

» jill x f!reader: jennifer's body, supernatural horror

In this town, no one leaves. You’re born here, you live here, and you die here—and for as long as you can remember, it’s been the same with you and Jill Valentine. You fall for the wrong men, she pulls you out, and the cycle repeats with neither of you leaving. It’s a pattern you’ve come to rely on, a safety net in a place where nothing ever changes. But, things start to unravel that one fateful week when Jill shows up in your house all bloody and out of it on the same day your ex's body is found in the woods, mutilated. The once predictable rhythm of your lives shifts, and now you find yourself the one chasing her, trying to understand why she's refusing that ever happened, gaslighting you into thinking it's your fear and grief talking. At the end of this road, this time Jill might not be the one pulling you out—she may be what pulls you under.

♾ ⸺ fortunate son

» chris x reader: groundhog day, psychological horror

Chris Redfield has faced nightmares before, but nothing like this. Sent on a mission to a remote island facility, he and his team believe they’re there to contain a bioweapon outbreak. But they end up being contained in a time loop instead. Every day begins the same—"Fortunate Son" blaring on the radio, the island looming in the distance, and the same mission ahead that leads them to the lone survivor of the experimentations, you, who remembers the resets along with him. And every day, no matter how hard Chris fights, his friends die. One by one, in increasingly brutal ways he can save none of them from. As Chris’s desperation mounts, he’s forced to question everything—and everyone—around him. And his prime suspect naturally happens to be you.

💎 ⸺ no rest for the wicked

» luis x reader: midsommar, folk horror

Luis Serra was always looking for one last big con, one last heist to escape the life of crime he dragged you into. His latest fixation named Valdelobos where leaving is exponentially harder than getting invited is a promise of riches beyond belief and light at the end of the one last hit before I quit tunnel you two have been living in. But the remote luxury village where all people are young, beautiful and rich has to hold dark secrets. But those secrets are not the political kind like you expected. No, they are rooted in ancient rituals and blood sacrifices. As greed and survival transition from two sides of a coin to synonymous concepts, the price of freedom may be more than either of you are willing to pay.

🍻 ⸺ in the woods somewhere

» carlos x reader: the empty man, urban legend horror

Once a promising journalist, now a washed-up investigator of ghost stories and urban legends, you've been reduced to chasing quick paychecks and drowning your doubts in alcohol. And your latest case brings you to a remote town haunted by the legend of El Silbón—a spirit that hunts drunkards. It's quite ironic in your opinion, you wouldn't mind a death like that in your rock bottom. But for all your mocking, El Silbón's whistle is constantly ringing in your ears, yet remains distant when you're with the town's charming bartender Carlos who seems to know more about the legend than he lets on.

🩸 ⸺ offer me that deathless death

» ada x f!reader: dracula, gothic horror

In the shadow of the 19th century, where ancient traditions meet modern curiosities, you—a driven historian—have received an invitation to the secluded estate of Ada Wong, a mysterious noblewoman whose family’s shadowed history has eluded scholars for decades. Drawn in by the promise of being the first and only one to record it all down, you soon find yourself in a place where the boundaries between academic fascination and forbidden desire begin to blur, and the woman at the center of it all is as alluring as she is unknowable. Yet beneath the surface of your growing bond with Ada, there’s something you can’t quite grasp—strange occurrences that leave you drained, dreams that feel too vivid, and a constant sense that you’re slowly losing yourself. The more you uncover, the more you wonder if you're truly a guest in Ada's world. But the question isn't what you are, but what you will be. A sacrificial lamb, or scapegoat?

🌀 ⸺ do i dare disturb the universe

» wesker x reader: cosmic horror, body horror

You’ve spent years in unwavering service to Wesker, a man whose vision stretches far beyond the mortal plane. As his most trusted follower, you’ve led dark rituals in his name, watched as his influence spread, and remained loyal as he set his sights on a power greater than any human could fathom. To you, Wesker is more than a leader—he is the harbinger of a new reality and a god in the making. But now, as he prepares to ascend, the truth begins to unravel. The gods Wesker seeks are not benevolent, nor are they vengeful—they are vast, ancient beings who look upon humanity with the same indifference as we might an insect. Whispers of their coming claw at your mind, and haunt your waking hours as reality itself begins to warp. As Wesker stands on the edge of his transformation, you feel the weight of forces far beyond your comprehension pressing down on your very soul. This ritual may grant him the power he craves—but in the end, will there even be a world left for him to rule? And what role do you truly play in Wesker’s vision?

⏳ ⸺ all a ghost can do is haunt

» leon x reader: the shining, paranormal horror

The mansion you’ve come to inherit on a random autumn day after years of being tied up in legal disputes, passed down from a distant branch of your family you barely knew, is a disappointment. It has stood abandoned for decades, its walls crumbling under the weight of neglect and the shadow of its tragic past. But when you arrive, you discover the house is not as empty as you expected. Leon Kennedy, the estate’s caretaker, has watched over the property for years, haunted by the devourings of his fellow officers during an investigation long ago. He’s stayed behind ever since, bound by duty and guilt, trying to keep the house from claiming any more innocents. But the house has been waiting. And with your arrival, its long-forgotten shadows and what lurks within them finally begin to move.

[mermervi]

a little party

✎ It's 1927 and the lights are glittering. You're a budding jazz chanteuse, everyone's sweetheart, and Leon, who's got you in his sights, is out to score what's in his mind.

cw: blood, death, oral (female receiving), uhmm idek what to add cuz my mind is not minding after this (this shii hit hard and it's like 9k) , intricate time-skipping from scene to scene, mayhaps?, not proofread ouchie, MDNI

The rain poured down from the sky like a mighty torrent of rage. That night, the cold that prickled through Leon’s soaked Hart Schaffner jacket, far from dispiriting him, only kept him going. Years of privation, every step he had taken to secure his very existence, had taught him the vernacular of the streets, but on that night, the streets were poised to betray him. 

This story of treachery wasn’t as bitter as life; Leon couldn’t refute that. 

He had witnessed a sequence of crime that perhaps a boy who had come to a city like New York from his rural village, a boy who couldn’t even calculate his steps precisely, should never have seen in those scenes in his ever-lasting life. It was true that these blue pairs of peepers had seen many people perish, but these were the deaths that came in their due time, like his mother’s death before she turned sixty, the Grim Reaper’s visit to his grandfather on a night like that night when the rains were drizzling over the sky. 

Only his father’s martial death could have rivaled the images he had seen that night. That may be it, he thought. After all, he had never had the chance to see his father choke on his own tainted and alcohol-laden blood in his frail, final moments. 

Back to that night, the man Leon saw in the car had a very different kind of dread. His eyes were huge sockets, and a bloody streak was running down his throat on his skin, visible through the placket of his dress shirt. 

That was the kind of sight that makes one’s heart sing. Otherwise, it must have been an appalling sight that made men and women wince and cower. Leon should have felt the former for himself. 

How could he have known the little trick that fate would be about to play? 

On that September night, on a corner, he saw a wounded man trapped inside a maroon Cadillac. On the man’s face, there was a sliver of hope mixed with absolute despair, just the kind of “too proud to ask for help but in need of salvation.” 

A faint spark flared inside Leon. 

He could recall his departed father’s words, that such men like those in those costly cars were indeed evils for no good deed. 

His past had to be repudiated. 

His father was perhaps cursing him that night—no, the old man was absolutely putting the whammy on young Leon. What a hell of a father. It was always the hardest thing for a boy like Leon to placate that lousy man. Even after his death it was all the more impossible to appease him. A ruffian of a man, Leon thought. 

He thought too much on that rainy Friday night. 

Out of pure, undiluted impulse, he acted without a plan at all to save the man; he only thought of taking one more step in that ill-lit road. When he set his eyes on that street, he walked with a foolish spunk, heedless of the gun barrel of the mobster shrouded in shadows. He neither thought about the future nor retreated. “If you bail someone out, someday you will be bailed out too,” he thought with childlike simplicity. 

He was cold and unsure. Somehow or other, he had slid out of the dusk and appeared behind the black-clad mafioso, who was pointing his revolver at the driver’s window and was about to blast the man inside with the hollow point of a bullet. 

The plot was grim. A gruesome story. For hours Leon washed his hands with scalding soapy water to rinse off the scum of the filthy man’s blood, or that’s how he remembers the aftermath of the chain of events. 

He had grabbed the man by the cord and bashed his head against the drywall, searing sounds that he could still recall in the innermost recesses of his ear, the gold inlaid revolver in his hand clattering to the pavement, airy-fairy. The wrangling of the man, his fedora plunged into the muddy rainwater pit on the tiled road. Leon would always remember the first murder, the one that lodged deep in the very core of his psyche. 

Beyond recall, Leon thrashed the man’s skull from wall to wall until he was sure he was in a stupor, and when the man finally slumped—coup de grace. Leon wailed out the air he had been consciously holding all those long, long minutes. Mouth hanging open, dulled eyes, and the pile of a corpse littering the floor at his feet. The lack of sleep from hours of working in the packing department of the Berwick shoe factory, some man’s brains imploding in the wall... Everything had drained the daylight out of Leon on that cursed night. 

When he met the gaze of the terror-struck man in the car, he met something much newer. 

He met himself. 

Or rather, his new “self.”. 

An absolute criminal.

He wasn’t shaking, nor did he feel like he might be sick. What was most pathetic was that he appeared to resemble his dead father in the wretched auspices reflected in the window of that maroon Cadillac. 

After that night, life kept rolling along. Days, weeks, and months. Ironically, Leon was no longer just another schmo slugging it out in the textile mills. Nobody batted an eye at the kid’s line of work with all that greenbacks stuffed in his pockets. The word on the street? He’s just a flash in the pan, a real fly-by-night type. But here’s the thing: an American, with blonde hair and baby blues, is always the cat’s meow, especially if he’s sporting a sharp suit with a label on it. Anything that doesn’t fit the mold? Forget it. No exceptions to the rule. And isn’t that the ultimate American dream? Gents with pockets full of dough, running the show. 

How your story comes along with this creepy-crawly backstory, with so many powerful men signing off on it, is pure happenstance. A story straight from the pen of God, really, to put it in a nutshell. 

It all starts on a Saturday night in March of 1927. 

Tin Pan Alley is kicking up its heels tonight, the joint hopping with the wildest kind of racket. The place is packed with middle-class folks from all corners of the city—newly minted millionaires who’ve made their pile and are now living it up. These cats have been rolling in dough so long they’ve got the smarts to throw it around like it’s sugar-coated. The air’s thick. Lap of luxury, and the whole scene is a real shindig, full of high-living gents and dames who’ve learned to spend big, laugh loud, and flash those fat pockets like it’s nobody’s business. 

“Get a wiggle on, gals! C’mon now.” 

From backstage, the sound of booming voices cuts through the air, unmistakably Ada Wong herself—barking orders and giving the girls an earful as she whips them into shape for the show. She’s a stunner with grit, the kind of woman you can’t help but notice. No one else is ever going to take her seat; this joint is hers, and everyone knows it. Ada doesn’t just run the joint—she owns it. She’s got her pretty fingers on the pulse of the city’s most daring and avant-garde talent, working with the best, the boldest, and the brightest minds the world has to offer. If she’s not at the top of the heap, she’s surely standing on it. 

What’s a woman like that to do with a gal like you? Well, there’s a rather simple answer to that. 

Pretty young things always find their way to the top. And that’s before we even get to ones with voices that could melt hearts, like yours. 

Ada’s the Queen of the downtown club scene, and you’re her darling young, white-hot vessel of treasure trove. Pretty girls always get their moment, but pretty girls with a lilting voice garner more than their share of attention. All in all, Wong knows what she’s doing, and you’re her ace in the hole. 

Yet there are some rules. Ada’s rules. Simple ones, really. “Slip into your Jeanne Lanvin, dazzle ‘em with that red lipstick, and keep your chin up—don’t fidget, don’t even think about mussing up that perfect coif.” 

And on the stage, do keep that smile for the crowd until you get the microphone—because after all, the crowd is here to see your legs, not to hear your troubles. They pay in bills; you deliver the thrills. 

Hot minutes before the show, you stare at your reflection in the mirror like you’ve never seen your face before. The same old script in the mind, the same fake smile stretched on your lips—too tight over a thousand unspoken thoughts. The eyes in the glass, observing you with a kind of critical hunger, just waiting for a slip. They can’t perceive the enmity in your head—the one that never takes a break, no matter how many gin rickeys you slug down. The booze? It doesn’t wash away the ache. The pills? Only another temporary fix to soothe the ache that burns brighter when the spotlight fades. 

Why are you miserable when the dough’s rolling in and the world’s at your feet? Why turn your back on the luxury that others would kill for? But hell, you don’t need an answer. 

You’re an oddity, a riddle wrapped in velvet and lace, sipped from a silver cup. The men and women, they all like you. The faces in the crowd—each of them gazing up at you with athirst eyes—are only loyal to you when the lights are on and the music’s blaring. Afterward, though, you’re just another pretty girl in a smoky room, holding your breath until they let you vanish again. 

Post-performance, Chris Redfield is the name that shields you from scrutiny (he quite literally interposes his humongous body between you and the admirers); he’ll pluck you out of the melee, hustle you into a quiet space, and shelter you from anything. 

Then you’ll sit in the corner, maybe sip a seltzer, and go over your numbers, rehearsing the songs they want to hear and shimmy your tush that they’re going to throw dollars at. All in those godforsaken high heels! It’s a devil’s game, this life of glitter and stage lights. But the lights burn so bright, you almost forget the shadows hounding you from behind. 

All this suffering, your illusions, the never-ending fervent hopes of that girl who had to run in those heels were perfectly channeled, and you were born. For years you have breathed in and out for a single purpose, in an intricate cycle called life, a circle of a powdery pink existence that is anything but powdery pink. 

It’s all diamonds. Dirty, big diamonds. 

“Miss, are you all set?” Chris’ voice slips into the air, stripped of any graspable pathos like a bad rumor. Those mother-of-pearl drop earrings—they’re starting to feel like anchors around your neck. 

“Sure thing, Chris,” you enunciate animatedly before getting up from your vanity chair. “Let’s take a stroll, huh? Like we own the place.” 

He does laugh, though rather silly. He’s a straight shooter, the kind who lives by the book. 

After a lackluster walk, you arrive upstage. The joint is packed to the rafters, the air thick with the perfume of incense, lavender, and a dash of orange, like a high-society boudoir on a Saturday night. Piers, who performed a little verse before you, is preparing to leave the stage to thunderous ovations. Naturally, he can’t scram from the joint until he’s put in the grunt work he’s got to handle. 

“Ladies and gents, hold onto your hats—here’s the name you’ve all been dying to hear!” Piers’ voice crackles through the microphone, sending a whitecap through the crowd like a match setting fire to velvet. He does wonders with the microphone, alright. 

One, two, three—out with it. You exhale that pent-up storm, and just like that, the stage belongs to you. 

Time’s up. You take that breath, the one you’ve been holding like a secret you can’t quite tell, and you step into the spotlight. 

You’re in. And the stage is yours—a damn showstopper of a stage, mind you. 

Your heels hit the floor with that familiar rhythm, each step measured, a saint’s grace—if a saint knew how to twirl in silk and steal the show. The crowd’s already on their feet, clapping, whooping, and hollering. The smile on your face is blindingly luminescent, even more dazzling than diamonds. God, you’re fake, but hands up, darling. You’re the queen of this palace. 

The air’s electric as you wave, your people calling your name like it’s the sweetest song they’ve ever heard. Your chest swells, a perfect mix of pride and thrill, the crowd hanging on your every move like moths to the flame. 

But then—just as the frenzy peaks—a set of eyes catches yours from somewhere in the haze. 

Something in that gaze. Something different. A new note in the symphony, sharp and clear. 

With all due respect, you know the dandies—the regulars who’ve been greasing their palms to get front-row seats for years. Those high-browed, underdressed gargoyles—each one plastered in a grotesque mask of makeup that’d make a saint blanch. And then there are the ones who are really in love with your voice, the ones who drop their dimes and bills just to hear you sing, all the way down to the final breath of your last note. Their eyes glisten like they’re listening not just to you, but to the very last song on earth. 

But then there’s him—the stranger in the crowd. He doesn’t quite fit into either of those camps. He stands apart like a shadow, as though he’s absorbed something from the city itself—electric, muted, with a trace of gunmetal dust in his eyes, something that caught the reflected light of a thousand lost souls. 

He’s not looking at the fellow beside him, not paying the slightest attention to the clamor or the chatter. No, his gaze is all for you. Wait a minute—what’s this? Is that Ada, standing just there by his side, or has your vision gone all soft in the haze of the lights? 

It’s Ada, alright. And she’s got you in her sights, sending you a thousand little daggers with those eyes of hers, as if daring you to keep singing, daring you to hit every note just so. 

Now, it’s not your style to stand around like some dopey schoolgirl, ogling every flapper and every fancy boy who drifts through the scene. No, you’re only a little giddy to see fresh faces, fresh crowds, and—well, a fresh crop of admirers, too. No harm, no foul. End of story, no need to dig any deeper. (Of course, that’s all just a tall tale.) 

But what about Leon? How’s he taking in this blurred picture of yours, with all its strange little twists and turns? 

“What a hot mess up there on that stage.” He mutters tacitly, his very first thoughts about you. 

He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, finding the whole thing a delightful mess. And he knows—oh, he knows—that he’s right in the crosshairs of Ada’s death stare. Poor guy. He’s probably already picturing her giving him a good talking-to, the sort that’d have a lesser man crawling for cover. 

For now, though, your voice knells over the microphone, a golden oldie, ritzy and true, and the crowd falls into a hush like a room full of smitten children. The spell is cast again, and they’re all yours. 

Ada, meanwhile, gives you a nod—half maternal, half triumphant—as if you’re her very own creation, fretting and fuming along in a delicate harmony with the night. And Leon, well, let’s just say he’s still trying to keep his own amusement under wraps, but the grin’s playing all over his face. 

No doubt about it, you’re the star of the night—who else could it possibly be? The eponymous name everyone’s been whispering in esteem, the one Leon has heard mentioned more than once, all wrapped up in the honeyed sort of praise. 

Up on stage, Leon has you in his illusory blues, as everyone else contemplates you until your encore is at an end. There are certain things that should only be spectated; their splendor should be kept locked away in the heart and in a secret corner of the brain after peeping through the veils of the eyes. That’s you, for him. You’re that kind of beauty—too grand for the world to touch, too perfect to be anything but an ephemeral glimpse. 

“Oh, that chick’s the real deal, alright,” Leon breathes in awe. Turning now to Ada, when your performance comes to a sublime end, he has you up front in the applause, as does your crowd. He’s a part of your crowd now. 

To which Ada retorts with a cognizant luster, “What did I tell you?” she says, the glow of the cinch lighting up her face like the glow of a cigarette’s ember in the dark. “The best ones are always under my namesake.” 

Leon can’t argue with that—not when he’s seen you, not when you’ve got him bewitched, already half-dreaming that you might be some celestial being sent here just to voodoo the cosmos with your tongue. A star fallen from Arcadia, caught in a moment of earthly grace. In such a way that he should render himself a more open target for you. The thought flickers through his mind like a dangerous little inferno: maybe he should make you his. Keep you close, lock you up like the most precious thing he owns, the way he’s always hoarded only the finest nonpareils. Time’s done a number on him, sure—he’s spent enough hours in the smoke-permeated parlors of the city’s high society to become exactly the sort of libertine playboy who rounds up beautiful things. In this modern age, after all, it’s the ones who possess the rarest jewels who leave their names etched into history. 

And legacy—that’s all Leon really wants. To leave a mark. To be remembered. 

Ada gets the wind of that desire in Leon’s eyes the second he lays his zealous eyes on you. She tugs him by the arm and pushes him to a corner that’s secluded from the public eye so that his ear can reach her red-tinctured lips. “Don’t,” she warns, “don’t cross that line in your mind.” 

“Don’t get all worked up, Ada.” Leon’s voice slips out smooth and phlegmatic, like a man who’s seen it all and is hardly moved by it anymore. There’s something visceral about it, something that pulls him into the dark corners of the backstage when a woman like her—striking and full of fire—yanks him close. He has always adored women, sure, but there’s something about the ones who know how to take charge, the ones who’ve got the power to bend him to their will, that makes him stay just a little bit longer. 

Tonight, though, Ada isn’t the one who has his attention. You are. He plays the part of the good boy to Ada, with soft words and wistful smiles, but underneath, there’s a quiet conspiracy to take what she holds dear, her prized girl, namely you. 

This tendency is nothing new for Leon—it’s a trick he’s picked up over time, a survival mechanism he learned in the kind of world where charm and guile are the only things that keep him afloat. 

Ada doesn’t miss it. Her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows, the kind of expression that makes a man’s skin crawl. There’s no mistaking the mistrust there, like ice forming in the atmosphere between them. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, her voice abiding, almost too calm. “One wrong move, and Wesker’s on your tail.” 

Her words hang heavy in the air, a warning clothed in concern. Beneath her sangfroid, Leon feels a flicker of something deeper, something that he’s too foolish to fully understand—Ada Wong is afraid. In this world, in this neon-lit, soulless place, she fears losing someone she can rely on. Someone she trusts. 

Leon gets it, or at least, he feels the weight of it—but it’s nothing he’ll lose sleep over. He’s too simple, too self-absorbed, too headstrong. A fool, really. 

And that foolishness, that same reckless drive, leads him straight to your door. And standing in the way is Chris, his massive frame blocking the entrance like a standpat mountain. 

Leon’s voice takes on a resigned note. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out.” He knows he’ll have to talk his way through. He always does—always puts his life and tears on the line. 

“Come on, pal,” he says with a remiss grin, like he’s telling an old joke. “What’s one little party going to hurt? 

His words sound tired, worn from repetition, but his eyes are sharp, looking for any crack, any weakness in Chris’ solid stance. Leon knows this game well, but Chris? He’s not someone you talk past easily. 

“No entry, I said.” Chris’ voice is edgier and booming. Leon didn’t expect a harsh backlash from such a dim-witted man, even though he’s been grilling him for nearly half an hour. The pedestal, however, is clear: Leon wants to be heard, and he wants to draw your attention. He knows you’re in your room, and he doesn’t compromise since he always wants more. Even if he tickles a chance that he might end up getting beaten up, the risk, you are, is worth it. 

Leon shrugs, ever the picture of nonchalance, though his voice is silky with calculated charm. “It’s just an autograph, my good man. A trifle, really. You wouldn’t deny an admirer of the arts a simple token, would you? It’s hardly the end of the world…” Leon flaunts his mendacious excuses. 

For then, Chris inhales a long, drawn-out gulp of bile. Why is he going through this excruciating ordeal? This loquacious blonde has been clamoring to see you for minutes. Leon’s been at it for minutes now, talking a mile a minute—promising everything, offering bribes, flattering him to no end. And yet, there’s no movement. 

“When I say no, it means no. Get movin’ or I won’t be liable for what happens, young fella.” Chris’ last words are too caustic and are perhaps adequate proof enough to conclude the last point. Only a cheeky mite like Leon doesn’t understand how to leave high and dry. 

“A grave indignity, old sport. I only—” His words are broken off by the crack of the door parting open. The countenance he beholds is the one Leon covets. At the sound of the click of your heels, Chris turns in a dazed sort of way to acknowledge your presence. 

“Ma’am, this fellow here—” 

You interrupt him with a wave of your hand in the breeze. You don’t necessarily need to hear the whole story; you’ve already overheard the whole thing when you were changing your dress. 

“Chris, I and my... admirer will take it from here,” you assure your friend, and you do recognize your newest fan’s face, “You should go home now.” 

That’s how you seal a deal. 

The jazzy, twinkling blue mirrors in Leon’s sockets—reflecting fragments of light like stars caught in a lover’s gaze—seem to applaud you silently. “Look at this dame,” they whisper, “What a thing she’s done, dispatching that thug.” 

Chris’ stupefied gaze flies between you and Leon. Yet the look you give him signals that all is well enough, the quiet reassurance of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. Chris bears silent and moves a meter away, and then over a dividing wall. 

“You saved me, my dear.” Leon dashes in without wasting a second of his precious time. However much he can wow you, that’s as good as it gets. 

“Oh, don’t even mention it,” you reply, your voice airy but welded. “And please, do excuse Chris. Mr...?” You quirk your eyebrows and proffer his name, hand raised for a handshake. Leon’s only too happy to comply. 

“Leon. Leon Scott Kennedy.” 

You can’t quite place it, but there’s something vaguely familiar about the name, like a snippet of conversation overheard in a café or a name dropped casually pending a gossip fest. It lingers on the edge of your memory, refusing to settle in the space where it belongs. 

Leon can see the ululation echoing in your eyes, plain and simple: “What is it, doll?” He asks, beryls alight with oceanic larks. “Do you know me? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve heard of me. Everyone knows my name around here, you see.” 

How he can’t stop raving about himself leaves a tangy aftertaste on your tongue for the first impressions. Naturally on your face too. 

You smile, just a little too gaily. “I believe so,” you counter. “But I was more curious about what’s brought a man of such... renown to this particular corner of the world. After all, I’ve never heard of you before tonight, Mr. Kennedy.” 

Your words are relentless, and besides, there’s no harm in reminding this conceited man of his place in your presence. 

“Is that so?” Leon cross-examines. Now it’s time to watch his face shrivel up—figuratively speaking, since his face is too pretty to take a nosedive. 

“That so, gentleman?” You sort of ascribe to his intonation the same acerbic tonality and maybe a pinch of belittlement. It’s more genuine. Now why would you do it like that? Now that you’ve piqued his interest all the more, his already inherent infatuation with you attains a deeper level. Now you’ve got him hooked even tighter. The one that’s not an easy prey is always more desirable, and simple-minded people like Leon, men of a breed under the names of kind gents, take this as a rule of thumb. 

“Honey... That’s called cheating, see? Be straight with me. My name’s the talk of the town.” Leon’s counting on you to accept this absurd truth, his truth. The smile of implied expectation on his lips is a foreshadowing of its force majeure. He’s delivering the punchline of a joke no one’s laughing at yet. 

“Sir... I’m at a loss for words, truly. You’ve come all the way here to face Chris just for my autograph?” You do what you know, and your cockiness builds layer by layer. Watching the ferment on his face, the frowny set of his eyebrows, gives you a special sense of self-assurance. 

“Autograph. Ha!” Leon lets out a crow of laughter, like he’s just remembered something from way back. It’s big, brash, and loud. Passing dancer girls bustle around backstage, giggling at his fit of exuberance. It’s that you are making a toy out of him, and somehow, he can’t extricate himself from the predicament. 

“I forgot, of course,” he says, shifting into a more controlled drawl; he’s trying to smooth out the bumpy ride. He pulls a pen and a small notebook from his coat pocket with an exaggerated flourish. “But you can’t exactly blame me, doll. Your beauty’s done something to my head—messed with my mind, ya know?” 

Oh, he’s smooth, like the tingles left by the fingers tangent to your palm. 

“It seems to be your problem,” you riposte. Pen in hand, you carve your signature on the blank expanse of crisp white paper, and Leon follows the touch of the ink on the sheet of paper, heedless of your jeering remarks. 

“My problems never quite seem to end,” he expounds, not in a protesting way, but with a light touch of amusement tapping on his lips. You only respond with a whispery whicker of a laugh. You do laugh like God, Leon notices, if God is even real. 

That’s when Leon understands why people can be drawn to a simple voice as much as they can. You owe your fame to this elfin-singing voice, the batting of those cartoon eyes. As for your beauty, it must be a double blessing from God. 

Leon delights in deciphering you like a crossword puzzle, worships your littlest moves, the way the flutter of your lashes floats and the way you tuck his pen back into the pocket on his chest, your fingers brushing the fine wool. 

“There you go. I’ve solved the great mystery of where your pen belongs.” You intone with a quip, setting up a bittersweet closure for the end of your conversation. No sooner do you withdraw your hand than Leon neatly guides your wrist and then places your knuckles in the vicinity of his lips, dusting them with brief, aestival kisses. 

“Oh, so chivalry isn’t pushing up daisies after all,” you admire, a playful lilt that could make even the most cynical gangster crack a smile. When your cadenza echoes in his ears, he takes a step or two back and assents with a single nod. A small vignette of a valedictory farewell. 

“It never croaked, doll,” Leon’s exuding poise again. “And as long as I’m around, it never will.” 

Seeing the beatific smile on your face like the marquee outside the Cotton Club, in his defense, is worth being so gooey—it makes him feel just the right kind of foolish. 

“I wish you the grandest of nights,” he wishes you a generous adieu, tipping his hat in a farewell that’s both classy and just a speck visionary. Then, with a hindmost glance, he’s gone, leaving behind the faintest fume of his cologne—woodsy, something big-ticket, and just dangerous enough to match the man himself. 

This parting, though it may feel final, is no more than the ebb and flow of time. 

The morning’s bouquet arrives with violets, their soft, violet faces peeking from beneath a flourish of ribbon, accompanied by a silver card, its edges smooth and gleaming, bearing a name that was spoken only yesterday, inked in a hand that could never be mistaken for anything but deliberate, graceful. 

Leon. 

Each new day brings its own small ceremonial gestures—an exchange of flowers, bellflowers to accompany the violets, perhaps a box of bonbons in the afternoon—each offering bestowed as if to signify the passing of something eternal. You, by virtue of your place, greet them with the appropriate pleasantries. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it stirs something within you. The feeling lingers. It is like the first breath of spring, though all around you is the stillness of winter. 

The exchange of blooms soon shifts from the morning to the evening, as the days drag on. And one night, when you return home well after the sun has set, weary from a day’s toil, you barely step inside before stumbling over a scattering of furniture, bags, and the daily clutter that seems to overtake your living room. The place is chaos, but your eyes catch the glint of something—an envelope, dark as the night, slipping from beneath the glow of the lamp. 

In the midst of such chaos, the gray Luna card peeks out in the darkness like a square, mini-moon. Leon Scott Kennedy, you see that signature. 

“Is he playing some cruel jest?” You grumble ringingly. Indignation and dismay pump a tumult of emotion into your bloodstream. 

How on earth did this man find my home? 

It’s one thing to trace the address, to acquire it from some list or chance encounter, but to walk right in—to gain such intimate knowledge—who is this Leon Scott Kennedy? 

You don’t know the answer yet, but you will have to. 

In the days that follow, the gifts come still, but their novelty has long worn thin. The flowers, yes, they remain—fragile reminders of something, but the jewelry and the fine clothes? A cheap masquerade, a vulgar form of generosity. They carry no weight, no warmth. You collect them all and send them on their way, delivered into the hands of some worthy cause, as if the giving itself were the only part worth remembering. 

The night presses on, and once again, you sit in the stillness of the dressing room, the buzz of anticipation humming just outside the door. The minutes slip by like forgotten memories, yet the weight of them, that heavy burden, never quite leaves you. Your chin rests in your palm as you study your reflection in the vanity mirror. Makeup perfected, hair arranged with methodical precision—everything is in its place, or so it seems. 

Everything is okay, except for one problem. A burden of distress that has been piling up inside you, which you can’t tell anyone about, and it’s directly stabbing you in the heart. 

Should you even be on that stage tonight? The question lingers in your mind like a ghost, but you can’t answer it. Your thoughts are in a terrible disarray, as though your mind has split itself apart at the seams. Paranoia gnaws at the edges of your sanity, clawing at the fragile thread that holds it all together. How could you possibly perform in this state, to feed the insatiable hunger of the crowd outside? 

But, of course, Ada would have no qualms about writing you out of here in the blink of an eye, and while the money tempts you, the thought of unemployment claws at your gut like a feral thing. Still, this job—the stage, the spotlight, the rhythm of it all—this is what you are in love with. It’s never easy, losing what you love while you’re still so deeply entwined in it, but sometimes that is the price you pay. 

And so it’s settled. You will go. You will step out there, and you will do what you’ve always done. The show must go on, after all. 

It’s only then that matters assume a different ontogeny. Two torpid taps at the door, clouds of heavy thoughts bite the dust. It’s absurd to ask who it could be. Has to be Chris. Take a deep breath and repeat the rituals you know, the ones that are now ingrained in your repertoire. 

Then, there’s a second round of knocks. A fourth, more insistent, more immediate, as though time is a cat on a hot tin roof. It’s not Chris. It can’t be. 

“Salutations, my dear.” 

To see the face that flashes you a foul grin when you open the door here again is the very last alternative scene you’d hoped for. On the spur of the moment, you even attempt to slam the door in his face, but he’s reflexively putting his foot on the threshold, rather faster than you anticipated. 

“Tch! Not so fast, honey,” comes that jaunty cadence again, infected with that same devil-may-care rhythm. 

The man at the door is none other than Leon himself—an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. He stands there, his presence somehow both imposing and unwarranted. 

“I can’t believe you,” you break into hysterical platitudes. The very notion of him—of this—is enough to rift the delicate shell of control you had carefully built around yourself. 

Leon can’t fathom the reason for the knitted brow and is forced to compromise the arrogant mien on his face. The sang in the cerulean blues adequately sums it up. 

“What exactly can’t you believe, ma’am?” 

The dazed stress in his question reveals that he doesn’t even realize the folly of his mistake. What kind of a joke is this? What audacity and idiocy? 

“I don’t buy it, sir.” 

The froth in your breath at odds with the urbane gentleness of your words. Ignoring this, Leon pushes the door open in a single dash, and you’re propelled through the door. He closes it in a blink of an eye. 

“Is your charade going to end or...” 

Before Leon can ask his rhetorical question, his eyes flick to the ultraviolet petals in the vases on your vanity table. So you kept everything, his floral tribute for you. Oh, it’s heartwarming, but... he still can’t cross the backhanded pinprick in your stance. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave my room, or I’ll have to fetch Chris here.” 

“You don’t say?” Leon is the same, overzealous. He’s irksome to the extreme. 

“Last time, I thought everything was splendid, darling,” he drags out, “I distinctly recall you favoring me with those dreamy little looks. Correct me if I’m mistaken.” 

Such gall. He has absolutely no idea how much of a headache and hell he’s been giving you. It’s better to remind him, but how you do it is up to your discretion. 

“Listen here, mister, had I taken your insolence to the authorities, you’d likely not be setting foot anywhere near here. You’d be—” a deliberate pause for emphasis, “breathing stale air behind iron bars.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me; I’ve been mixing grain and grapes, but what the devil are you talking about?” 

His smile falters then, only slightly. There’s no awning of shock, no mortification, no shame etched across his face. Instead, his expression remains a humdrum enigma; a challenge lurks behind his steady gaze. What sort of man faces such accusations without so much as a flicker of discomposure? 

You can’t take it anymore. 

“How dare you intrude upon my home?” The words cut sharp, like the honed edge of a razor. 

“I’ve never been in your house, doll.” He’s ready to mount a defense in mere seconds. In fact, he hadn’t been in your house, not directly. Indirect is more like it. 

“Leon... please,” you hold up your hand and project callousness as if you’re repulsing his words, sweeping away the ugly bugs, “your card was even in the room with your very name written on it.” 

This is the first time he ever heard his name from your cherry lips, ruby and ripe. A different gamut of sensations, it’s limerence. 

But back to the elephant in the room. 

Soon enough, Leon’s epiphany is added to the flow of events, and if he can take his eyes away from you, he will have a couple of revelations. Taking his eyes away from you, on the other hand, is a hell of an ordeal—a Sisyphean task. 

It really does scorch him on a physical plane. 

“Don’t get yourself in a twist, sweetheart,” Leon is honing his flirting chops. Smoothing your ruffled feathers is a sport he’s personally cultivated. 

The stunned confusion written in a chiffon calligraphy on your face only fuels his merriment, albeit the sheer umbrage gemmating on your face. 

“I must remind you, Mr. Kennedy, that you are brazenly invading my privacy.” The words spill out like pearls on a string, polished but sharp-edged. It never hurts to try again, even if it means shoving your own ineradicable truths and forcing your own phrases into that numbskull. 

“Sure, sure, sweetheart. Privacy. Trespassing. Let’s call the whole thing off.” His grin unfurls, shameless. 

Leon takes a tentative grip on your wrist and guides you toward the chair by the window. As you sink into the chair, borderline slumping over, a thought strikes you like the crack of a conductor’s baton: tonight’s gig. 

The stage, the lights, the hushed murmurs of the audience—it all comes flooding back with startling clarity. 

“I can’t deal with this,” you mutter, rising to your feet as a fresh wave of trepidation tightens your chest. “I’ve got a show—” 

“Oh, the big show,” Leon infringes on your words with a chuckle, waving his hand theatrically. “Let me guess. You’ll have the whole world eating out of your hand tonight, and I’m just the poor sap standing in your spotlight.” 

His hand finds your shoulder, potent and unyielding. He eases you back into the chair with a maddeningly adroit air. 

How rude. 

“All right, what’s the racket now?” you demand. Your eyes tote the lake of fire. 

“Don’t look at me like that, sugar,” Leon’s voice grates on your brain in just the veritable way; it’s tip-top dulcet. 

“I had a most discreet little chinwag with Ada Wong,” he prattles on. He pays no mind to the labored breaths that break the rhythm of his words, then, with an audacity that leaves you momentarily aghast, drops to his knees before you. 

“Oh, and darling Ada didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow as long as I promised to square her away for the greenbacks slipping through the fingers of your adorable fans.” 

He stylishly fuses the bevy of words with his… fancy lines as he speaks. His gliding hands on your legs awaken a surprisingly ruddy pallor. He seizes your ankle and sews it up, positioning your heel on top of his knee, cradling your right leg. The subsequent is tremendous. 

He slants the marrow of his blues on you, his chin tipped up, calculating how you’ll react. Ambivalent eyes are only on you. 

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop, but if you want me to keep going, I won’t stop till you’re sick of me. It’s all for you, doll.” His voice lacks the sanctimonious hue you have come to memorize. It leaves a more mellow rumble in your ears. 

Leon, taking into account the fact that he has received no verbal confirmation yet no verbal rebuff, folds the hem of your dress until the silk fabric curves around your hips, the satin is a girdle around your waist, traversing the garter. 

“Give me a fair chance and I’ll make you forget all the pratfalls I’ve done.” His wintry breath strokes across your skin, soaking into your blood, his lips on your legs, camellia pink, lush. 

Up and up. 

High enough to boggle your mind, but not high enough to bore you. Up your calves, past your knees, and up your thighs beyond your calves. It’s not enough, and the peerless panorama you can behold before you soak out your veiled eyelids, beset by strands of blonde hair tangled in the white lace of your French knickers. The abject cold of March versus the waves of citrus fire pouring from the fireplace sizzle your skin like in the saying; March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. 

Leon is inexorable with you and the portent of antsy impatience on your face as he lingers between your legs and welds his tongue between your pulpy slit. 

For Leon, it’s all he can do not to get drunk on the tang of the nectar he’s been craving for weeks. He clamps his hands around your thighs and worships you, your lovely cunt, perhaps with the devout hunger of a believer after fasting all day long. 

Let your hips propel themselves against his nose, riding on the tip of his tongue. That garrulous mouth is at last put to some use, occupied, but his nose? The work his nose does is better experienced than spoken. 

An ephemeral passion infuses you with the lyrics of his tongue; your French-manicured nails are nothing more than paws on his scalp, and your fingers are nothing more than joints yanking at his tresses. 

What about your legs? 

They are a complete sphinx; you can’t even feel them. 

The words of adulation choke at the base of your throat, and your mind blanks out when you feel his pillowy lips pressing against your raw ribbon of sore nerves. A myriad of gasps tumbles down your rosy red lips; your body trembles as bolts of ecstasy rush through your synapses, white-hot to the touch with bliss. 

Lovely sounds emanating from the crevices of your lips grow louder, and Leon switches his weight to the outsole of his shoes, only ever paying attention to your glistening pussy. To quiet you down, he plants a brief, benign nip on your clit. 

Deep within you, that flash of rural thunderbolt strikes you anew, but you get the picture. Now your subdued moans beguile his ears; he licks and kisses and sucks on your plump clit; he’s near suffocation, but he carries on the rave, finger-fucking where his lips are each retreat to catch his breath. 

Right when you’re nearing the decadence, as ecstatic as he is, he flings his head back and refuses to let you sip that cocktail of hedonistic fumes. 

“Leon!” You yelp his name unabashedly in that frantic microsecond. Those twisted tufts of pleasure in your belly are torn to shreds, and yes, in the end, you are incapable of cumming. All this because of your douchebag new lover with his tinsel eyes who is all eyes and no eyes. 

“Sorry, love.” His voice is raspy, his eyes cryptic as he entreats for absolution. Emits all the sounds that got stuck in his throat after lovemaking. 

Tongue still laced with that sherbet of jawbreaker liqueur, the only thing he’s lost is the blissed-out zeal of ecstasy on your beautiful face. His plans are separate anyway; that creampie episode should be in his bed, and you’ll be stretched out on his cock, which is now straining in a Brooks Brothers suit. He’ll leave you hanging, wanting more of him. 

Regardless, he can at least catch a glimpse of macules of mascara on your eyelashes and two mini teardrops splashing down on your lash cords. The saliva trickling out of your mouth and drooling over the brim of your lips tears at his very root, but the eyes are special. They will always tell the absolute truth. 

“I only want to be yours.” The rhapsodic promises spring out of his lips like a bolt from the blue. 

That’s the whole secret, and so he graves his head between your thighs like a lovesick animal, incapable of subduing himself. You foolishly dwell in this rollercoaster of amore. 

It would certainly not be a lie to conclude that things came to a healthier denouement after that night. The scant nights when you are absent from your apartment complex come on the heels of the days you stayed at his place and baked biscuits together in his kitchen. Those afternoons clogged with whispering of sins in the darkness. 

The city, blues, and jazz lovers, and the circle of all those people for whom Leon has who knows what kind of background, your name is the only topic of conversation, next to Leon’s. Your resplendent name, always written alone in big prints, is now next to a man. 

You are no longer alone, by all means. But then sometimes... some nights when Leon doesn’t drop by the house until the morning, your suspicions curdle into a black furor. Not a word of what the hell he was doing was ever exchanged between you; that’s what is slowly killing you. 

This uncertainty lingers for weeks and then for months. He somehow coaxes you into selling your apartment. It’s a seemingly ghastly toll—being bound to him, but his clarion rhymes always alleviate you. Strange. 

“My little angel, I just want you near me. Why do we need your apartment when I have my space and we have more than enough. Besides, a little party hurt no one, not you and me when we’re together.” 

Your protections are short-lived, because the kisses he lanced to your lips were usually loud enough to lull you into silence. 

He, Leon Kennedy, is hardly to be got to grips with. A charmer who never misses a trick. The best of everything belongs only to him and to you because you are his. You love dancing, but he doesn’t; he has to be a grumpy cat. Every time you stick a match to light your stogie, he winds up next to you, and he’s the one who lit your kindle. He hates the smell, hates it wholeheartedly, says that his hair reeks and so on, but he sleeps with his head in your lap, watching the smoke flitting through the air from your lips. In fond veneration, as a little infant would behold his mother's face for the foremost time since the hour of his birth. 

The addressee of every petty dispute, the hardest, was to love a man who never lagged behind, who always wanted more. 

“You want more,” a dejected sulk crosses your lips. “Why?” 

Leon takes two sips from his glass full of Lafite, and he peers over the rim of the glass, half-listening. 

“What does that mean now?” 

“The night we met... something... struck me.” 

“Oh.” He sets his pint down on the table and is all at ease. 

“I’m only talking about the time you confronted a bloke like Chris without hesitation just to flaunt yourself in front of me, darling.” 

“Oh, that one. I’ll give Chris props; he was a hell of a boss. You should consider bumping up his paycheck.” 

You shake your head in resentful disbelief and refuse to say anything more beyond his passing remarks. Any time you point out something about his behavioral pattern, he gets testy and does his best to bury the hatchet. And then comes a killer migraine. 

“I certainly will. Ah, perhaps your patron should be a good patron like me and not withhold some money.” 

It’s these words that are rattling around in your unconscious. A voice in your head taps on your skull that it would not be a bad idea to hold back, but your lips will not meet. 

“Simply inhuman, to be working from nine at night to six in the morning. He should make you a multimillionaire by now.” 

Leon blinks his eyes closed and unfocused, his intense metallic gaze boring into you from beneath his lashes. 

“You know I prefer not to talk about it.” There is a devotional twang in his timbre. 

“Leon. I am merely—” 

Your lecture, however, is bisected in half by the storming in of a blond man dressed in a black leather trench coat following behind one of the girls working in housekeeping. Lackluster and sketchy. 

Leon staggers from his seat to his feet as the ignoble visitor takes his first step inside. 

You’re as still in your seat, legs crossed. 

“Please forgive me, young lady.” Your guest's voice is veiled with pejorative politeness. He draws closer, as if Leon is not in the room, and whispers short, detached, and insensate kisses on your knuckles. 

“But your lover Leon himself was slacking off. For some weeks now,” he adds, then turns a short pivot to make sure his last words have reached the ears they are meant to reach. 

“I told you, pal, Ada and I have submitted our notice of dismissal, Mr. Wesker.” Leon’s teeth clench together. Oh, you know that look better than anyone or anything. 

The humble ignominy of failing to uphold you in front of a man like Albert Wesker is hideous for Leon. 

“Pah! I’d be a fool to lose my best recruits, Mr. Kennedy.” 

This man must be the boss, apparently. What chutzpah. 

“I’m not coming. I told you, Italy isn’t my business.” 

“Italy?” Now you’re diving into the spiel. Confused, what’s coming out of these two men’s mouths is beyond their ears. 

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, this tangled headache, the revelation of everything he had swept under the carpet, wasn’t part of his plans for tonight. 

“Your girlfriend is very prying, Leon, but curiosity kills the cat.” This Albert bastard is blatantly blackmailing you and Leon with verbal cattle prods. 

“I must ask you to leave my house. Please, kind sir.” 

You’d be a fool to put up with this nonsense any longer. You stand up and tactfully point to the door to the man who might be the very incarnation of effrontery. His eyes darting to Leon, you, and the door, flux and reflux. 

“Sure thing. I’m not here to offend the little lady. See, I’ll find my own way out.” Wesker bids you his wee farewell and, one last time, delivers those paralyzing spells of paranoia to Leon. “You know the deal, boy. You know better than anyone what happens when you slip up.” 

Leon is more familiar with such words. Grim-rimmed eyes are no longer cavalier blues. 

“You still got an hour.” 

After the admonition, the man leaves the room, leaving only misdoubt in his wake. At least for you. Your lover... He’s in a very different state of mind. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this. Not a word. No one.” 

“I... What?” 

Your brain, which is still recovering from the shell shock, can’t even wrap up what you’re repeating.

“You humor me, will you. Get your head together, sweetheart.” 

It’s absurd that Leon still adores you like some baby when he's slamming the lid of the safe full of dollars, euros, and gold ingots. Only you don’t raise a peep; you simply gawk and watch the chaos around you. 

He’s been pacing the room for half an hour, tucking a flak jacket under his shirt and a leather gun holster into a Louis Vuitton utility belt around his waist. What the hell is this? Off marching off to war? 

When he’s done, he stalks you with quick strides, and you find yourself stepping backwards for no reason. Leon doesn’t have time for these flip-flops. He’s got one overriding objective in mind. To save you by any means necessary, but he’ll never tell you from what. Yet you ask him over and over again, ranting and raving. 

A tantrum and delirium. 

“You can’t leave me. No.” Your voice is harsh enough, but the stinging tears in your eyes are perfidious. 

Inasmuch as he can’t bear to look at them, he can’t heed their force. 

“I’ll be back. I guarantee it, love. This is just a little party; it had never hurt a soul.” 

He smothers your forehead in bittersweet caresses and spares your quivering lips along the pucker of your flesh. It’s all for naught. Nothing can be solved with these evanescent kisses. 

“Why are you running away from me? Why are you afraid of that man?” Your questions are clipped but unyielding. A single answer is more than enough, and you demand it, fight for it. 

That’s how pathetic Leon is. Can’t he face it? 

To be so weak that, for all that you’ve been through... It’s all teardrops on the fire between the two of you. 

You can’t quite read his eyes anymore; they’re not what they used to be, and he’s not the man he used to be. 

“Please, Leon.” 

It’s the most humbling feeling of near-death to close his deaf ears to your invocation. He can’t name it, name the thing inside him, but acridness suffuses his whole body. 

He’s back to that rainy Friday night. Flashes and strikes with lightning bolts, like a short vignette of that night when the pump of the nightmare was looping through his brain. 

“Leon!” 

For once, he doesn’t look back. He knows very well that if he does, he will never be able to leave the house, not even one foot outside. 

You are left stupefied on the stairs now, as he simply slides the door shut and drifts away into the evening of a drizzly Tuesday night. 

A second or two elapses, and you run to the door with a renewed willpower. No, he’s not leaving. You run, breaking the heel of your stilettos, barring you’re gravely late for everything. Every single thing. 

It’s Leon’s Auburn, and you watch as he revs up the accelerator down the path through your garden, past the streetlights, and into a void of alveolate twilight. 

The saga fades away as though it had never been indited for you with a special brush of pen. All that remains is the heavy diamond necklace on your neck, a souvenir from him; the chasm, he vamooses. 

You promptly called the police, despite repeated strident warnings from Leon. Instead of promising you that they would find him, they inquired about Leon’s possibly alleged behavior and conduct, which you highly resented. How could they frame an absolute angel like him? “He’s not a bad man. He was threatened and scared. I know him better than any of you constables.” You defended him, short-winded, because he needed to be remembered as the good man he always was. 

The Bluecoat was not as accommodating as you anticipated. 

So you did the only thing you could do. You waited for him. Every night, awake and alone in your empty and stone-cold bed, but the aria of this room was the nights when you kissed and fellated him a night or two before and then rode till you could not anymore.

But he never came. 

Two nights after Leon’s departure, on a Thursday morning to be precise, your eyes were as swollen and bloodshot as ever. Your slumber was ruptured by the rush of a newspaper headline brought to your room by one of the girls who worked at home. Breaking news, or as the Big Apple would say, hot topic. 

The name that crowded the headlines was none other than the name of the man you had in mind.

Broiling, hollow tears welled up in your eyes as you read the one headline stating that he had died in a car accident due to the soggy roads. The next words and the rest of the scoop didn’t matter to you at all; you knew it was all a lie. A big fat lie. 

A million interview requisitions came in, but who would waste time with that? 

Leon Kennedy did not die in a car accident. No one would believe you if you told them that. The truth is, your lover was already playing a dice game with stakes of death. 

He never needed to tell you; you already knew. Revolvers and gunpowder, the smell that assailed your nose right after his perfume on your skin, your clothes. 

It was an idiotic fairy tale in which you played a blinder. You were his nymph, and he was your guardian angel. You were jumping off the stage and hopping to evade the eyes that swept over your body like hungry maggots, and he was the first man to bail you out of that jam, to buy you diamonds and pearls, and to love you above the rest of the hordes of those pantywaists. You loved your cigarettes; he hated the aroma and the haze of smoke. 

You loved dancing and baking biscuits at home with him, and he loved hustling from party to party. Every single night when his landline rang, he left for his frivolous job that netted him a hefty sum of money—he was very fond of putting his life on the line. An even crazier adrenaline fiend than his love for you. 

You always detested yourself for it took you those torturous days after the breakup to finally decipher Leon. Always the latecomer to really know and love someone like him. His story couldn’t be passed on to anyone, anyone but you.

The story of a boy who came from an obscure hamlet and prowled the City That Never Sleeps to see things he hadn’t yet seen. A boy who always wanted to hang in the lights yearned for the freedom, just like you once were. And then you. Without him, robbed of the best party of your life.

[storiesfromgaza]

"Mom, does it hurt when we get bombarded? Do we feel the pain, or do we just die at once?"

These are the questions that Reporter Youmna El Sayed began with in her interview conducted by the AJ+ network to document her struggles with her children and the suffering of all the people of Gaza

When my kids ask me, 'Mom, does it hurt when we get bombarded? Do we feel the pain, or do we just die at once?' and I have to tell them, 'No, don't worry. It's not going to hurt.' Their father reassures them, saying, 'Don't worry. It just happens once, and that's it.' In the past, we would comfort our children, saying, 'Don't worry. It's going to be okay. It's going to end soon. You'll be fine. We'll be fine.' Everything is shaking—constantly. But now, every night, we tell them, 'Don't worry. We're together, sticking together. If we die, we die together.' Death has become a looming reality since the Israeli army encircled Gaza city. The bombardments have been relentless—from the land, air, and sea. Our building is in a perpetual state of tremor. Three days ago, we awoke to the smoke of nearby fires filling our homes. We sought refuge in the basement, the best option with the least smoke, but it was still overwhelming. The kids were coughing, suffocating, and their eyes were itching. But when it comes to my children, it just hits me so hard, Dina, and I just feel that I can't control it anymore. I can't be that strong, brave woman who's able to control things or get things under control because they're my weak part. I feel a loss of control, unable to maintain the facade of strength and bravery. Judy, usually full of life, now appears quiet and terrified

She doesn't eat much. She doesn't feel like doing anything. I tried to speak to her about things, you know, bring back some happy memories, and I said, as usual, 'What would you like to do the first thing after this war ends?' She told me, 'Mommy, I don't want to do anything except for this war to end. I just want these bombardments to end, everything—the destruction, the despair, the loss.'

I think they tell you that now—we're just hearing news of people dying every now and then—people that we know, friends, colleagues, everyone around us. And it just, you know, really, like, 'May he rest in peace,' and that's it. I just—we just go on because we were just waiting for our turn. You mentioned to me that food is scarce and supplies are low. What is the water situation? We can starve, right? We can go on without food, even as adults. But without water, I'd rather die from bombardments than die from thirst. I don't want my kids at the end to die from thirst. Are you still thinking to move south, and what would that look like? The last attempt was a couple of days ago, and we found out that to move south, we need to walk for at least 6 to 7 km on foot and not carry anything at all with us—none of our belongings. Basically, walk this distance while we raise our hands to show that we surrender, just holding our IDs in one hand and raising the other. And I think that's just extremely humiliating. And it's not just that, you know?

You remember the massacre that everyone saw on TV screens for the civilians that were bombarded on the road? They're still lying there. Until this day, lying there in the streets, their bodies. The crows and the birds are eating from them, and no one has been able to pick them up. The Israeli army has not allowed anyone or ambulances or any medical teams to come to pick these people up and to bury them. How can I let my kids go through a street while they see other children and other people killed and thrown just like that, lying in the street like that, while birds are eating from them? I think that this is just inhumane and more cruel than anything. This is not to worry about fighting Hamas or Palestinian fighters. This war began by eliminating and wiping out the Palestinian people in Gaza. This isn't a war against Palestinian fighters nor Hamas; it's a genocide against Gaza.

[apricot-blossomss]

I love your latest Apollo story! This line "Let's release her into no man's land, make sacrafices to Apollo to soothe him and hope for his mercy." give me an idea for a request. What about an actual sacrifice story where reader is offered to Apollo as an exchange for the reward as people have hoped, but he falls in love with her at the first sight and treasure her contrary to her expectations?

☛ mortal! fem! reader is sacrificed to apollo

☛ sfw, tw: disease/epidemic(the plague), threats of violence/death; this was such a fun request to write, thank you very much!

Two weeks. The plague had been raging in your city for two weeks, and it was on the brink of collapse. Bodies lined up on the sides of the streets, too many to bury, the cries and sighs of the dying to be heard from out of the houses. Louder than the weakened bawling of the sick were the screams of the relatives, losing loved ones, that cut through the horrid symphony of suffering.

Of course, you knew how precarious the situation was. You knew you had an obligation to your people after your father, the king that was supposed to protect them, had drowned them in such misery. He had insulted the god Apollo and now, innocents were dying in the hundreds for his blasphemy. When he had turned to the city's seer, the old man had prophecied that only one thing could save the city: sacrificing you to the god to appease him.

Other than your father, you were ready to give everything for your people, but the thought of your impending death made a cold wash over you, your heart squeezed in an unforgiving panic as tears ran down your cheeks. Without so much as a second thought, your father had ordered you to be locked in a cell until the sacrifice tomorrow morning. It hit you like a flash that it had to be morning already, you only had so little time left, and you were spending it chained like an animal in a cold, moldy dungeon, shivering in terror and crying cold tears over your fate.

Another tremble shook your body and you pressed it into the corner you were sitting in, longing for the smallest bit of comfort. Your stomach was empty, but you weren't hungry, you felt too sick. If only you could have spent your last night in your room with your pets and your instruments, where it was warm and bright and the memories of better times lingered. They hid under the covers, lurked behind the doors and would have brought you comfort. Instead, your end would be thoroughly miserable.

You had overheard what the soldiers had said. Chained up, you would be brought before the city gates to an altar, built quickly to serve its purpose, and an archer on top of the city walls would end your life for your sacrifice to be collected by the god. You sniffled and tried to think of something beautiful as your hand squeezed the place over your heart that would soon be pierced by the arrow. It was as if you could feel it already.

Eventually though, the despair in combination with your exhaustion must have overwhelmed you, because the next thing you knew was that two guards were waking you up, releasing your chains and guiding you up the stairs. Over the night, the cold had settled in your bones, but that wasn't the only reason your legs were wobbly and unstable as you ascended into the palace. Your father wasn't there, but that didn't surprise you. Only a group of scholars, magistrates and officials had gathered to lead the procession out of the city.

The moment you left the palace, still guarded, though you assumed it wasn't for your protection but rather your safekeeping, the horrible smell of rotting flesh and burning bodies hit you. If it hadn't been for your empty stomach, the urge to puke would have overwhelmed you. That would not have been a very graceful last walk. Looking forward, you saw that the people, sick and healthy, but all dirty and with grief written into the hollows of their eyes, had gathered along the sides of the road to watch the procession.

There was no music played, and the usual sound of screams and cries had given way to a haunting silence. Ignoring the piercing smell, you allowed yourself to bask in the bright sunlight for a moment, dwelling in the irony that it would be your downfall.

When you were almost by the city gates and your feet started to hurt, a commotion disrupted the eerily still crowd of onlookers and the procession halted, guards stepping forward to protect it. An elderly woman broke free from the assembly. Her thin hair, sickly complexion and buboes on her face and neck left no doubt that she was very sick. When she called out, her voice was but a rasp. "Princess!"

Surprisingly, the guards didn't stop you when you stepped forward, towards the woman. Though you could see why. Even if you got infested, it wouldn't matter, your life would end before the sun had risen to its peak. Unable to stabilize herself, the woman had fallen to her knees and you crouched down to her. A stifled gasp erupted from the crowd when you placed your hand on her shoulder. "It'll be alright," you said, not knowing where you got the sudden calmness. "It's all going to be over soon."

"Thank you," the woman sobbed, cradling your hand as dirty tears got caught up in the deep wrinkles of her face. "Thank you for your sacrifice, princess." Two young women stepped forward and helped her up as the guards took you between themselves once more, and as the procession moved forward, you felt strengthened. That was right. What did your life matter if you could save the lives of thousands?

Only the guards proceeded with you once you reached the gate. You took a nervous look upwards that made fear jolt through you once more. The archer was already in place. The archer that would seal your fate once you were displayed upon the altar.

The alter itself was a few hundred steps from the walls, a quick construction for this purpose only. The guards chained you onto it, so that you were displayed upon it like a sacrificial lamb. How fitting. When they left, you could barely sit up enough that your back didn't bow under the metal pressure, but you wanted to die with dignity. That was why you stricktly forbade yourself to cry, but you couldn't stop the trembling of your body and the racing of your heart, it's beat drumming in your ears, running in its last moments to its inevitable end.

Shivering and heaving, you awaited the arrow. This was so much worse than if they had killed you right away. It was torture not to see it coming. Managing a quick look back at the city gates, you saw the archer draw his bow. Despite yourself, a fearful sob left your throat and you closed your eyes, waiting. Almost anticipating. Any second now. The darkness was comforting.

The touch on your chin made you jolt. There was a hand, gently lifting your chin. Was it Thanatos, death itself? Death had an unexpectedly gentle touch.

"Open your eyes."

Without thinking, you did and froze. Your heart, that had been beating as fast as a dragon-flies' wings, halted for just a second. A breathless second, because in front of you stood the most beautiful creature you had ever seen. He was no man, he couldn't be. Emitting an otherworldly glow, his hair seemed to be woven out of gold, his skin as spotless as marble and his eyes a golden color. No, he was no man. The bow draped over it's shoulder, with which he had unleashed despair onto your city, sealed the deal. It was the mighty god Apollo himself.

You couldn't read his expression, but it was neither happy nor angry. He didn't present himself as a vengeful, destructive force of divinity, yet his might you could feel in every fiber of your being. His touch on your skin burned, as if you were too close to his godliness. Only now you followed his other arm with your eyes, that was stretched behind you, and gasped. It held the arrow meant for you, as if he had grabbed it out of the air right before it would have hit your body.

His surprisingly soft fingers tilted your chin further upwards, not meeting any resistance. Your body surrendered to his touch automatically. Golden eyes studied your features with such interest that it made you sweat. The weight of his godly eyes on you was almost painful. With a courage you didn't know you had in you, you looked up, right into those hard, unforgiving eyes. They widened slightly as you did and the god tilted his head. When he spoke, his voice shook you to your core.

"Who are you?"

Too caught up in the melody of his smooth voice, the grave sound of centuries and eternities, you almost missed the question. For a second, you contemplated wether you should tell him, but you didn't see what use there was in lying. And you knew you couldn't lie to him. It was time to meet your purpose.

"I am the eldest daughter of the king that offended you, and who's city is suffering the hail of your arrows, Lord Apollo. I am a sacrifice to you. Please-," your voice broke, but you forbade yourself to cry. "Take me, let me die for my city and have mercy on my people." You could have cursed yourself for the way your lip was trembling, and you added a choked "if it pleases you."

They had chained you down like an animal. Apollo knew that the king was a scumbag, but so much of a scumbag that he would leave his daughter to die without a second thought. The audacity to think that he would be satisfied with this, that he would be granted mercy. And such a pretty little thing you were, too. And obviously way more interested in your people than their king.

All you could hear was your heaving breath as you averted your eyes. His hand left your chin and when he lifted it, you ducked under the impending hit, but it didn't come. When you looked up carefully, he had only placed his hand on the altar next to you. Still, his golden eyes studied your face, though you thought that they looked just a little softer than before. His other hand dropped the arrow and came up to your face to brush strands of hair behind your ear. "What is your name?"

You told him, but he showed no reaction. Were you not enough to satisfy his vengeance? "Please," you begged, "accept me as sacrifice and forgive my father's sins."

The god only scoffed. "Who had that idea? What moron prompted you to be sent out here?" Again, you told him of the seer and his prophecy, shaking under the weight of the chains and your fear. "So, he told your father he would be forgiven if he sacrifices you to me?" the god said. "How could such an error happen to him? He is a very skilled seer." He wasn't talking to you but to himself, glaring at your city in the distance. The waves of his godly anger rolled off of him and left you breathless. You cursed yourself. Was this all you could do? Shiver, die, cover?

The god let out a sigh that sounded like a tragic tune. Such grace, even in the most minor of his mannerisms. He spared another glance at you and again, you felt like blinded by the sun itself. "How would you like a new home, Princess?" there was a scornful tone to his voice when talking about your former home. His lips twitched in mocking amusement. "The old one produces such horrid smells."

You felt your chest constrict with a sudden surge of anger. "And who's fault is that?"

Oh gods.

You had not just said that. What had you been thinking? You didn't dare to breathe as both you and him were, for a moment, stunned by your words. Because you didn't want to see the extent of his eternal anger at your defiance, you chose to look on the ground, expecting the death blow any moment now. But no, he would not make it quick for you, not when you had shown such impudence. Would it be a torturous death? But if it was already set in stone...

You didn't know what prompted you to look up again, but you did, and found him with a stunned expression only making his features prettier. "You hold a grudge against my father because of his blasphemy, fine. Give him the torturous death he deserves. But if you think bodies thrown in the sewers for the rats to eat because there is not enough wood to burn them would touch my father, you are wrong. But it does touch me, and I care about my people. You can do whatever you want to me, and I know you will, but I am begging you to end this punishment!"

You were fierce. Apollo was stunned by your bravery, not many had ever dared to talk to him like that. His sister would like you. There was such clear directness in your words, he could tell you were intelligent, smarter than your father, and you could articulate it even under godly scrutiny. You were interesting. And even more pretty glaring at him. Something tingled inside him, as if you had touched a nerve, but a good one.

"Heh"

It was a slight sound, almost swallowed up by the wind, but it made you look up in disbelief. But it was true. The smile on Apollo's features stunned you, he was too beautiful to be beheld by mortal eyes like yours. Your amazement by his grin almost washed away your confusion about his amusement. Why was he smiling? Why weren't you dead yet?

You flinched away when his hand touched your waist, but you were surprised by how gentle it was. It wrapped around the chains that tied down your whole body and dug painfully into your flesh and they dissipated. A wave of his hand and the bruises that had formed under their pressure healed in front of your eyes. "Hm," he hummed and you looked back at him. "Such a shame, those bindings taking up the view."

"Uh," was all you could say, still half lying on the altar. His smile widened, but it was not malicious. No, it was ... charming. Flirty. Stunningly beautiful.

"Tell me, pretty lady, do you sing?" he asked, leaning on the altar with his two arms caging you in as he leaned towards you. He was so close you could feel it radiating off of him. It felt like heat, only that it buzzed that air in a way that made your lungs constrict. Pure power.

"Ye- I mean, a little," you said, trying to follow his sudden mood shift. "Why?" Because boldness had been the most effective diplomatic tactic so far, and because you felt the strong urge to say it, you added: "Do you want me to sing for you?"

His eyes gleamed with... something. Now, he was truly shining. "Yeah, real interesting," he smiled, leaning even closer. Your heart was racing. "How about I rephrase my previous question, darling. You can either go back to your city and your father, or you can come with me. Your choice. Either way, your city will be forgiven and have peace."

The proposal knocked the breath out of your lungs and the flirtatious smile on his face didn't make it any better. You looked back at your city. Back to your father, who was so willing to sacrifice your life for his, who hadn't even had the decency to see you one last time before sending you out to die, alone and scared, paying for his mistakes. There was nothing there for you, but something was pulling you to the man in front of you that you couldn't quite explain.

"I want to leave with you," you said, surprised by the firmness of your voice. And even more surprised at the way he lit up, emitting a soft golden glow. The stone cold gold of his eyes had melted into warm honey as his arms sneaked under your body and lifted you up. You couldn't help but smile back, as if you were out of control of your face muscles.

"That little smile of yours is almost as irresistible as mine," the god grinned down at you and you felt yourself blush, slapping his chest out of embarrassment as you would have done any man's. For a moment, you were mortified by your own actions, but it turned into relief the next moment because Apollo let out a hearty laugh. A little chuckle left your own lips and for a second, his eyes lingered on them.

The next, he was shielding your eyes with his hand and you could only hear and feel him all around you now. "You might want to close your eyes for a bit. It might get bright."

As you did, he removed the hand, held you gently and looked down upon your face as a hail of golden light engulfed the two of you. Your fingers dug into his tunic but he couldn't have minded it any less. There was something about you that fascinated him. You were interesting, and the god liked interesting people. Eyes still closed, one of your hands found his and squeezed, and he was glad your eyes were closed, or you would haves even the bright pink blush on his marble cheeks.

Yeah, real interesting.

[anqar-salem]

🔥 Cry for Salvation: Salem and His Family in the Heart of Hell 💔🍉🕊🇵🇸

https://gofund.me/aa452f97

https://gofund.me/aa452f97

I am Salem, 27 years old, from Gaza. My life used to be simple, full of hope and ambition. After graduating from university, I dreamed of becoming an electrical engineer, but harsh circumstances forced me to migrate before the war broke out. 🏚️ My dreams were shattered under the fire of bombardment, and now I live far from my family, in a camp on the shores of Greece, facing darkness from every side. 🏝️

After graduation, I faced a harsh reality: the lack of job opportunities pushed me to find any way to earn a living, so I was forced to work in a sanitary ware factory. 🏭 This job was far from my dream, but I had to support my family. However, in a tragic moment, I suffered a severe injury to my leg, leaving me 85% disabled, and robbing me of the ability to work and provide for my family.

My family, whom I left behind, is now living a daily nightmare. After being displaced from northern Gaza, they were crowded into a school 🏫 turned into a shelter for the displaced, where five families are crammed into one classroom, after our home was completely destroyed under heavy bombing. No privacy, no hope, and with every passing moment, tension and fear grow. 🏘️

My mother, who suffers from diabetes and high blood pressure 💉, endures without treatment, and my father, who was once our support, has become immobile, unable to move. Whenever I speak to them, I see despair in their eyes, as if they are waiting for a tragic end.

I am here asking for your help, as I am unable to save them on my own. I migrated in search of treatment for myself and to help my family improve their circumstances, but the road remains difficult.

The goal of this campaign is to help them migrate from this nightmare to a place that offers them safety and dignity. 🇵🇸

Your donation is not just financial aid—it's a lifeline for my family, a chance to escape this hell. 🙏**

Don't wait for tomorrow. Donate now, because every passing second adds to their suffering. You are the hope that can save my family. 🚨 Every dirham, every dinar, every dollar means the difference between life and death.

https://gofund.me/aa452f97

https://gofund.me/aa452f97

Be the light in the darkness, donate now, and give my family a chance to live with dignity once again. 🕊️💔

@heritageposts @turtletoria @valtsv @anneemay @tamamita @annabelle--cane @schoolhatergirl

@prinnay @pregnantseinfeld @bigandgreedy @pcktknife @punkitt-is-here @paper-mario-wiki

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@palipunk @komsomolka @comrademango @sabertoothwalrus @quasi-normalcy @3000s

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[rainybubbles]

What are COD men and women missions as your guardian angel ?

Ghost, Price, Soap, Gaz, Laswell, Farah, Valeria, Alejandro, König, Roach, Nikolai

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)

G H O S T :

-He was sent to prevent you from accepting a job opportunity that would lead to your death. 

-The prospective boss was destined to be tyrannical, pushing you to overwork, neglect your health, sever ties with loved ones, and gradually spiral into a state of despair. 

-Ultimately, exhaustion would compel you to cross a road, only to be struck by a truck. 

-Simon's purpose was to avert this tragic fate.

-Simon exerted considerable effort attempting to erase all traces of the job offers and announcements from your computer, eager to fulfill his mission swiftly. 

-However, you persisted in pursuing your dream job, repeatedly defying his interventions. 

-”Fucking hell” he whispered one night after passing hours on Indeed to delete everything.

-He realized he had to convince you. But it means getting to know you. 

-He sighed and moved in, thanks to his power, the flat next to yours was magically free.

-Despite his strategic move, Simon struggled with social interactions. 

- He tried the “have you any sugar ?” but it was 1AM, so it scared you.

-God, Simon and his social skills.

- One day, you, alarmed by a peculiar noise, knocked on his door, convinced that an intruder had breached your home. 

-Trusting Simon's intimidating presence to scare off anyone, you spent the night at his flat for reassurance. 

-This incident marked the beginning of a gradual acquaintance.

-As Simon got to know you, a mutual exchange of pastries became a regular occurrence. You started it to thank him for that night, and he offered you ones, and it has became a regular thing.

- Friday nights turned into joint activities like watching matches or cooking together. 

-During these moments, you opened up about your dream job, and Simon, in turn, disclosed the harsh realities about the company.

-The realization dawned upon him as he witnessed the trust you placed in him.

- When you decided not to pursue the ominous job, he felt a sense of joy until the weight of the truth settled in—his mission was complete. 

-Simon waited in anticipation for the next assignment.

-He waited.

-Days

-For another name, another mission.

-Nothing came.

-And he saw Laswell.

-He knew what it meant.

-“Simon, they decide you can either continue as an angel or stay with her and become human”Laswell says.

-Being with you.

-Waking up with you, living a life with you…

-It sounded perfect.

-He didn’t deserve that. Not after all what he had done, not…him with you, you deserved better.

-The following morning, you knocked on his door, only to find the flat deserted.

- Frantically searching for Simon Riley on social media, you discovered an unsettling absence—like a ghost, he had vanished, leaving you with a broken heart.

-“He fucking ghost me”, you cried on the floor of your flat, not knowing the truth.

P R I C E :

-He had not been sent for you, but for a boy named Clark. 

-Clark was on the verge of homelessness, and John's mission was to help him develop an idea to secure some much-needed money.

-As John succeeded in his task, he couldn't help but notice the negative transformation in Clark.

- The influx of money had turned Clark into a selfish person, threatening his friends if they considered leaving him. And that's how he encountered you—a kind soul who had been there for Clark since the beginning.

-You, always supportive, witnessed how toxic Clark had become towards you.

- Slowly, you began to believe you deserved such treatment, unable to find better friends. 

-John, disturbed by this realization, hoped for another mission to rescue Clark's friend from the clutches of his destructive behavior.

-But nothing changed.

-Frustrated, John couldn't stand idly by while people suffered for the sake of his mission. 

-His purpose was to rectify injustice, not allow someone to turn into a despicable person.

-During a party, he found you outside and couldn't help but express his thoughts

- "I'm glad you're in his life. He's so much better now. He was really broke, and I was scared he'd end up alone on the streets. He lived at my house for a long time." you said.

-"He should have end up in the streets," Price asserted without regret.

-Your eyes widened, but a chuckle escaped you. "You shouldn't say that."

-"But you agree.

-”Money got to his head, but he's a good guy."

-"He's not, and you know it, love."

-"I don't want to lose him. I love him." you admitted.

-And then it clicked. You loved Clark before he became the person he was now.

-"You loved him before all of this." he realized.

-"I know. And it hurts because I still hold onto the hope that he'll realize and suddenly become better."

-"I'm sorry." Price said.

-"It's not your fault."

-It was, but you couldn't know.

-"Maybe in another life, I'll be as happy as he seems to be?"

-Price could have read your life with his power and gotten to know your future. But he didn’t.

-"I hope you deserve it." he answered.

-"Hey John, if I'm not happy, could I count on you? You're always here for me."

-"I promise, love."

-You smiled.

-Later, when John received his new mission, he decided to peek into your future to protect you one last time—only to realize there was no future.

-He rushed to your flat.

-The police were there.

-Clark had been arrested.

-And a body was being taken to the morgue.

-Maybe he should have looked at your future earlier.

S O A P

-He had been dispatched to safeguard your moral values from crumbling into ruin. 

-The situation was straightforward; you were shattered, and a friend of yours suggested a lucrative opportunity to intimidate someone for a hefty sum. 

-In simpler terms, you were on the verge of joining a gang for the sake of money. 

-Broke, homeless, unwilling to burden your family, and unable to afford food, you were desperate enough to consider anything that paid, given the absence of job offers.

-Soap's mission was to avert this downward spiral, to prevent you from evolving into a heartless figure with bloodstained hands, a potential mafia leader. 

-Naturally, he couldn't just hand you money; you wouldn't accept it from a stranger. So, he devised a plan to hire you at his bakery.

-Initially taken aback, because hell you couldn’t even say or bake croissant. 

-Nevertheless, your role was strictly to sell, not to bake. 

-Moreover, your boss, Soap, emanated a comforting presence. 

-He treated you kindly, just as he did with everyone on his missions

-But to him, your smile was more than just a pleasant sight; it stirred something within him.

-Your laughter, dry and infrequent, motivated him to ensure you laughed more often, even if it meant he made a fool of himself with sugar or butter.

-When your friend said you couldn’t stay at their place, Soap went a step further and provided you with one.

- As you began accumulating enough funds to secure a flat, you encountered difficulties in finding one. 

-Leveraging his magical abilities, Soap helped locate a suitable residence for you. 

-Once settled, he taught you the art of baking, gradually helping you to take charge of the bakery.

-A year later, you had become a skilled baker, and Soap realized his mission was accomplished. 

-Independent and content, you were ready to take over the bakery. 

-Craftily, he fabricated a story about relocating to another country and passing the bakery on to you. 

-Initially hesitant, you eventually agreed after lengthy discussions.

-As Soap sensed the emergence of a new name and mission on the paper, he looked at you and sighed, "I'll miss you, love."

-"Me too, Johnny," you replied.

-Little did you know it was the final time you would see him, but Soap was acutely aware.

- So, for the first time, he allowed himself to act on impulse and kissed you. In that fleeting moment, he wished he could relinquish his wings and live with you indefinitely.

G A Z :

-TW : social anxiety :) !

-He was sent to help you with your health.

-You grappled with social anxiety, a condition so severe that the fact of being in a crowded bus could make you faint

- Asking for a bag at the cashier's counter filled you with fear, and even a simple "hello" caused three weeks of overthinking

- You existed in a state of solitude, ensnared within a relentless cycle of anxiety.

- Your mental health had plummeted, yet the luxury of a therapist was beyond your means.

-Social anxiety, insidiously, severs connections, making it difficult to seek help, leaving you trapped in an endless loop of overthinking. 

-The act of breathing itself became a struggle

-Walking in the streets became a nightmare, convinced that every passerby scrutinized your every move. Life, for you, felt burdensome, your very existence a weight upon others.

-Enter Gaz, sent to prevent you from venturing too close to the precipice. 

-He initiated contact through social media, engaging you in conversation within a fandom you both shared.

- He witnessed the genuine joy in your smiles as you responded to his messages, the relief emanating from having notifications from a real person rather than an automated system.

- Talking to him felt right, providing a respite from the isolation.

-Gradually, your interactions with Gaz progressed beyond the digital realm.

- Attempts to meet in person were met with reluctance or last-minute cancellations, fueled by fears of judgment, rejection, or even the possibility of an elaborate prank. 

-However, perseverance prevailed, and one day, he succeeded in meeting you face-to-face.

-The anxiety lingered, but Gaz's warmth created a sanctuary, a safe space for you.

- Together, you confronted the formidable adversary that was social anxiety.

-Gaz became your anchor during the lows, comforting you when crowds induced panic or tears flowed at the thought of being among people.

-Of course there were downs, where you couldn’t go out, where you would cry just by the idea of being in a crowd. But he was here for you.

-Every Monday, he accompanied you through bustling streets, holding your hand as you breathed through the anxiety. 

-Small victories were celebrated, such as summoning the courage to ask for water from a waiter. 

-To some, these achievements may seem ridiculous, but Gaz understood the immense courage they required.

-He cherished the moments you shared, the progress you made—ordering food by phone, making a call—each step a triumph on the arduous road of overcoming social anxiety.

- In these moments, Gaz recognized that this was more than a mere mission; it was a lifelong commitment. 

-Social anxiety was not a battle with a finite resolution; rather, it was a continuous struggle.

-A knowing chuckle escaped him. 

-Captain Price, knowingly, had bestowed upon Gaz a life mission. 

-In a quiet moment, Gaz whispered his gratitude, acknowledging that if his mission was to love and support you, there was no doubt he would embrace it for eternity.

V A L E R I A :

-She was sent to save your marriage.

- Angels, renowned for their influence on matters of the heart, and Valeria, in particular, was on a divine mission to salvage the threads that held your union together. 

-However, as of late, doubt began to creep into her convictions as a guardian angel.

-In numerous assignments, she found herself helping individuals of questionable character.

- Then, she met you—a person ensnared in a wretched marriage. 

- Your wife treated you poorly, arguing with you for trivial matters, asserting your worthlessness without her, forgetting your birthday and engaging in infidelity with others.

-Valeria questioned the purpose of preserving such a toxic bond.

- Was she supposed to save this tormented marriage?

- Was the sanctity of matrimony so sacred that it should endure despite the evident misery it caused?

-No, she had enough..

- She reached a breaking point, disenchanted with being the obedient savior in every situation. 

-She wasn't Rudy or Alejandro—she wouldn't blindly adhere to a mission that clashed with her newfound convictions. 

-Instead, she took a daring step and seduced you, believing you deserved better, deserving her.

-You, with your kindness and generosity, deserved someone who would treat you with the respect and love you lacked in your current relationship. 

-Valeria refused to surrender you to the shackles of your miserable marriage.

- She cared not for the rules of her celestial role; she wasn't a guardian angel any longer. 

-That night, driven by an irrepressible desire for change, she made a drastic choice—she cut off her wings. 

-The pain was excruciating, but amidst the agony, she found relief and liberation.

- She knew this act condemned her to damnation, but the prospect of being with you made it inconsequential.

- Morality blurred into shades of gray as she willingly became a fallen angel, abandoning her celestial duties for the ecstasy of earthly love.

- The sensation of your lips against hers eclipsed any impending punishment, and in that moment, she embraced the fall from grace for the happiness she found in your arms.

N I K O L A I :

-He was the one training guardian angels. 

-Nikolai wasn't a guardian angel, but a fallen one. 

-In the past, he had fallen in love with the one he was supposed to guard.

- As a consequence, they severed one of his wings and stripped him of his celestial status. 

-To prove his devotion, Nik decided to assist in the formation of guardian angels.

- Laswell and Price supported him, and they agreed.

-So, he began training new guardian angels, and you happened to be one of them.

- He admired how you struggled to fly, resembling a fawn. 

-"Солнце (=sun), use your back muscles, not your arms," he teased as you tumbled to the ground once again. 

-"How could you know?" you snapped back, frustrated.

-He stopped, his lone wing retracting. 

-You realized the impact of your words.

- "Shit, Nik, sorry, that's not what I meant."

-"It's okay, but I used to fly in the past, you know. Don't doubt my abilities again."

-"Of course, I... It's just frustrating to see everyone else succeeding."

"-It's okay. Ghost took six months to fly; Soap burned his wing three times," Nikolai said. "So, don't doubt, Солнце."

-"Really?" you laughed.

-"Yes, so don't doubt, Солнце."

-"Isn't it difficult to watch all those angels and not feel free like them?" you asked, a question no one had posed to him before.

-"It is, but I deserved it."

-"You just loved someone. I don't think it was worth the punishment," you whispered.

-"Maybe, but I betrayed my mission."

-"I still think you did it for good reasons. The world isn't black and white. Sometimes we have to be gray. Loving them, it's not a crime."

-He stayed silent. "Maybe."

-"Sorry, I overstepped, but I think it's unfair they treat you like this. Graves is keeping his wings when he had killed people to succeed in his missions, not very guardian angel of him."

-"You're right, but we can't do anything."

-"I will. I'll fight for you. Use my wings to give yours back," you said, determined.

-That day, Nik felt a spark—the same one that had cost him his wings. 

-The one who was back with you. 

-He ignored it. 

-"If you say so, I'll watch you doing it," he chuckled.

-Little did he know, you would succeed and restore his wings. 

-Perhaps, one day, Nikolai would fly again with his wings and not a helicopter.

A L E J A N D R O :

-He was sent to protect you, to help you to expose the truth.

-You, a journalist delving into a precarious story surrounding the cartel's sway

-. Alejandro understood the gravity of this mission; his entire previous life had been defined by this relentless fight against the cartel.

- With unwavering dedication, he vowed to shield you with all his heart.

-Thus, he concealed himself, surveilling your residence, neutralizing all dangers, confronting cartel members seeking to harm you under the cover of darkness.

- His magic thwarted explosive threats, and he meticulously tarnished the reputations of those aiming to intimidate you after your initial article.

- He stood watch, silently guarding you.

-His cover was blown one day. In your apartment, a cartel member lay unconscious at his feet.

-"So it was you?" you inquired.

-"I can explain," he stammered.

-"You were the one protecting me, weren't you? I've never felt threatened since my colleagues shared their ordeals. Only words, never physical harm or bombs. My family is unharmed. Someone protected me. It's you, isn't it?"

-Your perceptiveness impressed him.

-"Yes," he admitted.

-"You should have said something. I can pay you if needed. Being a bodyguard for someone who challenges cartels must be challenging."

-"Not as challenging as being a colonel fighting the cartel in my previous life," he thought but refrained from saying.

-"It's okay. I don't need a salary."

-"Then live with me. Let me repay you, in a way. This way, you can keep an eye on me 24/7 but still have a place to stay."

-It was tempting, avoiding the need to surveil you from across the street, being able to follow you closely to prevent traps.

-"Okay," he accepted.

-Gradually, he became a fixture in your life. You shared your findings, and he assisted during investigations, often necessitating clandestine break-ins to gather information. 

-He marveled at how you managed to stay alive with your audacious pursuits.

-But with each cartel member arrested due to your articles, he felt satisfaction and pride. You were making a difference.

-Until one day, the absence of the familiar sound of typing alarmed him. 

-Racing to your room, he found you lifeless, a bullet wound in your head. 

-How was this possible? He had used his magic for protective measures, installed cameras.

- Then he noticed it—a black wing on the floor, a fallen angel turned malevolent.

-He knew who was responsible—Valeria. Of course, she would be entangled in the sinister web of cartels. Mierda...

L A S S W E L L :

--She was sent to ensure peace.

-You, a fledgling diplomat, had just entered the scene.

-In a matter of months, a critical meeting loomed on the horizon. 

-Unfortunately, one of the other ambassadors harbored nefarious plans. 

-Their aim? To ensnare you, hold your country responsible for an attack, derail any alliance, shatter hopes of peace, and plunge nations into war.

-Laswell, tasked with preventing this diplomatic catastrophe, sought to guide you through the treacherous world of international relations.

-Gaining your trust, however, proved to be a formidable challenge.

-You toiled in isolation, reluctant to confide even in an assistant. 

-Acutely aware of the sordid nature of politics, you had no intention of succumbing to manipulation or falling prey to powerful lobby interests.

-To demonstrate her capabilities, Laswell embarked on a mission to help you confront a corrupt mayor. 

-When she successfully ousted him and exposed the truth, despite the mayor's pervasive connections, you were compelled to extend a job offer.

-"Thanks for this. I couldn't have done it without you. He had connections everywhere," you expressed your gratitude.

-"I have connections too, but I guess mine are just better than his," she replied with a hint of confidence.

-A chuckle escaped your lips.

-It was evident that Laswell, fueled by a genuine commitment to peace, would prevail. 

-Witnessing the purity of your heart, she found solace.

- She had observed how the hearts of political figures often tarnished when power came into play, but you remained an exception.

-"You're a remarkable diplomat, never doubt that," she reassured.

-"Maybe, but niceties don't seal alliances or foster peace," you sighed. "Money does, and we don't have it."

-Together, you delved into the intricacies of contracts and gathered information about other nations.

- Nights were spent in your office, surrounded by take-out containers, punctuated by jokes that lightened the mood while maintaining a serious focus on work.

-Gradually, Laswell began to open up to you. 

-Of course, she concealed her past as a CIA agent, weaving a narrative that shielded her secrets. Yet, you felt a sense of security in her presence.

-One evening during a break, you asked,

-"Do you have someone, Kate? You're always here with me, and I wouldn't want your significant other to worry."

-"I had someone," she admitted.

-"Sorry to hear that," you responded.

-"It's okay. It was a long time ago, like a previous life," she joked, though the truth lingered beneath the surface.

-"How were they?" you inquired.

-"She, and she was wonderful. My wife. I could have given everything to her, except I didn't. I didn't give her my time. I was working too hard."

-"Did you divorce?" you asked.

-"No, but I quitted my job for her."

-"Oh."

-"It was the right thing to do. She deserved it," she smiled.

-"And you never met anyone after?"

-"No.”

-Because after that, she died old and happy with her wife, before becoming a guardian angel.

-She never looked for love.

-"No, but maybe someday." Laswell said

-"I don't doubt it," you chuckled.

-"And you?"

-"I'm too busy with my work. They say I'm mostly married to it," you attempted to joke, but Kate sensed the underlying sadness.

-"You'll meet someone. You're a great person."

-"Thanks," you replied, returning to your work. 

-After weeks of collaboration, Kate unearthed a drug affair involving the other diplomat and dealt with it discreetly.

-On the day of the crucial meeting, the peace offer was accepted without hesitation, thanks to the covert threat.

- The treaties were signed, and a sigh of relief echoed through the diplomatic corridors.

-However, when Laswell awaited her next mission, she discovered a surprise.

-Your name resurfaced, but the mission had taken an unexpected turn.

-"Marry them."

-Confused, Laswell pondered the note. Guardian angels can't love humans. Then, she noticed a message on the back.

-"You deserve a retreat, Kate. And they're your type. Enjoy it. - John."

-She chuckled. John, always meddling where he wasn't needed.

- However, she didn’t know if she would marry you or not but this life as a diplomat, reshaping the world for the better, was the love she had found."

F A R A H :

-She had been sent to infuse you with the strength to confront adversity with courage and resilience.

- Once a firefighter, you had walked away from the profession after a tragic incident where a child lost his life in a fire. 

-Your attempts to alert your boss about the suspicious nature of the recent fires fell on deaf ears, and disillusioned, you resigned. 

-The question lingered: Why be a firefighter if you couldn't save lives?

-Farah had been dispatched to restore your inner fortitude because, deep down, you were right

-Those recent fires were no accidents. 

-Only you had the power to uncover the truth, having been the sole observer of the pattern.

- Fate placed her as your neighbor, but your demeanor was reticent, a mere husk of your former self.

-Observing your silent suffering, Farah chose a bold approach. 

-She ignited a fire in her own apartment using a toaster, triggering your instincts. 

-Without hesitation, you rushed to her aid with a fire extinguisher, quelling the flames.

-"Thanks, I don't know what happened," she lied, keenly observing the adrenaline coursing through your veins and the relief in your eyes.

-"It's okay; toasters can be tricky, many of them catch fire," you reassured her.

-"Do you often see that?" she inquired.

-"I'm a firefighter," you paused, correcting yourself, "was, sorry."

-She smiled, finding solace in your continued identification with the role.

-"You quit? Injuries?" she probed.

-"No, I... it just wasn't for me."

-"It doesn't seem that way," she said, nodding towards the fire extinguisher still in your grasp.

-"It was just a reflex."

-"Hmm, if you say so. You know, just because there are some bad firefighters doesn't mean you have to quit," she remarked.

-"True, but sometimes it's hard to... fight when you're alone."

-She understood. Without the support of people in her past as Karim, Farah would never have succeeded. 

-"But without brave people like you, the bad ones win," she emphasized.

-"Maybe," you conceded, "but... why am I discussing this with you? I don't even know you," you whispered.

-"It's easier to confess to a stranger, especially one with a burnt toaster," she joked.

-You chuckled, finding an unexpected comfort in her presence.

-"Maybe you're right. I just... I felt useless. I knew something was wrong with those fires, that we should have saved those kids, but... no one believed me. Maybe they're right."

-"Or maybe not. Now we'll never know since you quit," she countered.

"-Maybe..." you sighed.

-"I can help you," she offered.

-"How?" you inquired.

-"I'm a journalist," she lied, "if those fires are really peculiar, then I have a great article, and you could regain your job."

-"…But it means investigating my own brigade."

-"Betrayal often comes from those close to us," she said, recalling what did Hadir.

-"You're right, okay," you agreed.

-And so, the investigation began. Farah watched as the embers of your internal fire reignited. You didn't give up. 

-Gathering evidence, taking photographs, you uncovered a shocking revelation: a colleague was a pyromaniac, deliberately setting fires to play the role of a savior, to feel godlike.

-Presenting the proof to journalists, your chief could no longer cover for the rogue colleague. Farah felt a surge of pride for you.

-"You fought well," she commended.

-"I'll continue, thanks, Farah," you said, embracing her, the lingering scent of burnt still on your clothes after your mission.

-"Never give up, even when I'm gone," she whispered.

-"Never," you smiled.

-When her mission changed, she left you a collar. Months later, Farah noticed how you kept it as a talisman.

- She smiled, realizing that although she couldn't stay, your strength and hers would forever be intertwined.

K Ö N I G :

-He had been sent to rekindle your passion, to bring happiness back into your life. 

-Once a talented dancer, you had abandoned your love for dance in favor of a more practical career, burdened by financial responsibilities. 

-Your parents, disapproving of a dancing career, further added to the weight on your shoulders.

-König, however, was on a mission to reignite your love for your hobby and give your heart what it truly desired.

- So, in your building, he discreetly posted a classified ad seeking a dance teacher for the waltz.

-When you stumbled upon the ad, you thought, "Why not?"

-A little extra income wouldn't hurt, and you missed the joy of dancing. Intrigued, you decided to respond to his ad, accepting his offer.

-Little did König anticipate that it would work. 

-Now, with his towering 2-meter frame, he found himself awkwardly attempting to move like a swan without crushing your feet. The stress was palpable.

-“Breathe and focus on me, not on yourself,” you instructed, guiding his hands to rest on your waist. 

-Slowly, with the accompaniment of a piano, you led him through the graceful movements of the waltz.

-Suddenly, it felt like home. Memories flooded back – the aroma of onions and Zwiebelrostbraten cooking, the cramped kitchen adorned with peculiar pictures, his mother's gentle dance, and him on her feet as she attempted to teach him how to dance. 

-Dancing, he thought, could be so beautiful, and those who tried to prevent such feelings were truly awful.

-You noticed the sparkle in König's eyes, a reflection of the passion you had years ago.

- “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you remarked.

-“Yes, it’s like we’re floating,” he responded.

-“Waltz is beautiful. I…I wanted to compete when I was younger – waltz, salsa, and more.”

-“What stopped you?”

-“My parents. They said I would never be good enough to make a living from it. And they're right; only a few dancers can sustain themselves.”

-“But you could still live through it in a different way.”

-“How?”

-“Teaching it. Many dancers become teachers.”

-“I don’t have connections, König. Studios prefer people with a reputation.”

-“Then I’ll spread the word. You’re a great teacher. I mean, you made me dance the waltz, and I'm a giant,” he joked.

-You smiled. “Because you’re a great student.”

-“Nein, believe me, I can’t dance without you.”

-And so, König set his plans into motion, praising your classes to everyone. 

-Soon, a married couple sought your expertise, and as their marriage flourished, the word spread. 

-Requests poured in, and slowly you amassed a following.

-König, with his mysterious charm, helped you secure a studio.

- Although you maintained your part-time job, you now knew you could live from dance.

-“I’ll quit,” you whispered, nervous. “I need to quit to have more classes and finally be happy.”

-“Good, you deserve it,” he smiled.

-“Thanks. Without you, I probably would never have been brave enough to do it.”

-“I’m here to support you,” he assured, even though he missed holding you in his arms and waltzing with you.

-He asked for one last dance to celebrate. Unbeknownst to you, he would soon leave.

-As you danced, he felt your heart beating fast, resonating with happiness. 

-When a paper appeared in his pocket with another name and another mission, he looked back at you. 

-Perhaps now, when alone, König would practice the waltz for the day he would meet you again.

R O A C H :

 

TW : death (not of Roach or you though) + (i kinda create a past for him, I know it's not canon)

-He was sent to help you to protect Orion.

-The problem was, he had no clue who Orion was.

- Despite attempting to tap into his powers, all he could extract were names: Orion and yours. 

-Thus, he met you out and forged a close friendship, yet Orion remained elusive.

- Not in your familial ties, not as a romantic interest or enemies—nowhere. 

-Until one day, after returning from work, you shared an anecdote about Orion.

-Orion.

- A four-year-old boy. 

-Suddenly, it dawned on him; he comprehended his purpose

-. Roach, with his own history in foster care, knew he was selected because he understood the flaws in the system and how one could make a difference by adopting a child.

- However, Orion had loving parents, leaving Roach perplexed.

-"He's a sweet boy," you smiled.

-He reciprocated with a smile, albeit tinged with fear. 

-Did this mean Orion would lose his parents? 

-Or was he expected to kill them? 

-Roach was uncertain, prompting him to shadow Orion's residence, using his expertise in navigating air ducts, he was not called  Roach for nothing, air ducts were his things.

-As he observed, nothing seemed amiss until he spotted it: a crack in the wall. 

- Regrettably, before he could extricate himself from the air duct, the building collapsed. 

-The landlords had ignored warnings about the need for renovations, leading to the tragedy. 

-Roach barely escaped the ruins, coughing and trying to find his way out.

-Then, he heard Orion's voice. 

-Under a table, the little boy clutched his deceased mother's hand. 

-Roach froze; there was no doubt, Orion's parents were gone. 

-Why was he sent to manage this? 

- Why wasn't he tasked with preventing the tragedy or saving them?

- Why did Orion have to endure such a harrowing experience?

-He crawled to Orion, embracing him as the boy cried and screamed. 

-He waited with him at ER, refusing to leave despite your attempts to reach him. He only sent you a text “at ER”

-You joined him and he…he could only express his pain through a silent hug.

-You and Roach became determined to ensure Orion wouldn't be left in the system after such trauma.

- Despite the challenges, you visited every day, dealing with bureaucracy and, with Roach's magical assistance, eventually adopting Orion

-. Roach didn't leave; he remained a steadfast companion in your collective journey.

-It wasn't easy—Orion was confused, lost, and traumatized. 

-Yet, through your unwavering support, he slowly began to open up to both you and Roach.

- A family emerged, something Roach had only discovered in his twenties during his time in the military.

- He was grateful that Orion could experience it now, but he couldn't bring himself to leave.

-Each day brought the fear of a new mission, a new departure. Until one day, Ghost appeared in your flat.

-"What are you doing here?" Roach questioned.

-"Cutting your wings," Ghost responded.

-Roach recoiled. "I never kissed them." he said, yes he loved you, but he never tried…

-"Roach…"

-"You can't take them away from me, please L.T. I don't want to lose everyone like I lost you and the unit."

-"I’ll cut your wings so you can become human, Roach, not to punish you."

-Roach halted. "You—"

-"You deserve it."

-"Thanks, L.T."

-"You're welcome," Ghost whispered, cutting his wings.

-Roach felt pain but also a strange sense of freedom. He smiled at Ghost and let him leave. Finally, he had found a family.

_____

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Woe out the Storm (16) - A War You Cannot Win

Wednesday Addams x female Reader

Summary: It took some time, but eventually you came to realize only Wednesday Addams could look at the raging storm of chaos and destruction and make a home out of it. Only she could listen to the cacophony of the roaring thunder and hear a melody.

Story warnings: Wednesday Addams, violence, slow burn

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Word count: 3k

-Said no, hell no, I am not yours to rule, I won't be your fool-

It came out of nowhere, like lightning out of blue. Your dad hit the brakes, so hard the car stalled, and grabbed you, blasting the back of the car and jumping out. “Dad?!” he ignored your yell, yellow lightning engulfing him as he shifted into his bear lightning beast form and began running. All your confusion and the question that died on your lips vanished as a loud explosion destroyed your dad’s car.

You dared to look behind, seeing the remains falling onto the road as a figure emerged from the smoke and flames, and you recognized him immediately, just by feeling alone.

The Raijin, the thunder god, returned.

Your heart stopped for a moment, that fear, that despair returning. You trusted your dad, you knew he was strong, but not even he could go up against Raijin. He ran off the road, jumping down the hill and enhancing his speed through lightning. You were a raiju as well, but his lightning was much stronger, and you felt it electrocuting you bit by bit, but you gritted your teeth, you could deal with some numbness as long as you got away from the monster. He wasn’t running after you and for a brief, naïve moment you thought he just meant to scare you.

And then the birds flew up abruptly, each and every one of them fleeing. You saw other small animals you were running past fleeing in any direction, the entire forest being engulfed in existential panic and something primal within you, an instinct born from being a raiju told you there was no escape.

Then it happened. Everything around the two of you just exploded in a burst of blue lightning and you only survived because your dad managed to jump into the air and shift back into his human form, grabbing onto you and hovering in air with lightning.

“What the…?!” you couldn’t believe what you were seeing, an entire area, easily a mile in radius, was just destroyed. The ground cracked, trees burning and uprooted, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh of the animals that failed to flee engulfed your sense, what somehow survived was left to die a painful death, screeching, crying in pain as smoke rose above you and your dad.

You were dead. Both of you. You couldn’t even hope to match this. Your body went limp and you saw several teardrops falling from your face to the scorched ground. Wednesday told you Diego, Goody’s raiju was no match for Raijin, but you didn’t think the difference in power was this large. And you doubted he was even trying.

“Damn monster. If he took his time to charge that up he could easily destroy entire Nevermore grounds, school included,” your breath hitched as your dad said that, and this monster had something to do with Laurel’s plan, or so you and Wednesday guessed. You couldn’t even tell Wednesday to run, to find a way to get out of that mess, your phone was in the car, all you had left was the knife you got from Wednesday, strapped to your back.

“That’s your kid? Elijah?” you heard his voice, booming, powerful voice and dared to glance to the side as your dad lowered the two of you back to the ground. The monster took the hood of his cloak off, and he was exactly the way Wednesday described him. Spiky blue hair, long, flowing behind him, animalistic, angry-looking face, and pale blue eyes that sent chills down your spine. He still looked like he was around forty. And he looked like a giant, tall, easily taller than two meters, muscular, he towered over your dad.

“Raijin,” your dad spoke through gritted teeth, not even trying to attack, he just lowered you down to the ground and stood in front of you, your one last line of defense as you remained on your hands and knees, frozen. “I’ll do whatever you want, just let my daughter live,” he suggested, bargained, desperate, and the thunder god knew that.

He tilted his head to the side with a raised eyebrow. “Your arrogance amuses me. What could a beast ever offer to a god?” he raised his hand and you saw blue lightning gathering around his palm. “On second thought, you could die for her,” he lowered his hand and sat down.

“You promise you’ll let her live?” your dad asked and you stumbled to your feet, only for him to hold you back before you could get in front of him.

“Yes. There is one catch though. I choose how you die,” he vanished in a burst of lightning and appeared behind the two of you, just several feet away.

You didn’t even dare to look behind you. You kept your mouth shut, your brain desperately trying to come up with a way out of this, but nothing, absolutely nothing came to your mind. He was faster, stronger, even if you were as strong as your dad there would be nothing you could do.

“Tell me?” your dad requested, just as still as you.

“Easy. She kills you.”

The entire world shattered as those words registered in your mind.

He took a step closer to you and leaned down and you saw your father flinching, of all the things the monster could have asked for, he asked that of you. You watched as your father relaxed, he wasn’t even going to try to fight, this was it. “You hear that? You just have to kill your dad, and you’ll live. How lucky is that? Getting spared for the second time?”

You survive the second time, but the cost of your survival is your father’s life? Your eyes narrowed and you nodded. “It is lucky,” you said, took a deep breath and your eyes met his. “Let me shift. I want to make it as painless as possible. Dad’s lightning is stronger than mine, it’ll take a while to kill him unless I even things out by shifting,” from the corner of your eye you saw your father turning to look at you with a smile on his face. It was like he was already forgiving you, like the only regret he had about this was the fact that you would have to kill him.

Raijin laughed, genuinely laughed as he stepped away from you. “Of course, I shall grant you that wish. Say, child, how about you come with me. Work for me, do my biddings, be what you were meant to be! My beast!” he offered, clearly serious, seeing as your dad once more went stiff.

“Do I die if I say no?” you asked, just to be sure.

Raijin shrugged. “No, you don’t. You just get to live a long life, instead of dying the next time you see me. Besides, a tiger would fit in well with my beasts,” so, he wasn’t alone. Somehow you expected that.

“I won’t join you,” you rejected him, red sparks circling you as you prepared to shift.

“Y/N, forgive me for getting you in this situation. Don’t let this affect you, think of everyone else. Your mom, your friends, unless you kill me here, they’ll all suffer,” your dad said, his arms spread wide, accepting of your attack. Accepting this as his grave, this ruined, scorched remains of a forest.

You did think of them. Of your mom, of Enid, Thing, of Wednesday. Flashes of something you couldn’t remember came to your mind, her body leaning against yours, her eyes, the smile on her face, calling you ‘Mi Rayo’ and you wished you knew what it meant. You understood that was what happened the night after Crackstone was defeated, while you were depleted of electricity, the two of you nearly kissing. Her lips so close to yours, you could almost feel them brushing against your own. That’s what you forgot, that’s what hurt her, and you would apologize to her.

The red lightning turned orange and your body changed, shifting into your tiger form.

You were aware this time, for the most part, you understood what was going on around you, you knew what you had to do, and you gathered all of your lightning around your right paw. You watched as your father smiled and Raijin smirked right next to you.

And you swept your paw, claws out, lightning bursting from it, and slammed it right into Raijin’s chest.

“What are you doing?!” you heard your dad yelling as you discharged all the lightning you had and roared, putting more strength into your attack and sending him into a fallen tree. “Y/N!” your dad screamed your name as you charged at Raijin at full speed, lightning engulfing your body as you slammed into him and bit down on his arm before tossing him up and blasting him with several lightning strikes.

Yellow lightning burst from behind you and you saw your dad, once again in bear form zapping up and hitting Raijin from above, smacking him into the scorched ground just as you slammed your front paws on the ground in front of you and made the earth Raijin just landed on explode from a burst of lightning.

Your dad let lightning engulf his body entirely, easily looking three times as large as before as he struck Raijin, closing his jaw around the monster’s neck and trying to kill him while constantly electrocuting him and trying to paralyze him. But a single swipe of Raijin’s hand ended the struggle.

Your eyes widened as the golden lightning vanished, consumed by blue lightning, and you saw your dad falling toward Raijin, still in his bear form but clearly unable to zap out of the way. You zapped forward, slamming into him and getting him out of the way of blue lightning. You skidded across the ground, your legs not giving out despite the weight of the huge bear on your back.

“I have to admit,” Raijin sighed, opening his cloak and touching his chest. You could smell blood. “Though it wasn’t caused by lightning, the pure strength behind your attack was mildly impressive,” he was looking at his fingertips, at the drops of blood you managed to draw from his chest.

You roared, lightning bursting from your body. You would fight until your very last breath. Your dad could no longer fight, you just noticed his back legs were completely useless, burnt by the initial blast, and Raijin probably neutralized his strongest attack as if it was nothing. You were nothing as well, by that logic, but you would keep going.

You saw blue sparks and jumped above the ground, dodging a blast from the ground, the same kind of attack you used just now. You kept jumping, just barely dodging the bursts of lightning with your father still on your back. At least he shifted back into his human form. “There’s no use, you’ll tire yourself out,” he gave up, he completely, entirely gave up.

How you wished you could talk in this form, instead, all you could do was roar at him, and that split second of distraction was enough, your dad took the burnt of the damage by jumping of your back and in front of the blast, but you still got hit, and the pain so intense you instantly went back to your human form consumed you. You felt lightning ripping through you, leaving deep wounds on your chest as the two of you fell to the ground. Mortally wounded, bleeding out, and at Raijin’s mercy.

You had it easy though, you saw your dad’s left arm was gone, as well as a good portion of his chest. He was no longer breathing, he couldn’t be saved! “Damn it!” you slammed your fist on the ground as you stumbled back onto your feet.

“Passing grade for effort,” Raijin told you, not even taunting the two of you, just genuinely praising your attempt to stay alive. You watched as an orb of lightning gathered in front of his palm and gritted your teeth.

You still had some strength left, if this was going to obliterate you, you’d at the very least give it one last try. You raised both of your hands, an orb of red lightning forming in front of you.

“Ridiculous. I guess you are still somewhat human, you just won’t give up,” he smirked and threw the ball of lightning toward you.

With a defiant roar you hurled your own lightning right at it and sent several lightning bolts after it. The two orbs of lightning collided, but yours wasn’t consumed right away, they clashed in the middle, lightning crackling around them, ground splitting as red and blue mixed together and you felt your own strength skyrocketing. You felt lightning bursting all around you, consuming you, burning your wounds closed, strengthening you, as you pushed back against Raijin’s blue lightning. And bit by bit red absorbed blue, turning purple in the process. The lightning between you and Raijin exploded and you stumbled back and fell onto the ground.

~X~

He sighed, the few scratches from the explosion stinging for an entirely different reason. “In the end your body couldn’t handle it,” he approached you, your wounds closed, but you couldn’t survive the sudden increase in power. “Your fang did reach me, stubborn tiger. Rest easy, I’ll let your loved ones grieve in peace,” he crouched down next to your body and closed your eyes. “How tragic is it, to see potential squandered for the sake of dogged ideals of love,” he took out a phone, not to taunt the girl, but to let her know she lost her raiju, and he sent the video, proof of your demise.

~X~

Wednesday heard her phone beeping again as she stepped inside her home. It was dreadfully familiar, the smell, the sound of her footsteps, the entire house looked just the way it did when she left. Not that it surprised her, the house was more or less the same as it was years ago, let alone the brief time she spent at Nevermore.

She pulled her phone out of her bag as she took her shoes off, you would probably reach your own destination by now. And you did promise to send her a text and though she refused to be a slave to technology she did figure this was a convenient way to handle brief communication. Instead of a text message she saw some kind of media attachment and clicked on it.

Her eyes widened as her family came into the hall to greet her. But her eyes were glued on the phone and she just barely felt Thing on her shoulder. He froze on her shoulder, and she realized she wasn’t seeing things.

“Wednesday?” her mother spoke up, but Wednesday didn’t respond.

She just watched the video, your body, covered in blood, next to your father, both of you clearly dead.

“Lurch get back in the car!” she yelled, putting her shoes back on and rushing outside, her bag forgotten on the floor as her family went after her.

~X~

Elijah managed to roll onto his stomach and drag his body closer to you once Raijin was gone. He was dead. His heart stopped, he wasn’t breathing, he bled out, his body was completely dead, and he couldn’t move anything aside from his right arm and head.

Everything in the body functioned through brain signals, and those were electrical impulses, so as long as his brain still worked he could somewhat function. But he was running out of time. Once heart stopped beating he only had three to four minutes left, and with each passing minute his capabilities would be severely worsened. He still needed to keep you alive. You wouldn’t bleed out, your wounds were for the most part closed, he just needed to get your heart beating again. So, with what little time he had left he raised his bloody palm above your heart and sent lightning to your heart.

He looked at you, at your unmoving body. No matter what you weren’t dying with him here! He was your father, he was supposed to protect you, yet even with him there you still got this hurt! He failed as a father, but he would not let you die, his lightning gradually restarted your heart, slowly forcing your brain to send signals to the stopped organ once more, until your heart began steadily beating and he saw you breathing, each breath was shallow, but you were alive.

Raiju resilience would do the rest, you’d recover, stronger than ever before. He only wished he could speak and tell you how proud of you he was, how much he loved you, and how much he wished he could have given you a normal family, with both parents present in your life instead of the way things ended up.

In the end, him fleeing, hiding from Raijin didn’t keep you safe.

He raised his hand, brushing some dust from your face with the back of his finger. You’d be fine, you were stronger than loss. ‘Grieve, cry, process all the emotions however you want, but then get up and keep on living’ if he could have, that’s what his last words to you would be.

He pushed away from you and his right arm fell onto the ground, about a foot away from you and he closed his eyes, his brain shutting down completely. His life flashed in front of his eyes. His childhood, his first shift, his time at Nevermore, meeting Anna, your birth, it was a good life, he wished for more time with you, with your mother, but he was content knowing you were still alive.

And so, Elijah, raiju that shifted into golden bear, died, the last act of his life saving the life of his daughter.

A/N: I need season 2! Until then 3 or 4 chapters of Woe out the Storm, just to resolve the cliffhanger from the chapter 15. Gimme thoughts!

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