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lizzyiii · 2 months ago

Note

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #aemond targaryen smut

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specialmouse · 2 months ago

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Now, imagine having to take care of all of them while you and 2 million of your people are undergoing genocide while the world watches. This is the reality of 32-year old Ghada Al-Anqar, and many others in Gaza at this very moment.

LAMA, NABIL, AMIR, FATIMA, IMAN, and NOOR—six names that tell one heartbreaking story. Lama, the hardworking student, lost her books and dreams under the rubble. Nabil can no longer sleep, haunted by the sounds of shelling. Amir, a five-year-old boy, plays with debris after losing his toys. Fatima, the innocent child, cries for her lost doll amidst the ruins. Iman searches for safety in a world with no clear path, while Noor, despite everything, tries to plant seeds of hope amid the devastation. Each of them represents a side of the suffering caused by war, yet they all cling to a thread of hope that tomorrow might bring a new beginning.

Amid the horrors of war, Lama, Nabil, Amir, Fatima, Iman, and Noor have lost everything— their homes, dreams, and even their sense of safety. Now, they struggle to survive amidst the destruction. Your support can be their lifeline, helping them rebuild their lives and giving them a chance for a dignified future. Donate now and be their hope.

€5801/€20,000 - KEEP GOING!!! EVERY DOLLAR COUNTS!!!

I am donating €50—please try to match my donation!

Tagging for reach:

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khalidfamily · 2 months ago

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My family is being destroyed, friends.

On one of the harsh nights of war in Gaza, Khaled sat in a dark corner of his partially destroyed home, holding his young son, raeid, on his lap, while his daughter, eman, clung to her mother, Rana. The sounds of bombing shook the surroundings, and the darkness enveloped the place, except for the faint light of a single candle.

Khaled tried to bring comfort to his family, even though his heart was heavy with fear and sorrow. He said calmly: “No matter how deep the darkness, the light will always come in the end. We are strong because we are together, and no one can take away our hope.”

eman, only seven years old, looked up at her father with innocent eyes and asked: “Daddy, when will the war end? I want to go back to school and play with my friends.”

Khaled smiled, despite the pain in his eyes, and replied: “Soon, my dear. We will rebuild what was destroyed, and we will return stronger than before.”

As the conversation continued, the bombing outside intensified. Khaled pulled his family close, shielding them with his frail body, and said: “Be brave. We are the people of Gaza; we do not know defeat.”

The night passed with great difficulty, and as dawn broke, the devastation was evident everywhere. But Khaled and his family joined their neighbors, helping each other clear the rubble and search for new hope amid the ruins.

Despite all the pain and fear, the family remained united, holding on to the belief that resilience is the strongest weapon against war. In their hearts, there was faith that peace would come one day and that Gaza would rise again, as it always does.

vetted by : @90-ghost @bilal-salah0 @gazavetters @magothea @gazikacmislaflar @freepeople @gofundmereach-blogfnd @palestine29 @staffs-secret-blog

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satorusugurugurl · 11 months ago

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My Wedding Date is an Escort!

Summary: When invited to your best friend's wedding, you panic. One of the groomsmen, Toji Fushiguro, is your ex-fiancè. Not wanting to deal with probing questions and the embarrassment of being single, your friend Haibara recommends using an Escort! Taking a leap of faith, you book one, the hottest one. Gojo Satoru is hot, sweet, and funny! The package deal! Men and Women pay thousands to go on a date with him (even more, which he doesn't do often). So when your request comes in, the desperation and pleading tone of your voice. Gojo’s heartthrobs, even more so when you tell him you don't want to have sex.

Pairing: Escort!Gojo x FAB Reader

Word Count: 3,682

Warning: Mentions of depression, anxiety, language

A/N: And so part one is complete!! Please let me know what you think! I plan on posting a new part every Saturday! In the mean time I will work on my brain worm fics/requests!!

Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

Gold calligraphy mocked you as you stared at the wedding invitation on your table. Any normal person would have been elated over their best friend getting married. The dresses, cake, looking at venues! It should have been a happy, wonderful time.

And it would have been amazing if your best friend had met her fiance through anyone other than Toji Zenin. Your ex-fiance, the man who broke your heart, who was also the groomsman at the wedding! The same wedding you were a bridesmaid in.

Life fucking hated you.

Your break up was a year and a half ago. It was tucking painful, watching the life and future you had imagined slip away. You were inconsolable for the first few months, but any other person would feel the same if their fiance broke up with them the way Toji had done to you. Part of you liked to think you were getting better; you knew you weren't healed completely.

The closer the wedding came, the more nervous and sick you got. In a month, you would have to face Toji for the first time in over a year. He was doing much better off than you. He got married! He was now Toji Fushiguro and he and his wife had a son!

Fate was a cruel bitch. He was living his dreams: a house, a pretty wife, a sweet, beautiful son. Toji got everything he wanted while you sunk into the darkness of despair. Toji had ruined you, marked you in ways you weren't sure you'd ever heal from. You never wanted to be hurt like that again. That's why you were single.

Single and traumatized. Perfect intro on your dating profile. So yeah, dating wasn't your thing right now.

Which puts you in a messy fucking predicament. You would be at a wedding with your Ex, who was living the life you had always wanted. Why was he given happily ever after while you were left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart? You could already see the pitiful expressions that your loved ones would be wearing, and that made your skin crawl with anxiety.

You could not show up to the wedding alone.

Which is why you were sitting in your kitchen, drowning in anxiety. You stared at your laptop, bouncing your leg nervously as you scrolled on Escorts4y0u.com. Damn, Yu Haibara, for suggesting this to you. You were shopping for a fuckin’ escort!?

You shot his insane suggestion down as soon as he said it. You had begun ranting about how even more embarrassing it would be if your family found out. First, your fiance leaves you a month before your wedding. Then you go and pay for someone to pretend to be your boyfriend all because you couldn’t bear yourself to start dating again?

Amid your nervous rant, Haibara just put his hand on yours. He assured you that no one would know that they were an escort. If they were good at their job, all your family would see was a happy couple. They would be someone to go to the wedding with, and once you paid them, you would never see them again! No one would be the wiser.

“It's their job to make you feel good and help you have a good time. And you deserve to be happy.” Haibara had said with pity in his eyes. Just thinking about his face, that expression, made you cringe to think of the faces of everyone at the wedding.

“Fuck it.” You cursed, clicking on the escort you liked the most.

Gojo Satoru, twenty-eight years old. His profile listed that he was well-educated and came from a prestigious clan. He was charismatic, confident, and kind. You read dozens of reviews. His previous clients gushed over him. All five stars, every single person he’d helped was grateful for him. Plus, Gojo was very attractive. He had pure white hair, was over six feet tall, and had the most stunning blue eyes you'd ever seen. He was the ideal partner anyone would want to take home to meet the family.

Which would explain why he was the most expensive escort on the website.

“¥120,000 for a day!?” You screeched as you bounced your leg faster, doing the mental math in your head. “That’s ¥900,000.00 for a week.” The mere amount of money you were about to spend almost had you slamming your laptop shut. But Haibara’s face crossed your mind; Toji’s face began to form before you shook your head.

Hiring Gojo was your only option. You had to do this to avoid getting hurt again. Plus, you had to use the deposit from your honeymoon eventually. It would be like burying the past!

“Okay, okay, you got this; just book it Y/N!” Getting up, you jumped up and down to hype yourself up before you hit the green phone icon and dialed the number. The phone rang once and twice.

“This is Gojo!” A gruff but cheery voice answered.

You’re sure your soul left your body as you squealed in shock. He answered!? The man you were going not only to pay but also beg to pretend to be your boyfriend?!

“Hello?” A faint hint of humor and curiosity laced the voice in your ear.

You groaned, rubbing your hand down your face with a whine. “S-Sorry, I was expecting a receptionist for something.” You put the phone on speaker before hitting your head against your table.

“Oh! My bad, sorry!” His chuckle was a deep noise through the receiver. “We put our business numbers on the site. It’s just easier for us to schedule our clients like this.” He hummed. “I assume you’re on the escort website?”

“Yes, I—I was wondering if you might be free next month for a wedding? It’s my best friend.”

“Give me a sec.” Shuffling papers filled your anxiety. “A month from today?”

“Yes.”

Gojo hummed happily, “I am free that whole week! So will it be the wedding and reception?” A pen could be heard writing down notes.

”So it’s uhm, it’s a destination wedding. It’s in Kyoto, and I need you for the whole week. If that’s not an issue or problem.”

”Okay, that shouldn’t be an issue. It’s far enough out that I can block my schedule.” He whistled happily, jotting down more notes. “So the whole week, wedding, reception—“

For some odd reason, it sounded like he was hesitating or weighing his options, questioning if he wanted to even take you on as a client. The growing fear of rejection spreads like wildfire through your stomach. You never used to feel like this; you were so happy and confident before. But after everything Toji did, what he said to you after you had—well, it left some really deep scars that still hadn’t healed. When your mind picked at those still healing wounds, making them bleed, you acted before thinking.

”I have the money!” Gripping the table's edge, you stared at Gojo’s headshot on the website. “Please, I need this!”

“Hey, hey! I’m not worried about the money, sweetheart.” His voice was thick like honey; the pet name sounded so sweet. “I’m just making sure I got everything down.” On the other line, Gojo looked down at his calendar. There was something in your voice, desperation, that was genuine.

He’d had tons of clients, and many of them needed help. But in his two years of working in this field, he had never heard such a raw plea for help. Gojo’s interest peaked. Just who were you? What made you so anxious and desperate for his help?

”Let me confirm the details so I can put you in my books, Ms.?” He waited for your name, hearing you sigh in relief as you calmed yourself down

”Y/N, my name is Y/N Y/L/N.”

”Y/N,” Gojo repeated, “Okay, I have you down for next month, the whole week, for a destination wedding in Kyoto.”

You were sighing happily as you relaxed into your chair. “Thank you. It’s 900,000.00. For the whole week?” Gojo cocked an eyebrow, grinning at your straightforward attitude.

”Depends, will food and hotel be included?”

“Yes, we’ll be staying at my parents' inn; they offered to host my friend's wedding. So food, money, and accommodations will be included. Plus, I’ll take care of your travel expenses.”

Gojo turned in his desk chair, biting his lip as he listened to your stern voice. “Okay, so it’s going to be ¥600,000. A lot of the cost goes to food and hotels. Since you’re taking care of it, you get a lovely discount, sweetheart.” A scoff sounded from his phone, making him smile even wider.

”Great, lucky me.”

Gojo bit his lip, chuckling. “Did you want any other additions?”

“If you’re asking if I want to include your other services, no. I don’t need sex.”

“Don’t need sex?” He perked up as Suguru, his roommate, peeked in, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”

You gave the phone a confused look as if you were looking at Gojo yourself. “Yes, I’m dead serious.” The line went utterly silent before rich, stunned laughter filled your kitchen.

”Well shit, that’s a first!”

”Glad I could keep you on your toes, Gojo.”

”Nope.”

You blinked. “No, what?” Gojo snickered as you picked up your phone heading into your room.

”I’m going to be your boyfriend. You have a month, one month, to get used to saying my first name.” The seriousness of his tone made you stop in your tracks. “So it’s Satoru to you, Y/N.”

With a blush dusting your cheeks, you giggled, shaking your head. “Alright, that makes sense. Thank you, Satoru.”

”You’re welcome, Y/N. I’ll see you in a month.”

In one month, you were ¥600,000 poorer, and your nerves were shot as you searched for your fake boyfriend at the train station coffee shop. In the last month, you had spoken to Goj—Satoru twice over the. Once to book his services and yesterday to discuss where you were meeting. His company took care of everything else.

It was still surreal that you hired an escort to be your date, and you were waiting for a stranger at a coffee shop. This wasn't like you; it was so unbelievable. You sipped your coffee, looking around anxiously.

It was like a Greek God walked in. He was tall, like his profile said, over six-three. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes as his white fluffy hair bounced with every step. Straightening, you hesitated before lifting your hand and waving at your fake boyfriend. Seeing your arm raised, Gojo grinned, bounding forward as he pulled his sunglasses off.

“Hi! Are you Y/N?” You stood, swallowing as he still towered over you. God, he was dressed nice, all designer brand clothes. Which wasn't surprising with the amount of money you dropped to spend a week with him.

“Yes, I'm Y/L/N Y/N.” You handed him a cup of coffee that he took before sitting at the table. “Thank you again for doing this.”

Gojo grabbed six sugar packets, ripped them open, and poured all of them into his coffee. “Oh, you're welcome! I love seeing people happy.” Your eyes followed his hands as he poured cream into the coffee. “So, what's our story? That way, we're on the same page.” You couldn't help but smile as he sipped the sugary coffee with a grin.

“You have a sweet tooth?” Gojo hummed, taking another drink. “Maybe I'll make you something at the inn; I'm a pastry chef.” Gojo’s eyes went wide as you ran your fingers over the lid of your cup. “That’s a good story, we met at the bakery I wor—”

“You're a pastry chef?!” Gojo’s eyes sparkled. “Seriously?! What shop?!”

“Uhm, I work at Ichigo Cafe? It's in downtown Tokyo.”

“I love that place! The mochi there is the best!” His words had your cheeks burning your cheeks. “The cakes, the ice cream! Hell, the coffee is good too.”

You twirl your thumbs together. “Thank you, as the head chef, that makes me happy.” Satoru sat back, smiling sweetly. “So I uhm, yeah, that's a good story.”

“Yeah, it does. How long have we been together?”

The two of you settled on five months. That way, it was still pretty new. The whole time, Satoru nodded and added to your cover story. Thank god he was easy to talk to, putting your nerves at ear by the time your coffee was finished. Together, you were optimistic that you and Satoru could get through this week without a hiccup.

You both settled in on the train, getting to know each other more like favorite colors, foods, likes, and dislikes. Satoru didn't drink, had a major sweet tooth, and did his escorting gig full-time. He lived with his roommate and best friend, Geto Suguru, and he had a lot of free time.

You told him everything about yourself: likes, dislikes, favorite color, hell, even your blood type. But as the conversation began to dwindle, Satoru tilted his head. Sure, all that stuff was good now for the coming week, but he wanted to know more. Like why you hired him and why you ‘don’t do sex.’ That question had plagued his mind for the last month.

“Can I ask why you hired me?” His question had your head snapping up. “I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you've been tense since we got on the train. There's more to this than just wanting a date to a wedding.”

“Uhh, is that obvious? I'm sorry. It's just my ex-fiance is at the wedding party with me.” Satoru paid close attention to how your eyes darkened as you looked out the window. “Our breakup was a shock since it happened a month before our wedding. So, I have all these trust issues, and I don't want to date anyone. Because it's easier not to get hurt if you don't put yourself out there.”

“Why did he break up with you?”

“Why didn't he?” The tone of your voice and words had Satoru peeking up. Not in curiosity but surprisingly in anger. Satoru had seen a lot of women and men in his days as an escort. Many are desperate, lonely, and want to have a good time. But whoever had broken your heart had hurt. You in more ways than one. “There were a lot of things that he uhm—listed off.”

You quickly changed the subject, much too fast for Satoru’s liking. But he wasn’t the type to pry, especially when it came to the feelings and comfort of his clients. So he let you change the subject. And the rest of the train ride to Kyoto, even up to your family's inn, the subject stayed clear of your ex. It was bad enough you’d be seeing him soon; you would much rather not talk about him before you saw his face.

You stood in front of the door to your family's inn. Satoru grabbed your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours as you took a deep breath. “Hey, we got this.” God, you hoped Satoru was right; this had to go perfectly.

Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, you stepped inside. The laughter and distant conversations echoed off the halls as wedding guests conversed and chatted while wandering around. You spotted your mother carrying a tray. She took one glance at you before looking away.

”Oh, Y/N darling, good you’re here. Whenever you get a chance, could you help me make some treats for afternoon tea? Everyone is instant with trying those matcha cookies you made last year.” After years of helping out, in the end, your body began to move on muscle memory, but Satoru stopped you, pulling you into his side with a grin.

“Hey, don’t just up and leave me. At least introduce me to your family first, sweetheart.” The bustling, noisy chatter around you stopped as your family and friends just seemed to notice the giant man standing beside you. His arm wrapped around your waist as he leaned down to kiss your temple. “My poor sweet girl is already in work mode. I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

”Right, of course, I’m sorry, Satoru. Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Gojo Satoru.”

”Eh!?”

Those sad, pitful reactions you had been so familiar with over the last year and a half were nowhere to be found on the faces of your loved ones. They were faces of shock, curiosity, and joy. A much better reaction, one that had you letting out a shaky breath you had no idea you were holding in. As you basked in relief, dark eyes watched the two of you, reading you.

The afternoon went off without a hitch. Satoru fit in with any conversation thrown his way. From what he did for a living to how the two of you met, he never stuttered or looked to you for help. He was exactly what you needed. With Gojo by your side, you knew you could get through this wedding without losing yourself in the darkness again.

You owed Haibara big time for this.

After the two of you answered several rounds of twenty questions and an early dinner, you and Satoru stepped into your room. You shut the door, sliding back against it as you shut your eyes. “Oh my gosh, that went much better than anticipated.” Satoru chuckled, setting both of your luggage off in the corner of the room.

“You did great.” His praise had you smiling more. “Seriously, this will be a walk in the park!”

You wanted to agree with him, but your mouth remained shut. That was just your family you met with. Things might be a different story when you face Toji. Because despite you not wanting him to, you knew he could read you like a book. He always could tell when you weren’t feeling the best or something was wrong. But maybe, if you keep playing your card right, you might be able to fool him, too.

”Yeah, a walk in the park.” You looked around the room, relieved to find the futon already laid out for you both. But it was missing the extra pillows you had asked for. The pillows that were going to be used to separate you and Satoru. “Huh, I thought my dad said the pillows would be here when we got to the room. I’ll be right back; the shower is just to the right if you want to wash up first.”

“Awesome, thanks a lot.”

As you reached for the door, the handle turned, startling you. Satoru moved so fast, his arms wrapping around you as the door opened wide. “Have you ever heard of knocking before? My girlfriend and I could have been doing something. If you saw that, I would have had to charge you for the show.” Satoru started as the door opened wide, revealing the person standing in front of it, four pillows in his arms.

”You seriously think I believe that?”

Your body went rigid as you stared into the dark eyes of the man who broke your heart. “T-Toji? What are you doing here?” You learned further back into Satoru’s chest, trying to put distance between the man that had stained your life.

“Bringing you your pillows.” He motioned his chin down at them to emphasize his words. “Look, we need to talk.”

Satoru could feel your breath quicken, your chest moving faster with each inhale you took. From your reaction, he could figure out just who exactly this asshole was. This dark-haired asshole who just barged into your room had to be the ex you didn’t want to talk about in any way, shape, or form. Looking at him, Satoru came to one conclusion without even knowing the guy. He was a fucking prick.

”Look, Toji, I’m exhausted. I don't want to talk right now.” You snatched the pillows away from him. “Satoru and I were going to get ready for bed. I require some TLC tonight.” You went to shut the door, but Toji placed his palm against it, preventing it from moving.

”Please, you and I both know this isn’t your boyfriend. I need to talk to you now. Tell your friend here he can fucking wait until our conversation is over.”

The tone and mere attitude of the prick in the door had Satoru seeing red. He released you, turning you to face him, glaring daggers at the man spewing toxic commands. “I’m not a friend.” Satoru spit out the last word. In a flash, his hand gripped your chin, turning you towards him. His other hand rested on the back of your head, pulling you into a kiss.

It was your first kiss in a year and a half, a kiss that was full of rage and passion like you had never experienced before. Satoru’s kiss was for show, but fuck, it had your knees buckling. You matched his pace, kissing him back urgently. His hands tangled in your hair while you fisted his shirt. You prayed that this mini-makeout session was enough to fool your ex. Satoru pulled away to glare at Toji. His chest rose and fell as he slowly licked his bottom lip with a smirk.

“My girlfriend and I were just getting ready to bed, if you caught the drift. If she wants to talk to you tomorrow, she’ll find you. Later.” Without another word, Satoru slammed the door in Toji’s face before turning to face you.

”Wow.” Was all you could manage to say as you ran your fingers over your lips. Seeing you do that while hearing your breathless voice had Satoru fifty shades of red. In his whole career as an escort, he has never lost his cool like that until he was with you.

Oh, he was fucked.

(TBC)

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sarcasticbeanie · 26 days ago

Text

Surviving the Impossible - A Glimpse Into Life Under Siege

Amid the ruins of war, where safety has become a distant memory, a family in Gaza struggles to survive against unimaginable challenges. The skyrocketing prices of basic necessities where a kilogram of flour that once cost a dollar now costs $20 have turned daily survival into an arduous battle. (1 kilogram equals 2.2 pounds).

The family gathers under a fragile tent around a weak fire, baking their bread on an old griddle to stave off hunger and warm their bodies against the biting winter cold. Their faces tell stories of exhaustion, resilience, and unbreakable hope. Despite the harsh winds and constant fear, they hold onto each other, drawing strength from the bonds of family that keep them together.

I collaborated with @drdarine and @dawoudi to shed some light on their family and their struggles. This drawing is not just a depiction of suffering but a humanitarian call for solidarity and reflection - these individuals aren't just numbers on news reports, they're people who had their dreams and hopes forcibly taken away.

This isn't just a story, but a call for awareness and action. Families in Gaza, like this one, urgently need our support. By sharing their stories, raising awareness, or contributing to humanitarian efforts, we can be part of the change they so desperately need under this period of unimaginable suffering.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, #15 on this list.✅️

✅️Vetted by association here. ✅️

✅️Promoted by @nabulsi here and here.✅️

@a-shade-of-blue @catnapdreams @oediex @bloodbornebutch @soft-sunbird @disasterhimbo

#vetted fundraiser #all eyes on palestine #important #free gaza #free palestine #gaza fundraiser #gaza mutual aid #gaza strip #palestine #gaza #comic art #digital art #artists on tumblr #signal boost #boost #cats #cats of tumblr

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leviraaaaaa · 1 year ago

Text

All that's left.

“I know you’re there.”

Levi's voice cut through the stillness, startling you. You’d been watching him from the side of the wreckage, watching as the ghosts of your comrades appeared for one last time, one last salute. One last declaration of all they dedicated. One last goodbye. They had met your gaze too, shooting a small sad smile and you knew what it meant.

You two were all that's left. The last one's standing.

You stayed out of his sight even after they disappeared, giving him the privacy to mourn. God knows he needed it. You didn’t think he had noticed your presence, but then again, who were you trying to fool? His extraordinary instincts were never to be underestimated.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself to stand straight and stumbled forward, trying not to put too much weight on the ankle you had injured. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eyes. Ever resilient, ever strong, the cracks were so slight, just barely there. But you knew. You could always tell.

“Hi.” You mumbled. He stared at you as you dragged yourself in front of him.

“Nice of you to make it out alive.” He said.

“Who would’ve thought?” You shrugged.

“You made an ugly titan by the way.”

“I’m sure you would’ve looked charming.”

“Bet.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. The conversation was so unbelievably normal, it was surreal. Like nothing ever happened. Here, amid the ruins of everything, all the corpses, smoke, blood and destruction—here you were, back to how it always was. Almost as if, if you concentrated hard enough, all of it would go away and you’d find you and him back in the soggy cafeteria of the scout headquarters, back to bantering with him and arguing about silly little things that don't really deserve arguments but it’s you and Levi so of course it’d end up an argument.

You felt so old suddenly.

How come you ended up here? In this way?

And Levi looked so tired, you could cry. Hasn’t he given enough? Doesn’t he get to rest now?

“Does that..” You glanced down at his leg, the one he had spread out in front of him. It was clear it was beyond repair. The fabric of his pants were torn at the knee, from where it was crushed between the titan’s jaw, a bloody, mangled mess. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really, no.” His eyes followed your gaze. “Numbed a while ago. Can’t feel shit really.”

You sighed. "Not very humanity's strongest anymore, huh?"

Levi raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" He said. "Careful, I could still kick your ass."

"I'm sure."

You grinned. Then went ahead and dropped yourself beside him. He frowned.

“Shouldn’t we be getting up?” He said. “Why are you getting comfortable?”

“Why not?” You muttered, pulling your legs upto your chest, hugging them. “What’s it matter what we do or not? Armin’s the hot shit now, let him deal with everything.” Your head throbbed as you buried them in your knees. "We're too fucking old now anyways,"

He didn’t argue, but he made no attempt to get up either. If anything, he looked more relaxed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to spend the rest of your life here. After all, you were so tired, and you were sure he was too. This was as good as anywhere else would be.

Because there’s no home to return to anymore.

“Do you think there’s anything left of Hange to bury?” He suddenly said.

You shuddered. What do you answer to that?

Your head pounded so hard, you couldn’t really think. Far away, somewhere in the distance, you could hear someone yelling at another someone, but you couldn’t bother to pay attention to the words. Armin and the others would figure something out surely.

You were exhausted.

“Say, Levi.” You said tiredly, nudging him slightly.

“What?”

“Wanna get married?”

Levi almost choked, he was suddenly all uptight, stiff as a board as he looked at you with wide eyes.

“What the fuck?” He asked, looking mildly horrified. “Are you seriously gonna make jokes here? Here?”

“Not joking.”

You lifted up your head, tilting it to look at him. It was hard to tell whether he was annoyed or flustered. Maybe both. "Not joking at all," You sighed. You’re not sure where the sudden boldness came from, but this is as good a time as any. Might as well. “You’re right. It’s a bad time to make jokes. So I’m dead serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” You nodded, turning your expression very serious.

“You’re weird as fuck.” He muttered out after several failed attempts to speak. The tips of his ears turned red, red as it always did whenever you used to jokingly suggest that he should date you. Except you weren’t really joking anymore. In fact, you haven’t been joking for a long, long time.

“I mean..” You closed your eyes. You were too tired to even feel embarrassed. “We’re the only ones left. Me and you. You’re all I have left, Levi. So, why not?”

He gasped at you for a long moment. Then he started shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“You’re just realizing that?”

“No.” He muttered. “You’re insane. And it’s rubbing off on me.”

He paused for a long time, his one good eye searching your intensely, as if he was considering something. And finally, he made up his mind.

“You’re insane. And I’m no fucking different.” He sighed. “I must’ve hit my head pretty damn hard because I’m actually considering this shit.”

You grinned. “Go on, say it. You like me.”

“Wrong. I tolerate you.”

“Good enough. You don’t tolerate a lot of people, so I’ll take it as I'm special.”

He sighed, turning away, hoping that’s enough to hide his heart from you. You were special to him, always. But you didn’t need to know that. He didn’t want you to know that. He didn’t know how to let you know that.

“Can you believe us?” He scoffed instead. “We’re practically sitting in a graveyard. Half the world’s ruined but then there’s us.”

“That’s fine. Let’s keep being us. The world can go fuck itself. Meanwhile, we can—”

“Do not finish that sentence.” He glared.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. A deep, aching laugh that left you gasping for air and brought tears to your eyes. And for the briefest moment, Levi’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile.

“We’re insane.” You admitted, still breathless. With that, you pushed yourself up, stumbling a little before you found your balance. You reached out your hand to Levi, who took it without question.

“Come on, Lev.” You pulled him up, letting him wrap an arm around you to brace himself. “Let’s go home.”

You were right, Levi thinks as he limped with you, letting you support him. It was nice to finally let himself lean on someone.

You two are the only ones left.

You’re all he has now.

The world has taken enough from him. He’s so tired of letting go.

And he’d be damned if he let you go too.

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naffeclipse · 3 months ago

Text

Charm Brought It Back Pt. 5

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

Ah, here we are! The last chapter in the Hocus Pocus AU by @jackofallrabbits and me! Once more, I'm honored and thrilled to have @deliasmilkshake's cover art for the finale! I can't say how grateful I am for everyone's support and lovely comments on this little series! There's a wedding to attend, so let's get to it <3

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.

———

The coolness of the woody air, cut away from the hot and claustrophobic space of the crowded gymnasium overflowing with celebration, brushes over your skin. Half-bare in your ruined sweater, you shiver. Eclipse eases you with a soft sound. His fingertips slip under your sweater and trace over your back to soothe the goosebumps prickling your flesh. Leaning deeper into him, you clutch him tightly in your arms.

You’ve never held someone so close before.

If you don’t open your eyes now, you’ll never believe this is real. The witches. The curses. The ceremony. All of it will be a dream on one cold October night while you lie in bed alone.

So you do. Little by little, you lift your cheek from his chest and tilt your head back, and behold the unnatural man, come back from the dead, who awaits your vows. His eyes glimmer gently in rich golden hues. The sharp cuts of his sun rays remind you of the encroaching sunrise, and you realize the sky is losing its stars as the black dillutes into a dawn of dark gray.

“We will have the ceremony here.” Eclipse inclines his head around you. “It may be simple, but it is only for the time being. When there is no urgency, we will celebrate properly with food and wine and the most beautiful altar. It will be to your heart’s desire, little comet.”

You look around to find what he describes as simple, and balk softly. You are not in the high school gym set in town but a clearing filled with half-dead vines twisting around the bare ground set amid shadowy trees with whispering boughs and the last of autumn’s leaves. The starlight barely reaches you. Dozens of round, orange pumpkins litter the ground around your feet. In the center of the pumpkin patch is a beautiful black wood tree with thick, bark-cracked limbs reaching high with a canopy of bright red and yellow leaves to serve as your altar.

Behind you, smoke not unlike from the party Eclipse just whisked you away from swirls and recedes further back into the cold night, unveiling Sun and Moon. They stand tall and expectant, their hands filled with silvery threads like spider gossamer and the veil of a bride. Sun’s yellow sun rays catch your eyes like a peacock fanning its tail. Moon’s hood lays quietly over his head and casts a calm shadow over the scarlet of his eyes. The weight of their gazes fall over you.

They are here for you too. The twitch in your limbs answers to the anticipation overflowing from your core.

You breathe in deeply. There are two people missing. Turning back to Eclipse, your lips poised to ask about your friends and how the brothers might intend to shuck their curses from them, when the smoke behind Sun and Moon continues to dissolve before it reveals just the ones heavy on your mind.

Michael and Vanessa.

Confusion crosses Michael’s undead face. Purple flesh upon his brow shoots up in alarm before his gaze finds you in the arms of the eldest witch. At his feet, the white rabbit raises her ears high. Vanessa’s green eyes pierce you with alarm and fright most unspeakable.

Your heart aches at the sight of them so drenched in dark magic. Reaching out a hand in a placating motion, you start to call out to them.

“Don’t!” Michael shouts overrules yours, as fierce and protective as he has been all through the night. He charges forward. “Get away from—”

Magic spills from Sun’s and Moon’s lips in a twining harmony. Their gazes are steel while their voices lift and multiply, filling the air with gales of hot and cold air before the old leaves on the pumpkin vines shudder. Creaking and crawling across the dirt, the dark green tendrils come to life and snatch Michael’s ankles, stopping him short as he struggles to remain balanced.

Vanessa bounds towards you. Her small body leaps over pumpkins and scurries around snares of pumpkin tendrils. She dodges a snaring vine before a second, hidden one snatches her, twisting her small little form into its clutches and holding her a few inches above the ground. Her feet kick out. Her entire body struggles as she tries violently to free herself but to no avail.

“Don’t hurt them.” You clutch Eclipse’s cloak until your knuckles turn white. Pleading with your entire being, you find his gaze. “Please. They’re my friends.”

A dryness infiltrates your mouth. Will they be better than what the villagers and witch hunters feared them to be? Can you ask them to be good for you? Your core burns with yearning, the hope of a brighter day filled with peace and joy, not more darkness. Not more pain and fear.

You don’t want to lose them.

Eclipse gently covers your fists and soothes them out until your palms relax against his chest.

“They won’t be harmed,” Eclipse nods towards his brothers. His sonorous voice lowers. “Sun and Moon understand your conditions. We have brought your friends here to give you our gifts, and to ensure there are no more interruptions.”

You nod shakily. A feeble tremble lingers throughout you, raking through your fingers and along your jawline. Your witch suitors have proven again and again their capabilities for wickedness and they continue to chase it through the midnight hours, but not here. They stand still, at your service. How they terrify you. How they enchant you.

Every single night you dreamt of someone to love, someone who would keep you warm and chase away the loneliness.

Have you found them or are you a love-sick fool still reaching for something that is not yours?

“Run, get away from here!” Michael struggles against the vines rooting him in place. Leaves twine tighter around his corpse-like body, forcing him to his knees and leaving him bound from his ankles all the way to his shoulders, wrapped up like a cruel gift.

One glower from Sun sends one last pumpkin vine around Michael’s flesh-rotten mouth and gags him.

Vanessa twists and writhes. Her small rabbit body struggles in the grasp of the vine snare and she sinks her teeth into it, attempting to chew through the restraint while her wide, desperate eyes flash to you.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Stop struggling. It’s going to be okay. Please, trust me.”

Michael stops fighting. A fear and anger so raw fills his gaze as Sun and Moon step after you. His fists clench as his jawbone wiggles, but his muffle words die behind the vine covering his teeth.

A strong sound jumps from Vanessa, caught between an animalistic cry and a human sob. She looks at you. Her wide eyes shine with dread.

Eclipse takes you by the shoulders, his eyes burning low as he turns you away from the fear of your friends. You keep your eyes on both of them.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again.

“Come, come, little comet.” Eclipse recaptures your attention with a finger hooking under your chin. “The hour is nigh. Sunrise is too near for us to wait any longer.”

“I know.” Your pulse swells in your ears, beating within you like a drum to a dance that’s too fast-paced for your feet to keep up with.

Your eyes stray from his somber expression to the black tree. Between the red and yellow leaves are dozens of spiderwebs, glimmering softly like silk streamers just for the ceremony. Gently, Eclipse releases you to stand back as Sun and Moon slip around you from both sides.

“My poppet,” Sun’s voice is sensual and warm. “Allow me to dress you in spider gossamer for this fine occasion.”

You slowly dip your head, all too confused but too uncertain to stop him as he draws out threads of silvery silk. He gently lays them upon your shoulders. His pale eyes swim with passion. A gentle murmur of magic flows from his lips, and you become enveloped in a light and cool cascade of fabric softer than rain and lighter than feathers. You look down at yourself.

Catching the fading shimmer of magic, you are now draped in an elegant but simple silver gown. A high neck collars you with big, flowing sleeves which cinch at your wrists with thick embroidery. The skirt falls in an A-shape and flows softly in the gentle wind of the night around your feet, almost brushing the dirt.

Your wedding attire. You touch the skirt with a delicate hand as if it may fall apart like a cobweb brushed away, but instead, you watch in silent marvel at the rippling, silk-like glimmer of the cloth.

Strangely, Sun possesses your clothes in his arms now. Your mind spins with questions but you are learning all too well that the answer is magic. With a smirk, he tosses aside the holey sweater and your dirt-stained jeans. The clothes land on the shell of a large, orange pumpkin.

“Beautiful,” Sun lowers his head in pleasure, his hand at his chest and his other arm held out in a formal bow to you. “Never was there a more lovely bride for three brothers.”

You blush fiercely.

“It is beautiful,” you admit, clutching a fistful of the skirt. You lift it and wave it back and forth once to watch it glimmer again.

“I’m not speaking of the dress, sunshine.” Sun straightens with a grin so devious, you must wonder again if you’re giving up your soul in such a ceremony.

A cool touch falls upon your hand. Claws curl carefully over your wrist. Dropping the skirt, you twist upon your feet to face Moon.

“A veil for you.” He holds it in his other hand. The delicate and sheer gossamer flows like silver water. “Lower your head. I will crown you in it.”

You bow slightly. Moon sweeps your hair back with his cool, careful fingertips and pins the veil upon your skull like a tiara. The soft, celestial fabric falls down around you. Blinking, you stare in awe at yourself, shrouded in majestic silver.

Moon gazes at you softly. His eyes fall from your hair and he reclaims your palm for a moment to behold you entirely.

“Exquisite.” He bows his head over your hand. “I dreamt of you since Eclipse first told us what he found in his bone scrying. I have waited for you all this time, my snowflower.”

A tremble falls over your bottom lip—not of fear, though there is still an anxious sparking within your nerves. You are washed away in his sincerity. The true intentions of a lover.

You have no words, and instead, gently squeeze his hand.

“May I add one last touch,” Eclipse says. He steps forward.

You lift your head to him as his gaze glows gently in the darkness like twin stars which circle you as his brothers step back. Eclipse sets his hand on your shoulder. Your breath slows as his touch traces your collarbone and falls down your side. You almost sway under his hand holding your hip before he sinks onto one knee to trail his palm along your thigh and all the way to your calf, touching your gown all the way down.

He speaks a gentle spell. You dare not move an inch as a gentle pulse, milky and starlight-like, falls over the cloth. You burn in the darkness like a candle. The gown stands out against the darkness like a comet streaking through the night sky.

“Oh,” is all you can say as you look down at yourself. There are no words which can contain the magnitude of what you feel towards the beauty and thought of their wedding attire for you. Though Sun, Moon, and Eclipse spark and snap like flames with their wide eyes and tall statures, you twinkle bright.

Emotion cakes your throat. Thickly, you swallow it back.

“A little starlight.” Eclipse smiles, his eyes burning sweetly. “For you are our equal, our partner, our bride.”

You don’t feel powerful. You don’t feel important enough to be involved in magic and ceremonies and love, yet here you stand, swathed in their adoration and gifts. You take hold of your skirt once more.

“Let us begin the ceremony,” Eclipse says softly. He takes your elbow and arm in arm, he walks you through a footpath worn through the pumpkin patch to the black tree, gnarled but beautiful. A most befitting altar.

Taking your other arm is Sun, sliding close to you with a simmering smile so close to you, you wonder if the slight heat brushing against your cheek is from his presence or the blood rush in your face. Behind you, like a pale shadow, Moon tenderly takes your skirt and follows close behind, keeping the beautiful fabric from gathering dust and pumpkin fronds.

And so you go to your wedding altar.

In times before, marriage served to form alliances between families. Parents arranged such contracts for children to benefit both parties. Most couples didn’t and couldn’t marry for love, rather they were bound for purely economic liaisons.

How beautiful is it that you could arrange yourself into a marriage most lovely?

Your grooms stop at the black tree. Eclipse slips away from your hand, and you look to him in confusion, fearing where he might wander away to. The elder witch grins as he simply looks at his brother. Sun’s hand lingers on your arm, trailing down to your wrist before he steps back, still beaming, still eager, but patient.

You turn slowly under the dusting of moonlight to face Moon. A swell rises in your heart, crashing through you until you’re sticky with emotion. His expression is soft and sweet like milk and honey. He gathers your hands between his own. Looking down, Moon draws the pads of his thumbs softly over your knuckles as if wishing to memorize the bone structure of your much smaller hands.

There is no time at all, but you keep the quiet with him, studying his mild countenance. His breaths are deep and even. A gentle scent of something late and herbal laces him, and you’re taken back to the mausoleum where he tasted you.

His eyes lift. The scarlet gleam holds you tender.

“Do you take me to be your husband?” His voice is gentle in its rasp. His eyes never leave you, drinking you in like wine. “My love is yours, for time and all eternity. I will honor you dearly, little mouse.”

A soft sound catches in your throat, somewhere between a chuckle and a weeping sound. You thought joy would be without tears, but you stand, clutching his claws tightly in your fists to steady yourself.

“I do.” The moonlight brightens as the words leave your lips. You watch in silent awe as the silver glow of the night dances over you both, and you taste midnight upon your tongue as Moon smiles.

He carefully takes your veil and lifts it over your head, allowing the silver threads to fall down your back. He leans in gently. In the way the tide is tugged by the lunar celestial body, you meet him in the small space between your bodies. The witch’s kiss presses to your mouth in a gentle yearning, pushing and pulling so long as you follow in time. You fall into him. Deepening the kiss, Moon cradles your lips against the white curve of his fangs. You sigh contently as you lose your breath in his presence, starstruck.

He releases you, though only your mouth. His hands clasp yours tightly and he softly caresses the back of your hands. Tied along his wrists are deep blue ribbons. Bells jangle softly underneath.

“I will keep you unto me forevermore.” Moon traces your digits with his claw. The soft glow of his gaze fills you with his sincerity.

You sink into his words like a pool of silver. You nod deeply.

“I will cherish you,” you promise in a trembling, choked voice. The power of the engagement drapes over you, pressing upon you the great importance of this entanglement.

“Breathe, little mouse.” He smiles. “I will keep you safe.”

You laugh quietly, too overwhelmed for words but your happiness seeps through all the same.

He kisses you once more before he lifts his head high. Following his gaze, you find Vanessa has stopped fighting. Her little rabbit nose twitches fast, afraid.

Moon offers a spell, deep and cool but releasing. His voice overlaps. A scent of sharp, pungent herbs swirls on the night breeze before he nods his head once more. Your old clothes fly off of the pumpkin they were resting on, and fall onto Vanessa still tangled in the pumpkin vines.

A moment later, in a shrouded flash of light, vines snap and clothes stretch, and there is a woman where there was once a rabbit.

Vanessa, thankfully, wears your sweater and jeans. Her green eyes fit much better in her human face as she kneels upon the ground and lifts her hands. Long blonde hair falls down around her shoulders. Slowly, she turns over her palm and clenches her fingers. No longer trapped, she gazes up at you.

Shock shines in her eyes, but her lips form soft awe.

“Vanessa,” you smile breathlessly. Whirling back, you kiss Moon once to his slight shock. “Thank you.”

“I will answer to your every desire,” he murmurs, then releases you.

Moon slips back from you. Before you can think of reaching for him, Sun takes you into his arms. You gasp softly at the warmth of his embrace surrounding you like you were basking near an open fire.

“Sunshine, I was beginning to fear you’ve forgotten about me.” He takes you carefully, slipping your feet onto his as he begins to spin you slowly, like a star tailspinning through the atmosphere. “You could never, could you? Not when I still vye for your kiss—and now, your vows returned.”

You hold onto his shoulders. Carefully underneath the gnarled limbs of the black tree, Sun waltzes you to an unsung song. He hums slowly with a gentle rumble in his chest. His eyes upon you are hungry in the way a candle flame clings to a wick, desperate to devour but unable to spread like a wildfire.

“No, I couldn’t forget you, Sun,” you whisper. He has left you dizzy and stunned, racing with you upon his broom and then pinning you underneath him upon a bed. There is too much you marvel about him to forget.

He twirls you gently, the moonlight blurring around you between earth and sky before he recaptures you. The threat of dawn seems so close and yet so far away from this wild pumpkin patch.

“That is all I can ask, though you must know, I want more of you.” His grin is wide but honest. How could you expect anything less from the one who has coveted you so zealously?

His hand rests on the small of your back. Pulling you flush against him, he holds you for one breathless moment, caught like two figurines in the apex of a lovers’ dance.

“Do you take me to be your husband?” His voice is steady, without flirtations or sultry suggestions. An honest question from a witch. “You have simply enchanted me, dove. I am at your mercy. I am at your service. And if you will, your bedside, your mornings, and your sunsets.”

Your eyelids flutter. A gentle push of tears make their way past your eyes, and you hold his wide, pale gaze. He searches your face with held breath. He clutches your hand and presses it to his chest, bared open to you. The bells tied to the dark red ribbons on his wrists jingle softly.

“I do.” You speak with the gentleness of certainty. The leaves overhead ruffle with a breeze that is far more fitting for summer than an incoming winter. Pressed so close, you fear he must know how your heart trembles in the wonder of knowing that he loves you, and you love him.

His expression erupts in sheer, unadulterated joy. He spins you once more, dancing as if he were walking on air before he dips you low. You intake a deep breath as he holds you above the pumpkin patch. His grin fills your entire vision as his fingers press softly into your dress. He wastes not a moment to crush your mouth in a kiss.

His hunger and eagerness leaves you breathless as he takes and takes before he gives just as much in return. You are captured within his affection. He is smooth and practiced, and you almost feel self conscious, but gently, he leads you. He guides your lips and teases you with his teeth. Even his tongue brushes the inside of your mouth before he softens it to a trickle after the flood of his expression. You taste a sweetness that slips down your throat like honey.

Gently, he brings you back up on your feet, though he does not release you. He kisses you again, greedily taking more. You are putty in his hands, molded by his mouth as if you were a honeycomb caught between teeth.

“Sunny,” Eclipse murmurs once in gentle warning.

Sun draws back reluctantly as if being torn from water after days in the desert. You gasp softly, your shoulders rising and falling after the rush of his love.

“I have devoted myself to you, my poppet,” he whispers into your ear as you rest against his chest. “My love is yours and yours alone.”

“Oh, Sun,” you clutch his shoulders tighter. “I will adore you for the rest of my days.”

“I know, sunshine.” He grins but softly kisses your cheek once in a strangely rare but precious, chaste gesture. “But I must share you or else I will keep you all night.”

He straightens, his arms still encircling you. Pale eyes sweep back and you eagerly look at Michael. He’s stopped fighting as well, no longer thrashing but watching with a strange, conflicted crinkle of his brow. Vanessa kneels close by, unmoving, still staring at her legs and arms and touching her hair.

Your entire body aches for Michael. The curse stains his flesh and twists him into a silver-screen monster.

Sun breathes a spell. His voice fills the air in unearthly chants that sweep over the ground and whirl the leaves on the pumpkin vines. They slowly crawl back, releasing Michael just as the same bright flash of energy and power takes hold of your dear friend.

The purple corpse recedes back and unveils the man underneath. Michael’s hair returns to its warmer shade of brown. His eyes blink and his corenas return white while his irises take hold with light and life. Rotten flesh returns to a rich tan color. His torn clothes refill with his healthy size and strength.

He clenches and unclenches his fists. Slowly, he stumbles forward. Vanessa helps catch him before he folds entirely after being freed from the witches’ curse.

You startle—is his leg still broken? Vanessa, however, stabilizes Michael, coaxing him to sit beside her. He folds his legs with natural ease—healed and whole.

“Michael, you’re alright,” you breathe, clutching Sun together.

He gives you a nod though in a slight daze. He opens his mouth but then decides against whatever he was going to say.

“Thank you.” You turn to Sun. “Thank you for sparing him.”

“Anything for our bride,” he simpers. With a great sigh, however, he lets go of you, his fingertips trailing over your sides before falling back beside Moon.

Under the black tree, Eclipse stands, patient but enduring.

You face him. He lifts his head but remains humble and composed before gently approaching. The light of a new day is beginning to change from deep gray to a burning orange leaking rosy pink at the edges. The sunrise is as terrifying as it is promising.

Eclipse opens his arms to you. Without hesitation, you enter his embrace as his hand finds your cheek. Tied tight around his wrist is a black ribbon with golden bells. His claws rest delicately on your hip over the silky soft fabric of your gown. Lightly, his thumb caresses your cheek. The gold of his gaze falls over you, gentle as the night.

“Little comet,” he says, steady despite the impending light threatening to take away all. Yet, he takes his time, tasting his words before giving them to you. “Do you take me to be your husband? I have waited—”

In a heart rush, you utter, “I do.”

Eclipse stares, eyes wide. His red sun rays catch the first glance of daylight, brightening his vision as if a spotlight fell upon him. He looks towards the horizon as you do. You squint slightly against the brightness.

Lifting his hand from your face, he watches the black ribbon and bells dissolve into dark smoke, then nothing. Sun and Moon turn their wrists as the respectful dark red and deep blue ribbons fall away from them as if burned and leave not a wisp behind.

You take Eclipse’s hand and draw it closer to you, gently kissing his knuckles before smiling.

“You’re free. You’re all free.” You flush deeply as you look to Sun and Moon and their gazes of content awe. “My husbands.”

A soft, strange sound leaves Eclipse. A breath caught between wonder and something deeper, something roiling with adoration. His gaze falls back to you, and again, he touches your cheek.

“I did not finish my vows to you.” He cradles your face close in his palms, leaning closer as your eyes lock. “I swear to you happiness, protection, and my unending love. From this day on, you will always be warm. You will always have my hand to hold. You will never fear the darkness for I will be with you.”

He pauses, his grin spreading wide. He looks at you as if you were a dream. A living, breathing vision.

“We are eternally bound to you, our spouse.” Eclipse leans in close. “Say my name, once more.”

Your eyelids slip close for one precious moment, warmed by the brilliant light, and the touch of Eclipse’s hands cradling you as if you were delicate.

“Eclipse,” you whisper.

His grin is beautiful and lovely. You start as you feel a second pair of arms surround you. Sweeping you off your feet, Eclipse lifts you into his embrace. This close, he smells of gentle spice and musk.

He strokes your cheek once before closing the distance between your lips. You feel his hunger in the echo of your own—the want to devour but gently, he tastes you. A soft whine catches in the back of your throat. Melting under his warmth, he invades you gently and his tongue brushes against your own. His kiss takes you under, and you drop breathlessly into his grasp.

He pulls and takes in soft, sweet motions. Rhythmic and powerful, he tastes you until you fear you might fall once more. But he will catch you. This much you are certain.

He pulls back gently, kissing you one last time as if in need of the strength it gives him, before his honeyed gaze settles on you.

“Your freckles are beautiful, like the stars upon the night sky,” he says. He kisses the right side of your face, then glides to the left and lingers there a moment. “You are truly staying with us, my little comet.”

You blush, and cling to him. Your hands, however, are gently tugged. You look away from Eclipse to find Moon curling his claws under your digits and lifting your hand sweetly to his mouth. Eclipse shifts you gently in his arms to rest you against his back while keeping you cradled like a bride on her wedding night—you suppose you are such a bride, Sun’s hand traces from your shoulder down your arm until he captures your hand. There, he kisses your knuckles slowly. You close your eyes, bubbling in the blissful sunlight as your husbands adore you.

A kiss like the brush of a moth wing touches your head. Eclipse hums gently against you. You make a soft, sweet sound at their tender affection.

“My husbands,” you say, then laugh a little, beaming at their gentle looks. “I’m going to have to get used to saying that.”

“You will,” Sun purrs, “And there’s so much time for us to grow used to our lovely spouse.”

“So much time,” Moon rasps gently, “You must be exhausted.” He kisses your fingertips until you shiver and blush.

“Perhaps we should take our bride home,” Eclipse suggests gently. “You can sleep in our bed and rest, and when you wake, we’ll celebrate more.”

You stir at the thought. You won’t drive back to your tiny apartment. No, instead you will stay here with your husbands, and the bed you will sleep in will be warm and filled with their bodies.

You won’t wake up alone.

“I’d like that.” You squeeze Sun’s and Moon’s hands and turn your head back to gaze at Eclipse with a fond smile.

A quiet voice says your name. You turn your head, stunned to find Michael and Vanessa stepping towards you. Vanessa supports Michael’s arm around her shoulders as his strength seems to wane. Their eyes are mirrors of witch hunters from long ago as they behold the brothers holding their virgin bride.

Claws tighten around you. Moon flashes his sharp teeth as Sun lifts his chin high, looking down at the pair with disdain. The arms holding you off the ground squeeze in the slightest until you wriggle. Eclipse nearly keeps you away, but gingerly, he sets you back on your feet.

Michael holds your gaze, his brow crinkled in concern but restored to his natural health.

“Are you really staying with them?” he asks quietly, his gaze darting sharply to the witches.

You smile at the slight shifting around you. The drape of Moon’s cloak almost falls over your shoulder as he takes your hand close and caresses your arm. A murmur of wishing to return them both to rabbits falls from Sun’s lips, but he merely interlocks his digits between your own. Behind you, Eclipse draws a tender hand down your back, feeling the ridges of your spine through the delicate fabric of your gown.

“I love them.” You look at your husbands. Their faces brighten, their touches softening upon you. “I’m staying.”

“What do we do now?” Vanessa asks. Her face looks lost, and you imagined after a few centuries of only guarding the starry candle, she must be.

You muse for a moment, and survey your husbands with a careful air. “Is your home now my home?”

“Of course,” Eclipse answers without hesitation. “Everything that is ours is yours.”

“Then I may invite my friends inside?”

Sun and Moon exchange a glance, Sun more annoyed than Moon’s mild surprise, but they both incline their heads.

“If that is your wish,” Moon gives gently.

“It is.” You squeeze their palms. “We can start a proper home, and we can learn how to forgive.”

“Forgive?” Vanessa balks.

“Yes.” You look at her as the bright light of day touches her face. Her eyes are truly green and sharp like cut emeralds. “Let’s get out of this pumpkin patch and go home and rest. Then we can make peace.”

Michael looks down at Vanessa.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, unlike my ancestor.” His brow is set firm. To your awe, Michael does not tremble with rage or the need to fight again. Perhaps the witches are beginning to prove themselves, and Michael will give them a chance. Just one chance.

“Very well then, my poppet.” Sun turns to you and kisses you in a sudden burst of heat and passion before he releases you. Stunned, you almost sway but Eclipse wraps an arm around your waist. Sun gestures with his free arm in an open invitation. “Enter our humble abode. You are our spouse’s guests, which means you are ours.”

Vanessa glares at him. Her foot falls down on a withered vine and it cracks.

“Charming as ever, Vanessa.” Sun flashes his teeth in a grin.

“Sun,” you chastise.

He rubs your wrist, half apologetic.

“I will make soup.” Moon muses. “My cauldron pot is where I left it, I hope.”

The heaviness in the air reminds you that the night has been long, and you are dreadfully exhausted. Vanessa and Michael barely hold themselves upright, but they lean on each other.

“Excellent.” Eclipse waves his hand. Smoke seeps up from the ground, swirling around your feet before you close your eyes, and lean into the pillars of your husbands for support.

The air changes. A slight breeze, warm for October, encircles you. You inhale a gentle scent of rich earth and dust. When you open your eyes again, the brothers’ home is standing before you, same as it ever was, but entirely changed.

Perhaps it’s only you who has changed, now hanging on to the witches.

Michael and Vanessa are just behind you and the witches, standing on the gravel outside of the home, disgruntled about the change of scenery or perhaps the use of magic, but you hope they’ll see the possibility of goodness within the brothers as you have.

Eclipse’s hand slips under your chin to lift your head back. His expression warms with the bright new day. Sun kisses your fingertips until you shiver in delight. Moon turns your palm over to reach the delicate lines of veins along your wrist, and presses his lips to your pulse.

“We are home,” Eclipse says. He kisses the top of your head.

You are home with your husbands.

#naff's writing commissions #hehehe Happy Halloween!!!#make sure you let jack know how much you like this au <3333 #and tell delia how incredible their art is!!!#hocus pocus au my beloved #witch!eclipse #witch!sun #witch!moon #charm brought it back #naff writing

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turquoizxe · 2 months ago

Text

𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Sevika x Fem!Reader

content ― drabble; thigh riding, fingering, kissing, softdom!Sevika, reader works in the brothel

author's note ― needed to write this asap no rocky

wc ― 0.629k

You were the only person who was able to see Sevika this way; vulnerable, writhing against you, searching for release.

The scariest woman in Zaun, Silco's right-hand woman, no one dares think that a woman such as you would have her on her knees the way you do. Most days, she was relentless in bed, often showing no mercy, urging you to pull more orgasms from you.

Her visits had later mellowed out. Your once transactional relationship turned into something rather interesting. Neither of you was sure if you wanted to call it love, but your dynamic took different measures this time around.

Her once sour, reserved attitude melted away with time. Most days, she was just tired of dealing with Silco's messes, searching for comfort in the arms of you, whom she grew to trust.

From the way she approached you tonight, you could tell the mood was different, the way she spoke to you before touching you, and her calloused hands felt so gentle as they embraced your thighs.

And here she was, your back pressed against the pillows as she continued to assault your nether regions, her palm pressed against your clit as your fingers worked inside you, flicking her wrist so that she was able to hit that delicious spot; eliciting the most beautiful moans from your lips.

Sevika hovered over you, her face nuzzled into your chest as she chased an orgasm of her own. Your legs were intertwined, as the hefty woman thrusted against your thigh. Your bare bodies couldn't be any closer, and she looked so gorgeous.

"Fuck...I missed you so much," she admits breathlessly, pressing against your leg rougher, her erratic breathing signaling that she was close. Your hands roamed her figure, fingertips pressing lightly against her scars, adorning her breasts in sloppy kisses. She arches forward, freeing her grip from the sheets, as she reaches for your own, locking your fingers with her own.

Her eyes stare into you, and the atmosphere starts to feel warmer. The sweat between you sticks your body into the sheets.

"Does that feel good, baby?" You mewl in response to her question, your own hips finding the rhythm of her wrists, you both beginning to chase your own highs. Your head flung back, the coil in your stomach continuing to build. Sevika's movements hadn't come to a complete halt, but slowed down, removing her hand, to make you face her.

"I need to know.....," she softly coos, her lips tracing up your neck, a whimper leaving your lips at the sudden lack of pace, your hips move, almost on their own accord, continuing to chase your release. It wasn't the same on your own, and she knew it. You huff in frustration, your eyes glossed with desire, staring into her own.

"You feel unreal, Vika."

Her eyes clouded with lust, a small smirk plasters on her lips before leaning forward, your bodies intertwined as she embraced you in what would be your first kiss. It was as passionate, heavily laced with want, her lips following your lead. You giggle amid your kisses, a moan spilling from your lips as you feel her hand pick up the pace once more. You pulled away from the kiss, a loud moan erupting from your throat as Sevika's fingers massaged your walls, abusing the spot where you needed her most. Your hand holding hers, encouraging her movements. Your newfound lover chuckles a the action, she's never seen you so needy.

"I can't wait to fucking ruin you," she heaves, continuing to rut against you. It was going to be a long night, for sure. She had promised that when you're ready, you wouldn't have to work another night here.

But until then, you were worth every pretty penny.

― turquoizxe

#sevika imagine #arcane fanfic #arcane smut #fanfic #fic writer #arcane sevika #sevika smut #sevika x you #arcane #wlw fanfic #lesbian #sapphic

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joemama-2 · 1 month ago

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a dead end | chap. 1

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 9.6k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < next chapter

“And nooooow, everyone put your hands together for our lovely girls in orange and black!”

The announcer's voice over the stadium causes a roar of applause and shouts to erupt, most of course being male. Stepping onto the cleared out baseball field are a group of lively young women. Wearing small black skirts with black safety shorts underneath, their jerseys that read ‘GIANTS’ in the center in black, patched lettering are tied at the bottom; showing off their midsections. Wearing long, black socks and with the Pom-Poms to finish the job off, their smiles are the brightest thing.

The girls take their places on the field, their synchronized movements and high-energy smiles lighting up the crowd. Among them is you, standing in the middle of the formation, the natural leader of the group. You glance toward the stands, where a sea of orange and black waves back at you. For a moment, you’re lost in the energy of the game day atmosphere—the cheers, the crack of a bat, the announcer’s voice booming through the stadium.

“After a brief hiatus, we finally have our star back on the field with us. Another round of applause for the beautiful Y/N L/N!!!”

You chuckle to yourself at the heightened tone of cheers that are directed solely to your presence. You give a few waves, seeing the people in the front rows of the stadium excitedly wave back, shouting things you can’t really hear. You can only assume they go along the lines of how much they love you and miss you, and of course, how they wish you would give them a single chance.

It’s moments like these that make everything worth it. The endless rehearsals, the physical exhaustion, even the occasional jeers from rowdy fans.

The music soon starts, a familiar upbeat track that gets the crowd clapping in rhythm. The routine begins, and you lose yourself in the movements. You all cheerleaders spring into action. Your body responds instinctively—jumps, spins, high kicks—all in perfect unison with your squad. Your Pom-Poms catch the sunlight as they move in perfect unison.

You’re at the center of the formation the entire time. As the group's captain your eyes constantly dart around in quick motion, ensuring that every movement is sharp and precise. A high kick flows seamlessly into a spin, your Pom-Poms arching over your head as you beam at the crowd. Your heart pounds, not from nerves, but from the sheer adrenaline of performing in front of tens of thousands of people.

It's from the fact that you’re finally back out here, shining in the spotlight. Oh, how you missed it so much.

Yui, on your right, flips her hair dramatically before breaking into the next move, her grin as radiant as ever. “You’re killing it out there, Y/N,” she says during a brief pause in the routine, her voice barely audible over the crowd.

“So are you,” you reply, breathless but smiling.

The routine shifts, the squad breaking into smaller groups for a series of flips and stunts. The girls lift a smaller woman into the air; one of the newer girls on the team. Her petite frame soaring gracefully as she executes a flawless toe touch. However, she lands a little off point, which wouldn’t be noticeable to the crowd, but to you…it is. She stumbles to her right for a second before swiftly regaining her footing once more, getting back into her required position.

Your smile stays constant on your face, but your eyes and the look you send her tells an entirely different story. Moving behind her, you deliver a nudge to her back that borders the line of a shove.

Finally, the crowd roars as the squad transitions into its finale. You leap into the air for a perfectly timed toe-touch split jump, the audience’s cheers fueling your energy. As your feet hit the ground, you and your squad strike your final pose, arms extended high, Pom-Poms shimmering in the sunlight.

The announcer’s voice booms again, barely audible over the deafening applause. “Let’s hear it for the Tokyo Yomiuri Giants Cheer Squad!”

You all stay in position for a few seconds for the photos, before finally waving at the large stadium. When you steal a glance at the dugout, where a few of the baseball players are clapping along with the crowd, you notice a particular someone staring longer than necessary. Ren Yamamoto, the team’s star pitcher, gives you a wink from his spot on the bench. Your smile falters for a split second before you quickly look away, focusing on Yui as she nudges you with her elbow.

“He’s been watching you all day,” she says, her voice teasing.

“Focus,” you mutter, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

The squad retreats off the field, giggling and chatting as the next act takes the stage. The roar of the crowd fades behind you as you make your way to the locker room, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

Some of the team takes this moment to sigh in exhaustion and relief now that it’s over, wiping away remnants of sweat on their foreheads. Setting the Pom-Poms down and touching up their makeup, while others take the liberty for some water and a rest.

The girl from before exhales quietly to herself, rolling her shoulders in and out. Sipping on her water bottle.

“Nice job out there, Sayo!” Her teammate congratulates her with a smile and a side hug. “You’re getting better. You’ll be the best in no time!”

Sayo smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of the back with a shy chuckle. “Thank you, I worked really hard…”

Another girl perks up next to Sayo. “I think we can all see that. You’re progressing faster than we all did when we were in your shoes.”

“Maybe,” the first girl leans into Sayo’s ear, whispering. “You’ll even be like Y/N, probably better.”

Sayo’ eyes widen a bit but calm when she notices the two girls laughing. She joins in, feeling at ease for her prior mistake. Looking down at her hands with a soft gaze. “Do you really think s—”

“Giving her false hope, huh? How cruel.”

Sayo and the two girls’ expressions change quickly, whirling around as they come face to face with you. Standing there with a raised eyebrow, a tilted head and crossed arms. Your sight hyper focused on the new girl. “You know, I expected more from you. Do you just have it in your genes to consistently disappoint people around you?”

The two girls who were just praising Sayo step back, muttering small apologies to you. Their quickness to back off reminds Sayo that everyone here is a sneaky bitch, that she can really trust no one. Not when everyone practically cowers under your gaze like a bunch of sheep.

Sayo stands frozen for a moment, her wide eyes not meeting yours. The silence hangs in the air, thick with the tension you’ve so effortlessly created. You keep your arms crossed, your gaze unyielding, watching the way the two girls seem to shrink back, unsure of whether to speak up or stay quiet. Sayo’s heart races, her breath catching in her throat as you approach them, your eyes narrowing with a cold intensity. She could feel the tension rise in the room, thick enough to cut through. The playful atmosphere from earlier now feels like a distant memory, replaced by something more ominous.

“Y/N, I—” Sayo begins, her voice shaky, but you cut her off with a cold laugh.

“Don’t start with your excuses,” you say, voice smooth and dismissive. “You don’t belong here if you can’t keep your feet straight. This isn’t some playground, Sayo. Didn’t we already practice this a thousand times? And you still can’t do it.” You let out a condescending scoff.

Sayo’s throat tightens, and the small voice inside her, the one that once told her she could be something great, starts to waver. The praise from the others had felt so nice, and for a moment, she allowed herself to believe it. But now, it seems that belief was fragile. You had shattered it in an instant.

One of the girls behind her mutters a low “Ouch,” but doesn’t dare speak up. They know better than to challenge you.

Sayo nods slowly, not trusting her own voice to speak, and her gaze flickers to the ground. She can’t bring herself to look at you anymore. You always had a way of making her feel small, and now it’s like you’ve stripped away every ounce of confidence she’d managed to build in herself. For the briefest moment, she considers quitting, but then she remembers how badly she wants to prove herself.

“I…I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, I covered it up pretty good, didn’t I?” She asks with hopefulness in her tone, eyes practically pleading with you silently.

Your jaw clenches in response. “So mistakes are okay as long as you cover them up? How pathetic.” You step closer, pushing her back by her shoulder. She lets out a tiny gasp, stumbling back a few inches. “One bad move on you is a bad one on all of us. Haven’t you understood by now that you represent the team? You represent what I teach you.”

Sayo’s eyes blow wide in shock, her breath catching as your words hit her like a slap. She tries to steady herself, but her legs feel weak, her heart pounding in her chest. She looks down at the floor, trying to escape the intensity of your gaze, but your words keep cutting through her, each one a fresh wound.

“I—I didn’t mean to mess up,” Sayo stammers, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “I was just trying to keep up. I—I thought I could fix it without anyone noticing.” She raises her head, her eyes searching for any sign of mercy, but your face is cold, unwavering.

“Don’t you dare give me that excuse,” you snap, your voice sharp and unforgiving. “No one here cares about how well you cover up your mistakes. What matters is that you did make them. And that’s something you can’t hide from. It’s a reflection of you, and it’s a reflection of the entire squad.”

Sayo bites her lip, her thoughts racing. She feels her hands shaking, the reality of the situation settling in like a weight on her chest. This wasn’t just about one misstep—it was about the pressure of constantly being under your thumb, of never being good enough, of always being measured against your impossible standards.

“You represent me, Sayo,” you continue, your voice now lowering, but still carrying the weight of authority. “You represent us. Every move you make, every breath you take, it’s not just for you anymore. You’ve crossed that line. You chose to be here, and that means you carry the burden of what comes with it.”

The room is silent, the tension suffocating. Even the other girls, who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, now seem to shrink away, their faces uncertain. No one dares to speak, not with you in the room. Not when you’re in this kind of mood.

Sayo feels the sting of your words deep in her gut. She wants to defend herself, to explain that she didn’t mean for it to happen, but the words feel stuck in her throat. Her head swims with doubts, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to live up to your expectations, or if she’s destined to fail every time.

“Get it together, Sayo,” you murmur, the threat hanging behind your words. “The next time I catch you slipping like that, I won’t be so nice.”

With a final glance at the two girls, who are now avoiding eye contact with you, you turn and walk away. Your shoes click against the hard floor, each step a reminder that in this world, there’s no room for weakness. You’ve clawed your way to the top, and anyone who doesn’t keep up will get left behind.

Sayo watches you walk away, a sick feeling in her stomach. The girls who had once tried to offer her encouragement remain silent now, the weight of your words still heavy in the air. She’s not sure if it’s fear of you, or fear of failure, but she suddenly feels more isolated than she ever has before. And before she knows it, she’s chosen her own fate.

“W-well...at least my mistakes don’t break apart families.”

That single sentence causes hushed gasps to sound out through the room, you freeze in your tracks. The room falls utterly still, like a vacuum has sucked out all the air, leaving nothing but the crushing weight of silence. Sayo’s breath hitches, and the girls around her instinctively take a few steps back, almost as if trying to distance themselves from what’s about to unfold.

Immediately after, Sayo realizes she said the worst thing known to man. She wishes she could go back in time a few seconds and stop her stupid mouth from opening, from speaking such a cursed sentence. It was like an unwritten, unspoken rule that everyone knew.

Don’t bring the scandal up.

Oh, I’m really in for it now, Sayo thinks to herself. Almost audibly whimpering in fear when you turn back around. It’s like your eyes have gotten darker—if that was even possible. But the smile on your face juxtaposes the anger you wave off. In some way, it feels more dangerous than any frown could ever be.

You turn on your heel with a slow, deliberate motion, taking calculated steps back toward Sayo. Each click of your heels against the floor sounds like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds until she realizes just how badly she’s fucked up.

“Excuse me?” Your voice is calm, too calm, and it sends a shiver down Sayo’s spine.

“I—I—I didn’t…” Her voice is shaky, barely even getting a stable word out. Hands trembling in front of her. Her eyes dart around—a silent plea for help. But nothing, every girl there is looking anywhere but her. The other girls step back even further, all too aware of the volatile atmosphere. No one dares to step in, no one dares to speak. They all know how this ends.

You hum in faux thought. “Your mistake…” you utter, your voice low—almost amused, “is that you have no idea who you’re dealing with.” You take another step closer, forcing Sayo to look up at you. “You think just because you’ve been here for a few months, you know enough to throw a comment like that around?”

Sayo’s face pales. She wants to apologize, to take back the words that slipped from her mouth, but she can’t. She’s paralyzed, caught in the web of her own stupid mistake. And worse, she can feel the heat of your anger radiating off you, and it scares her more than she’s willing to admit. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, Y/N, I swea—”

You push her back again, softly laughing. Another push, one more, and another and she’s fallen back on her ass. Head tilting down at her in a way that makes her want to shrivel up and die. “Still clumsy with your feet, aren’t you? We’ll have to do something about that.”

You bend down in front of Sayo, your eyes cold and calculating. The slight tremble in her voice only fuels your frustration, but you can’t afford to show weakness now. You grab her by the collar of her jersey, pulling her up to meet your gaze, your fingers tightening around the fabric with a force that makes her breath hitch.

“Apologizing won’t change anything,” you murmur, the threat in your voice clear. “But since you think you can talk back, let’s see how well you handle a little correction.”

You give her a harsh shove, making her stumble to her feet again. As she regains her balance, you bring her over to the nearby wall. “Since you have issues with stability, we’ll start easy. Squat and hold your arms up.”

Sayo’s heart hammers in her chest as her legs shake under the pressure of your command. She wants to fight back, to argue, but the fear in your eyes and the coldness of your tone make her freeze in place. She can’t seem to find her voice, her mind scrambled by the confrontation. The air between you two is heavy with the tension, suffocating, and she can almost feel the weight of every single moment she’s ever disappointed you. “Now,” you press, your voice sharp, “squat. And hold your arms up like I said.”

Sayo gulps, her breath shaky as she lowers herself into a squat, her muscles trembling with the effort. She raises her arms above her head, trembling beneath the strain. Her body protests with every second, but she doesn’t dare stop. The last thing she wants is to show any more weakness. You watch her with an icy expression, your gaze unwavering. The seconds stretch into an eternity as she holds the position, your eyes never leaving her. The sound of her breathing, soft but desperate, fills the silence.

“Pathetic,” you mutter, your tone dripping with disdain. “Is this really the best you can do? I thought you were supposed to be better than this.”

Sayo bites her lip to hold back the tears, the weight of your words pressing down on her like a boulder. She tries to push through the pain in her legs, but it’s getting harder, the burn intensifying with every passing moment.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you warn, your voice now sharp with annoyance. “Hold it. You wanted to challenge me, so deal with the consequences. And maybe next time, think before you speak.”

The room feels insanely colder now, the lights above casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on the scene. Sayo wonders if she’ll ever recover from this—if she’ll ever be able to stand in front of you again without feeling like she’s on the edge of a breakdown.

You lean closer to her. “You want to talk about breaking families?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet. “Let me remind you of something. That scandal you’re so eager to bring up? It’s not a mistake. It’s not a slip-up. It’s the reason you’re standing here, in this locker room, with a team that barely tolerates you. If I were here, I would’ve never accepted someone of your caliber. And yet, you think it’s something you can just toss into conversation? Like it’s some kind of joke?”

She doesn’t respond, barely holding eye contact with you before focusing down at her feet.

And then, after what feels like way too long, you step back, nodding with a cold satisfaction. “Good enough. For now. But don’t expect me to be so lenient next time.”

Sayo collapses to the floor as soon as you turn away, her body shaking from the effort, the adrenaline, the sheer humiliation of it all. She can still feel the sting of your words like they’re etched into her skin, a constant reminder that one mistake could unravel everything, unravel you.

You don’t look back as you leave the room, your footsteps echoing in the silence left behind. And as Sayo breathes heavily on the floor, she wonders just how much more she can take before she completely breaks.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you realize just how heavily you’re breathing; just how hard your nails are digging into your palms. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear your jaw creaking. Your feet carry you to a certain room, opening it and stepping in—despite the surprised shriek.

“That bitch.” You snarl, plopping down onto the small sofa.

“Hey! Lock the door!” Yui exclaims, climbing off the man’s lap and doing it herself. She’s topless, the man who she was just on top of has his belt unbuckled. With a look at you, she can tell something just happened while she was in here messing around with the baseball team’s manager. “What happened?” She asks, finding her cropped jersey and putting it back on.

You lean back on the couch, closing your eyes for a moment to steady yourself, trying to shake off the wave of anger that still lingers in your chest. Exhaling sharply, the frustration bubbling over as you run a hand through your hair.

A frustrated breath falls from your lips, the anger still simmering beneath your skin. "Sayo happened. That little brat thinks she can talk back to me," you mutter, running a hand through your hair. The thought of her words still gnawing at you, twisting in your gut like a thorn.

Yui raises an eyebrow, her gaze flickering to the man in the room who seems to be trying to salvage his dignity, pulling his belt back into place. "You went off on her, huh?" She sits back down on the sofa next to you, her tone light but with an undertone of amusement. "What’d she say?"

You can feel the tightness in your chest, the anger still pulsing through your veins. "She said something stupid about...about me breaking apart families." You glance at her, your eyes narrowing, as if the words themselves are still fresh in your mind. "It was a low blow."

Yui's face changes, a flicker of something like sympathy crossing her features. "Well, that's a dumb thing to say. I guess she doesn’t know the rules." She takes a moment, her eyes flicking to the man for a second. "If she doesn't know when to shut her mouth, she deserves what she gets."

You shake your head, leaning back into the couch. "I’ve put everything into this team, and she—" You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "It’s not even just about her anymore. It’s about respect. She doesn't get it."

Yui leans back, her arm stretching over your shoulders to bring you in. "You’re letting her get to you. That’s your problem. You’re too damn invested in making everyone respect you. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about what you actually want, for yourself. Or you’ll burn out, and it’ll be for nothing."

You meet her gaze, a flicker of doubt creeping into your mind. But you push it away, clenching your fists. "I don’t have the luxury of burning out. Not yet."

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with the weight of everything you’ve said. Yui’s lips curl into a smile, the kind that says she’s not quite convinced by your words but is willing to let you believe them for now.

"Do you need me to handle it?” Tatsuo asks, his gruff voice making your peer at him.

With a small scowl, you scoff out. “You’ve handled enough, thanks.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. I introduced you to Ren, sure. But I’m the only one who spent thousands cleaning up after the mess, wasn’t I?”

You stand, arms crossing at the older man. “I don’t care for how much money you spent.”

Tatsuo raises an eyebrow at your sharp tone, clearly unfazed. “Yeah, I can tell,” he mutters, leaning back against the doorframe. “But you care when the mess threatens everything you’ve worked for. Believe me, Y/N, I’m the one who saw this shit from the start. You think Ren’s got your back? He’s too busy screwing around with his own agenda to even notice what’s going on most of the time.”

Your eyes narrow at his insinuation. Tatsuo may not be wrong, but hearing it from him only makes your skin crawl. “Don’t start. I can handle that son of a bitch. I’ve got this under control.” You step toward him, your voice low but firm. “You don’t need to clean up my mess anymore.”

Tatsuo chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that. I’m just saying, you’ve got a lot more to lose than you think. And when it all falls apart, don’t come running to me.”

You freeze for a moment, the burden of his words settling on you like a dark cloud. But you won’t show any weakness. Not here, not now. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ll clean it up myself.”

Tatsuo shrugs, turning to leave. “Fine. Just remember, I’m the one who warned you. Don’t say I didn’t have a hand in this.” The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left in the silence of your own thoughts.

Your lips thin into a fine line, looking at your best friend. “Remind me why you’re screwing around with that pig? He’s like almost twice your age.”

Yui scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pulls her shirt back down. “Don’t act like you’re the moral authority, Y/N. Besides, you were the one who told me to get close to the manager.” She gestures vaguely, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “What’s the difference between Ren and Tatsuo, huh? At least Tatsuo knows how to get things done. He’s useful.”

“First of all, I didn’t tell you to get close with him. I said why not since he’s not married and you need some fun in your life. And second of all, stop mentioning that dick.”

Yui sighs, coming close to put her hands on your shoulders. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t bring him up anymore. Did what Sayo say really mess with your head like that?”

You bite your lip, fixating on her eyes. “…of course it did, Yui. I’ve only just come back and now she—she thinks she can say that to me without any consequences. I already faced enough hate from everyone else. And people still think it’s my fault, it’s not. He told me they were divorced, he didn’t have a ring on, he showed me the papers and I—”

Yui interrupts, her hands gripping your shoulders a bit tighter. “Y/N, stop. I know what happened. You’ve told me a hundred times, and I’m not going to sit here and let anyone drag you down over something that wasn’t your fault. You’re not the one who caused the mess, and you certainly don’t owe anyone any explanations. Sayo’s just trying to get under your skin, don’t let her.”

You exhale sharply, trying to steady your breath. The anger still simmers just beneath the surface, but you’re starting to feel the weight of the exhaustion too. The constant pressure of maintaining control, keeping your reputation intact, and now dealing with Sayo’s words... it’s all too much. “Then why does it feel like everyone’s still blaming me?” you mutter, rubbing a hand across your face. “I can’t escape it. Every time I think I’m past it, someone brings it back up. And it’s always the same thing. ‘Y/N ruined everything.’ I’ve been in more shit than anyone else on the team. It brings me back to when…when I first joined.”

Your voice lowers as you bring up the incident that happened just a year within you being recruited. Yui softens, her expression gentle but firm. “Because people are stupid, and they want someone to blame. That’s how it works. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let their ignorance drag you down. You know the truth, and so do I.”

You nod, but the knot in your stomach remains. Yui’s words help, but they don’t erase the sting of Sayo’s and everyone else’s accusations. It’s hard not to feel like everything’s been building up to this moment where everything you’ve worked for could come crashing down. Still, you’re not one to back down. Not now.

“I know,” you finally say, your voice steady, even if it’s shaky underneath. “I won’t let it break me. But Sayo needs to understand that there are consequences when you cross me.” Your eyes narrow, a flicker of something dark passing through you. “She’s going to regret it.”

Yui raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling up in a small, knowing smile. “I’d say be careful, but you’ve got this. Just don’t get too carried away, alright?”

You chuckle dryly, the tension momentarily lifting from your shoulders. “Don’t worry, I know how to handle myself.”

With that, the conversation shifts, but the weight of what Sayo had said still lingers in the back of your mind. You’re determined to prove that no one can mess with you and get away with it. The world may want to blame you, but you know the truth, and that’s enough to keep you standing tall.

“See?! See! Right there! That one!”

A sigh in response. “Takuma…”

“She’s so pretty! Do you think I have a shot, Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

Takuma frowns, removing his pointer finger from your figure on the small TV in the break room. The camera had given you specifically a close up. Nanami’s used to the younger man raving about sports and whatnot. And while Nanami sometimes partakes in watching them himself, he’s not a mega fan like the other one. And he especially doesn’t have a favorite cheerleader.

“You’re so mean, Nanami…” Takuma grumbles, slumping back in his seat with a dramatic huff.

Nanami rolls his eyes, his annoyance spiking up even more when an intruding voice enters the room. “Nanami? Being rude? Who would’ve thunk.”

“Don’t start, Satoru.”

Gojo chuckles, patting his co-worker on the shoulder as he passes by him to slouch onto the sofa provided. Laying down on it like it is his own, sighing wistfully with a content smile. Takuma jolts back up. “Gojo! Please, tell Nanami I actually have a shot with Y/N L/N!”

“Who?” Satoru casually asks.

Takuma gasps, gesturing wildly at the TV where the replay of the game is still playing. The camera pans to the cheerleading squad again, and there you are, beaming brightly and waving your pom-poms. “Her! Y/N L/N! The most beautiful woman ever!”

Satoru peeks an eye open, looking over at the screen. For a few seconds, he watches quietly. Finally humming softly and nodding his head briefly. “She’s cute, sure. You got a crush, Ino?” His lip curls up in a teasing grin. Arms rested behind his head.

Ino blushes furiously, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish manner. “I-I mean, yeah. Who doesn’t?”

“Didn’t she homewreck a fam—”

“No.” Ino cuts Nanami off with a sudden firmness, lips down turning into a frown. “She said they were divorced. I believe her.”

Nanami sighs and rubs his forehead, disengaging from the stupid conversation and drinking his tea. Satoru, from his position on the couch huffs, “She’s probably lying to save face, man.”

Ino shakes his head. Sighing heavily and switching the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Look, I think she’s innocent and many other people do. But anyway, that’s not what I asked. Do you think I have a shot with her?”

Satoru squints back at the TV, conceding with a small shrug. “Sure, why not?”

“See?! Even Gojo thinks so!” Takuma declares triumphantly, pointing a finger at Nanami.

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Gojo smirks, tilting his head back to look at Takuma. “But here’s the thing, kid. Y/N probably gets hit on by a hundred guys a day, especially with that smile of hers. You’re gonna need more than ‘cute resident’ vibes to catch her attention.”

Takuma frowns, his enthusiasm deflating slightly. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Well, for starters,” Satoru says, sitting up and giving Takuma a knowing eyebrow raise, “you could try, I don’t know, actually meeting her instead of gawking at her on TV like a lovesick puppy?”

“Easier said than done,” Takuma grumbles.

“Or,” Nanami cuts in, despite not wanting to, with his usual no-nonsense tone, “you could focus on your residency and stop wasting time on unattainable crushes.”

Gojo snickers, reaching over to clap Nanami on the knee. “Ah, Kento, always the voice of doom and gloom. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Anywho,” Satoru starts, looking over at Nanami. “Heard the surgery went well. Some older woman, right?”

Nanami adjusts his glasses and nods, his tone matter-of-fact. “Yes. A cerebral aneurysm. It was delicate, but everything went according to plan.”

“Of course it did,” Gojo says, stretching lazily on the couch. “If anyone can handle brain stuff, it’s you, Mr. Neurosurgeon Extraordinaire.”

Nanami rolls his eyes, clearly unamused by the flattery. “It’s called doing my job, Satoru. You should try it sometime.”

Satoru feigns offense, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “I do do my job! Saving lives, bringing people back from the brink—it’s what I do best.”

“Yeah,” Takuma pipes up, eager to chime in. “Dr. Gojo is one of the best trauma surgeons around. Even if he doesn’t act like it half the time.”

Satoru grins smugly, pointing at Takuma. “See? The kid gets it.”

“I’m only twenty-eight…”

“Semantics, semantics.”

Nanami shakes his head. “Well, being ‘the best’ doesn’t excuse your constant lack of decorum.”

“Decorum is boring,” Satoru replies with a shrug. Then, his gaze shifts back to Takuma, his grin turning mischievous. “Speaking of boring, you gonna do anything about that cheerleader crush of yours, or are you just gonna keep mooning over her from afar?”

Takuma flushes, throwing his hands up defensively. “I’m working up to it, okay? It’s not like I can just walk up to her and say, ‘Hi, I’m a doctor, wanna date me?’”

“Why not?” Satoru quips. “Worked for me a couple of times.”

Nanami murmurs under his breath, “God help us all.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, checking the time of his wristwatch. “I’m hungry, Nanami, are you buying my lunch again?”

Nanami raises an eyebrow, his voice flat. “Why on earth would I buy your lunch again? You already owe me for the last three meals.”

Satoru sits up, feigning surprise. “Three? That doesn’t sound right. Two, tops.”

“Three,” Nanami deadpans. “The ramen, the sushi, and that overpriced café you insisted on last week because you had to have their truffle fries.”

Satoru leans back, giving him an exaggerated pout. “Come on, Nanamin, you know I don’t carry cash. And who can resist truffle fries? You were technically doing me a favor.”

“It’s always a favor with you,” Nanami grits, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Takuma chuckles nervously, trying to diffuse the tension. “Uh, maybe I can chip in this time—”

“No, no,” Satoru cuts him off, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re a resident. Save your pennies, kid.” He turns his attention back to Nanami, his grin widening. “So, what do you say, pal? Treat your favorite coworker to some lunch?”

Nanami stares at him for a long moment, then sighs heavily. “Fine. But it’s the last time.”

Satoru claps his hands together triumphantly. “Knew I could count on you, Nanamin! Let’s go. I’m thinking something Italian today. Pizza, pasta, maybe both…”

Nanami mumbles under his breath as he stands, “I should’ve gone into private practice.”

In a familiar routine, the three begin making their way down to the first floor where the cafeteria is. The entire time, Ino and Satoru chatter away. All the while Nanami is silently strangling them in his head. As they reach the elevator, Satoru’s voice rings out, a little too loud for Nanami’s taste. “So, you guys see the latest game? That last play was wild. I’m telling you, Ino, the guy has potential for the pros.”

Ino nods enthusiastically, practically bouncing on his heels. “I know, right? It was insane. You think I could pull off those moves? Maybe not on the field, but definitely in the ER.” He chuckles, clearly imagining himself doing something ridiculous on the job.

Nanami’s eyes narrow, his hands slipping into his pockets as he grits his teeth. Every day... I’m stuck with these two.

When the elevator dings, they file in, and Satoru continues to chatter away. “Honestly, Nanami, you need to loosen up. It’s just sports talk. No need to look like you're about to cut someone open with your eyes.” He flashes his signature grin, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’s causing.

Ino perks up. “Yeah, seriously, you look like you're ready to—” He quiets down with a single look from his senior, awkwardly clearing his throat and looking away; whistling a little tune.

Nanami clenches his jaw but remains silent. His usual frustration is there, but he’s too tired to engage. He just wants his lunch without these two constantly yammering in his ear. His only hope is to get through the day without strangling anyone in his head.

Satoru, however, seems unfazed by the cold silence that falls between them as the elevator descends. "But seriously, Nanami, you gotta get out more. You never know, you might find someone who actually enjoys sitting through a three-hour sports game with you."

Nanami replies, "I don't have time for games."

Satoru looks at him with mock concern. "You're missing out, old man. At this rate, you’ll be sitting on a rocking chair before you know it."

Ino snickers, clearly amused at the banter. But he soon stifles it with his arm. Nanami only sighs deeply, already regretting his decision to go to lunch with them.

When the doors finally open, Nanami practically darts toward the cafeteria, hoping for some peace and quiet—or at least some decent food. Satoru and Ino continue their back-and-forth, oblivious to the trail of frustration left in their wake.

Grabbing their own trays of lunch and finding a little table in the back. With Ino ahead, Nanami takes the time to peer at Satoru from the corner of his eye. “So, have you talked to Suguru? Shoko says he’s been talking to her about you too now. Maybe you shou—”

“Who?” Satoru cuts him off, a small—but noticeable tick to his jaw.

Nanami, ever the perceptive man, looks forward again. Stopping in his tracks. Satoru does the same, glancing over at the other man. Nanami stands there for a moment, considering the situation. He knows he shouldn’t push, but he can’t help himself. He’s seen the way Satoru reacts when certain names come up. Suguru is one of those names. “It’s just…” Nanami slowly trails off, his tone casual but laced with a hint of something unspoken. He watches Satoru closely, noting the tightness around his eyes, the subtle twitch of his fingers gripping the tray.

Satoru’s smile falters, just for a split second, before he masks it with a shrug. “I don’t know any Suguru, Nanami. Not anyone worth mentioning, anyway.” His words are smooth, but the undercurrent of discomfort is there, almost imperceptible.

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately, but his gaze sharpens. He’s seen Satoru like this before—this mask he wears whenever someone mentions his ex best friend. It’s a name that stings for more reasons than one to Satoru. And he doesn’t want to talk about it, but Nanami knows better than to push further in public, especially with Ino prattling on ahead of them. Still, there’s a gnawing feeling in his gut, and for once, he chooses to let the silence hang between them.

Eventually, he chooses his usual silence, nodding in understanding and resuming his walk. Once they sit, it seems as if any prior emotions have been tossed out the window as Satoru continues his ramble with the resident.

His mind tells an entire different story. Satoru is great at multitasking, he has to be. He can physically be in one place, but his mind is across the world—in another dimension.

Stabbing his fork a little too hard, munching just a bit too furiously. It’s been about three years now since he last spoke or saw Suguru.

Sure, time has passed, but it’s felt dreadfully slow all the while.

He can remember their last conversation all too well, it invades his mind at times when he feels particularly lonely. The last time they spoke, Suguru had been different, but so had he. They were changed in ways Satoru wasn’t ready to face. The familiar bond they once shared had fractured, leaving Satoru with no answers, an aching void, and a dead sister.

And he can’t deny the fact that there’s still that miniscule, hidden part of him that blames Suguru for it all. Stop thinking about it, he tells himself.

Suguru’s final words ring in his head even as he cleans up and heads back to the elevator for his surgery at two.

“I’ll fix this all, I promise.”

He still scoffs at the reminder. What a pile of shit. It’s quite obvious that the cracks are still there, hidden just beneath the surface, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before they break open.

The sterile white walls of the VitaCore lab hum quietly, the low buzz of machines and the soft clicking of keyboards filling the otherwise empty space. Scientists in crisp white coats move methodically, their eyes focused on their work, unaware of the dangerous precipice they are teetering on.

At the center of the room, Dr. Akira Saito. Beside him, Suguru Geto.

The glow of the fluorescent lights above casts a sharp reflection off the polished surfaces, their harshness juxtaposed by the serene, almost clinical atmosphere. On the countertop beside them sits a collection of vials, each containing a liquid that glows faintly—a shimmering promise. CerebraX-12. The very thing that had kept Suguru up through countless sleepless nights, the catalyst of his obsession.

Suguru taps the vial with a gloved finger, his expression a mask of quiet confidence. “It’s working,” he says, as though speaking to himself, but loud enough for the doctor to hear. “Increased neural activity. Clearer cognitive function. This will change everything.”

Suguru’s fingers hover over the vial, his gaze fixed on it with a mix of reverence and guilt. He had been here from the beginning, and now, he never felt more inextricably linked to the project. The drug had started as a way to help those lost, broken, unable to heal—what it had the potential to become… He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look away.

“If it works…” Dr. Akira starts, but his voice falters. He doesn’t even know what it is anymore.

Suguru glances up at him, his eyes sharp, too focused. “What do you mean?” His tone is clipped, dismissive of any hesitations. “This is progress, Dr. Real progress. You’re seeing it, aren’t you? What’s happening in their brains? They’re improving.”

Dr. Akira Saito shifts uncomfortably, his hands twitching at his sides. The bright fluorescence seems to hum louder now, almost drowning out his thoughts. He looks at the vials again, but his expression is uncertain, as if the sheen of success had somehow dulled in the wake of what he’s witnessed. His voice drops, cautious. “Yes, but there are… side effects. We’ve observed them in the last batch. It’s escalating faster than we anticipated.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens at the words, his fingers tightening around the vial as though it might shatter under the pressure. “Side effects are a natural part of early trials,” he counters, his voice low, almost irritated. “This is revolutionary. Of course, there will be some issues to iron out. But we’re getting closer. You can see that. You know how many lives we can save with this.”

Dr. Saito looks away, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone else to step in, someone to reaffirm his doubts. But no one does. He’s alone with Suguru, alone with the weight of the decision.

“You’re not seeing what I’m seeing,” Dr. Akira murmurs. “The rage. The strength. The changes… They’re not just physical. It’s like they’re losing themselves. Their minds are crumbling under the pressure of the drug. We don’t understand it yet.”

Suguru shakes his head sharply. “You’re too focused on the immediate. We’re talking about long-term potential. Neural regeneration. Reversing damage. Erasing depression. You think this is an issue? This is a breakthrough.” His voice rises, as if to drown out the undercurrent of fear creeping into the room. “Every great discovery has its hiccups. Edison didn’t stop after a few failed bulbs.”

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy. But Dr. Akira doesn’t seem convinced. Instead, his gaze drifts to the monitors in front of them, displaying data he can no longer ignore. The neural scans are clear, but the patterns… they shift unnervingly. Suguru leans over the screen, his eyes narrowing. “It’s working. You’re just too caught up in the symptoms. We can handle that. We will handle that.” His hand moves swiftly, tapping a few commands on the keyboard. He pulls up a graph showing the improvements in cognitive function. The green bars are steadily rising. It’s perfect. Almost too perfect.

But Akira can’t look at it the same way anymore. The numbers might be right, but the faces of the test subjects in the other room—pupils dilated, shaking violently, uncontrollable aggression—linger in his mind like ghosts. He swallows hard. “I don’t know, Suguru. I can’t ignore the risks anymore.”

Suguru stands taller against the older man, his eyes burning with determination. “Then we move forward. We test on more subjects. We refine it, together. The world needs this.”

The tension in the room deepens, thick like a storm on the horizon. Suguru’s voice fills with a quiet intensity as he lowers his gaze to the vials again, almost hypnotized by their glow.

“Think of it, Akira. A world where depression is eradicated. Where no one has to suffer like she did. We can fix this.”

Akira hesitates, his mind torn between the growing sense of doubt and the promise of Suguru’s unwavering conviction. His eyes flicker back to the glowing vials, the temptation pulling at him, but something deep within him whispers that this isn’t the cure he thought it was.

But Suguru is already moving, already deciding. “Prepare the next round of trials,” Suguru commands, the finality in his voice settling like concrete. “We can’t afford to back down now.”

The words are no longer just a command, but a warning. He’s learned from his last mistake not to go against Suguru. Still, the memory from the last time causes his mind to plague with doubt and worry for what could sprout from this. The way the sedatives just barely flamed Subject 14, the utter strength that man had, and a junior scientist almost losing her life.

He never signed up for this when he decided to help Suguru that one day three years ago. But now, he’s stuck. Completely stuck.

The night patrol is easy, as some would say. The lab floor is quiet, save for the soft whirring of machinery and the distant flicker of security monitors. Two guards sit at the main security desk, their uniforms slightly wrinkled, their posture relaxed. They’re not scientists, and the weight of the research happening beyond the reinforced doors means little to them.

And in one of the dimly lit holding areas, Subject 37 sits in his reinforced cell, his body slack against the wall. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his pale skin, his breathing uneven, almost labored. The once-promising patient now looks more like a feral animal: his eyes bloodshot, his muscles twitching involuntarily, and his nails clawing at the concrete floor. The cameras in the corner of the room track his every movement, though tonight, the guards monitoring them are far from vigilant.

Where they sit is also adjacent to the holding cells, their post illuminated by the strong glow of multiple screens. The sound of static fills the air as one guard—Tanaka, a lanky man in his late thirties—scrolls through his phone, his feet propped on the desk. Beside him, the younger guard, Matsuda, barely pays attention, lazily flipping through a magazine.

The repetitiveness of it all is another tier of boring. It makes the guards themselves wish they could trade places with the subjects just for a little more spark in their everyday shifts.

“This is the easiest gig I’ve ever had,” Tanaka mutters, glancing up briefly at the monitors before returning to his phone. “Just sit here, make sure nobody freaks out too much, and we’re golden.”

Matsuda snickers. “Yeah, because these lab rats are so terrifying.” He leans back in his chair, flipping a page. “You ever wonder what they’re actually testing on them?”

“Don’t care,” Tanaka replies, kicking his feet higher. “As long as the paycheck clears. Besides, it’s some top secret bullshit only they know about.”

“Maybe it’s a secret weapon for an upcoming war.”

The two chuckle to themselves. On the monitor, Subject 37 suddenly jerks upright, his movements sharp and unnatural. He tilts his head, as though listening to something only he can hear. His breathing grows rapid, erratic. His hands clench into fists, and he begins to bang them against the walls of his cell, the dull thuds growing louder with each strike.

The guards glance up at the sound, faintly audible through the thick walls.

“Looks like 37’s having one of his tantrums again,” Matsuda says with a smirk. “Probably needs another sedative.”

Tanaka yawns, waving a dismissive hand. “Let him tire himself out. The reinforced glass can handle it.”

Subject 37 continues his assault on the cell walls, his fists leaving faint cracks in the reinforced concrete. The sound grows louder, reverberating through the otherwise silent lab floor. On the monitors, his movements become more erratic, his body contorting unnaturally as though something inside him is trying to claw its way out.

Matsuda frowns, lowering his magazine. “He’s really going at it tonight. You sure that glass can hold?”

Tanaka waves him off again, his gaze glued to his phone. “Relax. We’ve seen worse. The glass is four inches, these cells are built for freaks like him.”

But Matsuda’s unease doesn’t fade. His eyes remain fixed on the screen as Subject 37 suddenly stops, his body freezing mid-motion. His head tilts toward the camera, and for the first time, Matsuda feels like the subject is staring directly at him. It’s an unnerving sight—those bloodshot eyes filled with something primal, something unnatural.

“Uh, Tanaka?” Matsuda’s voice trembles slightly. “He’s looking right at us.”

Tanaka glances up, sighing. “So? Creepy stares don’t mean shit. The guy’s fried—probably doesn’t even know where he is.”

Before Matsuda can respond, the lights in the lab flicker for a second, before the entire block plunges into darkness. The sudden shift jolts Matsuda upright. Tanaka sighs and locks his phone, standing up, adjusting his gearbelt around his waist. .

“What the hell was that?” Matsuda asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Probably just a power surge,” Tanaka mutters, though the annoyed edge in his tone betrays his attempt at calmness. He grabs the radio on his belt and presses the button. “Control, this is Lab Security. We just had an outage down here—everything okay on your end? Are the backups now working?”

Static greets him on the other end. He frowns, pressing the button again. “Control, do you copy?”

Still nothing.

“Great,” Tanaka grumbles, setting the radio down. “Looks like the comms are fried too.”

On the monitor, Subject 37 begins moving again. This time, his motions are slow and deliberate, his head tilting side to side as if testing the limits of his body. His breathing grows heavier, audible now even through the thick walls. The cracks in the concrete behind him spread wider with each exhale.

Matsuda swallows hard. “We should call someone. A supervisor or—”

“We’re not calling anyone,” Tanaka snaps, though his eyes remain locked on the screen. “This is probably just another glitch. They’ll chew us out if we overreact.”

But Matsuda doesn’t share his confidence. His gaze darts between the screen and the reinforced door leading to the holding cells. A deep, guttural growl echoes through the lab, sending a chill down his spine.

Tanaka, gritting his teeth and grabbing his flashing along with a taser, heads over to the cell that houses the subject. “Fuckin’ freak.” He huffs, hand reaching out to unlock the cell.

However, Matsuda stops him before he can do so. “W-what the hell are you doing?”

“Shuttin’ him up for now.”

“Tana—”

“Move,” the younger man is shoved out the way as Tanaka enters the cell with a wave of authority. Clicking the flashlight on, surveying the room. “Alright, freak. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

The cell feels colder than it should. The fluorescent light flickers weakly, casting long shadows across the stark walls. Subject 37 is nowhere to be seen at first glance, the reinforced glass door sliding shut behind Tanaka with an ominous hiss.

“Real brave, aren’t you?” Tanaka mutters, his voice bouncing off the walls. He adjusts his grip on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the dimness. “C’mon, don’t make this harder than it has to be. We both know how this ends.”

Matsuda stands frozen just outside the cell, heart pounding in his chest, biting his lip anxiously. The sound of his breathing feels too loud, competing with the quiet hum of machinery and the faint, unsettling growl that seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Tanaka,” Matsuda calls out, his muffled voice cracking slightly. “Don’t be stupid. Just get out of there.”

But Tanaka doesn’t answer. His attention is drawn to the far corner of the cell, where faint scratches mar the pristine walls. He steps closer, his flashlight illuminating deep gouges carved into the concrete. They form no discernible pattern, just chaotic, violent marks that make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Cheap walls,” he mutters, though the tremor in his voice betrays his unease.

Suddenly, the growl grows louder, almost vibrating through the air. Tanaka spins around, flashlight beam whipping across the room. His taser hums to life in his other hand, the crackle of electricity a sharp contrast to the oppressive silence that follows.

“Alright, freak!” Tanaka yells, trying to mask his growing panic. “I’m done playing games.”

A shadow shifts in the corner, just outside the flashlight’s reach. Tanaka squints and whirls around to see better. Leaning forward slightly, and the growl morphs into a low, guttural chuckle. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the realm of the living, a sound that makes Matsuda take a step back even behind the door. “Tanaka, get out of there!” Matsuda shouts now, his voice trembling.

But it’s too late. Subject 37 lunges from the shadows with unnatural speed, his twisted form illuminated for a split second as he crashes into Tanaka. The flashlight clatters to the ground, its beam spinning wildly across the walls, casting brief glimpses of the chaos.

Tanaka screams, a raw, visceral sound as Subject 37’s claw-like hands dig into him. The reinforced glass shakes as Matsuda’s eyes grow wide like saucers. “Tanaka! TANAKA!”

Inside the cell, the flashlight finally comes to a stop, its beam resting on Subject 37’s face. His bloodshot eyes gleam with a horrifying mix of rage and something almost... gleeful. His mouth, stretched into a feral snarl, drips with blood as he turns his gaze toward Matsuda.

Matsuda gulps harshly, his hands trembling as he fumbles with his walkie-talkie. His breath comes in short, uneven gasps, the faint static of the device the only sound in the suffocating darkness. “Control,” he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is Matsuda. Emergency in the holding area—Subject 37 has breached containment! Repeat, Subject 37 is loose!”

Nothing but static answers him. His hands tremble more violently as he presses the button again, his voice cracking. “Control, do you copy?!”

The distant sound of something heavy dragging across the floor makes his blood run cold. Matsuda freezes, his eyes darting around the pitch-black lab. The reinforced glass of the cell door is now a dark void, hiding whatever is happening within. A wet, deep crunch echoes from the cell, followed by a sound that Matsuda can only describe as chewing. His stomach churns as bile rises in his throat, his knees threatening to give out. His lip curls, sweat dripping down his cheeks.

“No, no, no,” he mutters under his breath, backing away from the door. His mind races, the primal instinct to run warring with his fear of what might happen if he turns his back.

Then, the chewing stops.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the faint buzz of the broken walkie-talkie. Matsuda’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest he’s sure it will give him away. He takes another step back, his eyes locked on the cell door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment.

A single tap comes from the glass.

Matsuda’s breath hitches. Another tap follows, louder this time, deliberate. His flashlight shakes in his hand as he grabs it— raising it toward the glass, the beam cutting through the darkness to reveal… nothing.

The cell is empty.

“Shit,” he whispers, his voice cracking. He takes another shaky step back, his body screaming at him to run, but his legs feel like lead. He attempts to reach for his pistol.

But before anything else, the reinforced glass splinters in an explosion of force, shards flying in all directions. Matsuda raises his arms to shield his face, the flashlight clattering to the ground and spinning wildly. “Gah!”

When he lowers his arms, Subject 37 stands before him, blood dripping from his teeth, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim emergency lighting.

“…pots…t’nac…t’nac I .em pleh.…esaelP,” the creature growls, its voice distorted, guttural, and impossibly human. However, it sounds like there’s the smallest hint of remorse in the subject’s voice.

There’s a suffocating second of stillness, Matsuda staring at what once Subject 37 in utter horror. Limbs shaking, stumbling back until he falls on his ass. Matsuda doesn’t think. He stands up in a rush—turns and bolts, his scream echoing through the lab as Subject 37 lunges after him.

Gunshots are followed by a resounding squishy noise.

a/n: very introductory ik. next chap is when it gets goooood

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