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duck-a-doodle · 6 months ago

Text

The Rumoured Casper’s Honeybee (1/2) [EDITED]

A/N: Hello there! This is a little unedited drabble that has been stuck in my head, so I hope you enjoy it!

P.S.: I have edited and changed some grammar and the plot point to fit the second half better.

WARNING: Potentially OOC Simon 'Ghost' Riley. The reader is 'married to work' and is slower on tphe uptake. Let there be ANGST then fluff.

SUMMARY: Simon "Ghost" Riley, who has shockingly grown accustomed to you, seeks your medical attention. Masterlist

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The role of a medical professional under military services is nothing to choke at. Sounds of barked orders and the bright glint of hospital lights have become a familiar environment, and your eyes have grown accustomed to the olive drab greens and the standard heavy gears that came and went in a clinical setting, and that scene held true, even after your transfer to the 141.

Of the men in this base, the most outstanding ones you knew were Captain John Price, Sergeant Garrick, Sergeant McTavish and — Ghost. Tales of their stunts would float down the hallways thus naturally, you knew of them before you were properly acquainted. Loosely acquainted. Before you found your place in the 141, you were reserved, fastidious and competent, earning yourself the call sign 'Honeybee'. That had been your impression to many others of your field before you joined, and that was not to change now at your newly designated location.

It would not be uncommon for the clients to remember their practitioners and vice versa, but your case just seemed a little more special than the rest.

Ghost, who you prefered to refer to as ‘lieutenant’, seemed to have made himself familiar in your routine for the last two months. Prior to your arrival as the new medic of this organisation, you were told that he avoided the clinic like it was the plague, only showing up for the bare minimum of checkups. The turning point, some of your colleagues pointed out, appeared to be around the time you showed up, right as the team had returned from the Las Almas fiasco. No one person dared to deal with the lieutenant after witnessing his demeanour, and where he stepped, a repelling effect took place; anyone and everyone who had ever vaguely heard of him parted around him like the red sea, all except for you who refused to waver at any of the ‘Ghost rumours’.

The commanding officer was yours to manage ever since. For any wounds, illnesses, obligatory checkups or medical documents that he bore, it would be you who handled them. Not that you had any choice in that regard, given that whenever he set foot into the office, a clear path that led to you would reveal itself before him.

Never did you consider it a hassle when you understood it as part of your duty during government time, and soon a routine was formed after every operation he takes on.

He would come back more battered than a steak, and you would be at the ready with your gear, aid kit and all. On the rare, exacting moments of your career, you were even assigned to go out in the field where he had to be, for in the words of Captain Price, “our lieutenant recommended you for the role.”

Even with that, you thought nothing of it. Until you slipped.

The medical room was empty save for yourself and the medical equipment that needed sorting after an intensive few hours of patients filing in and out for appointments and health check-ups. After the last of the bunch left you wired and riddled with a terrible tension headache, you turned around to retrieve some aspirin, only to stop short at the sight of a tall, mass of black standing by the examination stable, waiting.

“Oh for god’s- hello, lieutenant,” You let out a breath after closing your eyes to gain your ground.

“Doc.”

“One moment, lieutenant.” Striding towards the cabinet which held your relief, you quickly popped yourself a pill before returning to address your surprise patient of the day.

Ghost simply lifted his mask slightly, to your surprise, and you looked away instinctively. Moments pass before you realised that the problem laid under the mask; a lip lasceration, there on the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, you sprung into action despite your exhaustion and the throbbing sensation that weighed on the back of your mind. Carefully, you applied the L.E.T. Gel before going in with absorbable sutures, making sure to puncture the skin surfaces appropriately. Your eyes trained on the gash on his lips, away from the faint scars that litter his lower face, away from the details of his sharp nose and light five o’clock shadow that formed around his jaw.

Through, over, then through again went the needle, pulling the thread together in a quiet, steady rhythm. He never moved an inch; the only signs of life you felt from his were the warmth of his skin and the slow deep breaths that flowed through his chest. And when you were done, you cannot help but find that he is, of all the patients you have had, one of the most disciplined.

Perhaps it was the headache, perhaps it was your sleep-addled mind at play, or perhaps it was your lack of water that made you do it — but in a brief motion, you behaved contrary to your character. Before Ghost could fix his mask properly, you hand reached up to pull it down, lining it smoothly to his jaw before giving his head a soft, gentle pat.

A fleeting eye contact was all it took for your actions to dawn upon you. His eyes froze your hand in place and rendered you near speechless.

“I- My apologies, Capta- I mean, lieutenant. I forgot myself,” embarrassed, you removed your hand from his head immediately. He did not move. He did not blink. You watch cautiously, waiting with bated breath for him to reveal his displeasure. Instead, he chose to drop his head ever so slightly, closing his eyes.

Unsure of what to make of the situation, you followed his implications. Slowly, you rest your full palm against his skull, feeling the top of his head through the coarse fabric of his mask. You move your fingers lightly over his balaclava and feel something soft underneath — it was a bouncy, curling texture under the cloth. He has hair. A huff left your nose before you could stop it and his eyes snapped open to look at you.

Awkwardly, you offered him a small, tight-lipped smile, patting his head twice more before letting your hand drop to your side.

“For being a good patient,” you jested in an attempt to compose yourself.

Not long after he left, you shut your eyes and berated yourself for behaving like an utter fool, for losing your own decorum like a green-faced soldier despite your years of experience. You could not stop thinking about the glint in his eyes before he left that day. It felt almost playful, akin to that of a mischief about to stir awake, and by the devil did that memory return far too often for your liking.

Something certainly has shifted.

Soon, he began to visit you more often. You had suspicions that he may have memorised your timetable, and you had even deeper suspicions that it was one of your colleagues who has let him privy to said information. During unforseeable times of the week, a certain lieutenant of the 141 would show up to the clinic, requiring salves for a bruise, requesting ibuprofen for pain relief or even seeking combat gauze for his raw knuckles, of which you were certain that he must already have a few, considering his occupation. Once, he stood waiting behind you silently as you worked on your computer, waiting to ask for a bandaid. Needless to say, you were beyond startled to find that a skull face was poised quietly behind you for goodness knows how long.

You fail to remember exactly when he began to refer to you by your call sign ‘Honeybee’ instead of just ‘Doc’, and all you could think of was the way it rolled off his tongue. Funny, you thought, that the very name should sound just like honey coming from his own scarred lips.

A most prominent change, however, came not in the form of his unprompted visits, but in how they would end. Upon attending to his laughably miniscule thumb injury and amusedly pressing the medical ointment to his palm, he sat stock still on that same medical bed when you thought he would up and go. Mild bewilderment rested upon your knit brows, and you decided to voice your bemusment.

“Is there anything else, lieutenant?”

“Was I not a good patient?” He asked with a solemn expression.

Clearly, he has you dumbfounded. “Well — you are quite well-behaved during treatments, if that’s what you’re asking. So, yes, you are a good patient.”

Watching him closely, your eyes followed his line of sight and it lands, unexpectedly, on your hand. You looked between your raised hand and his unwavering, sharp pupils.

Oh.

Once again, you dared to cross the boundary of his space, (or was it a boundary anymore?) and rest your hand on the side of his head this time, rubbing delicately, hesitantly. Fondness flutters warmly in your heart when his eyes shut serenely, enjoying your caring ministrations.

“Did it not bother you, lieutenant?” You whisper through the quietude.

“No,” came his gravelly reply.

He would clarify a little later, another detail that would occupy you for days on end.

“It’s comfortable. Like medicine to the head.”

All the air had tightened in your lungs at his admittance. There was something picturesque about a towering, muscle-bound killing-machine, bending to chase the sympathy of another’s warm fingers. It was almost endearing, the way this light gesture soothed him.

He had felt so — human.

Each time he came and went, it seemed to go further, like wading into the deep end of the pool in search of something, with only the vague impression of what you were about to find. Ghost would lean further in with every visit, and with every visit you would hold his head softer still, basking in the warmth of his face in one palm, then in two. He would breathe slower, as if savouring the air, the space, and eventually, his head would come to lean on your shoulder without any questions asked, and you would give him the medical attention he needed.

Cute.

It was, as he said, medicine to the head.

The method was unorthodox, yes, but if it can ease his temperament, then no doubt that a working solution should keep on. Through the two months which this had ensued, he was noticably less irritable and his team, who figured you were the source of his better nature, made sure you knew of the change whenever they came by the clinic. Only a few visits in, and sergeant McTavish, (who insisted that you call him ‘Soap’,) already has the nickname ‘Ghostbuster’ made for you, all in your honour. Even the staff now looked forward to Ghost’s visits too, despite still keeping a clear distance from him. They would observe the man covered in black from head to toe make a beeline for your office like clockwork, and the chatter between colleagues would be unending.

The amount of time with you spent treating on his physical wounds have been abbreviated as much as your call sign whenever he uses it, and it always warmed your ears considerably.

“G’d evenin’, Honey.” His guttural voice would greet.

“Lieutenant Riley,” you replied good-naturedly.

In exchange for shortening your name to something more familiar, he offered you his.

Simon Riley.

Something too intimate lay behind the use of his name, and so you both of you had come to a compromise; the lieutenant may go by Ghost to many, LT to some and Simon to rare few, but to you, he was lieutenant Riley.

He must be.

You were his doctor, and he was your patient, receiving an unusual prescription of several pats on the head every other day. It was a routine, just like any other meeting or appointment.

Speculations of a medic by the callsign ‘Honeybee’ began to spread around base alongside Ghost’s exaggerated talk, and when it reached your own ears through a closer colleague, you all but responded with a cocked brow, and went on with your day. People do little else, you had always known so. With the rising frequency of contact between the both of you, you felt that such hearsay was natural. And as long as nothing brewed inbetween, it was of non-consequence. On the occassion that you do hear the whispers firsthand down the hall, an amusing saying stuck with you; "the Honeybee’s caught a ‘emselves Ghost". Nicknames have been floating about, calling you a "Ghostbuster" or a "Ghost Hunter", and the most ridiculous one being "Lazarus", which was based on an old movie you have heard of but have never seen in your life.

You then caught wind of the lieutenant’s new nickname.

Casper. Such a silly name.

And then yet another nickname, "Kat" has surfaced for you, only this one had made zero sense to you at all.

Regardless of the silly teasings and harmless jibes from your colleagues about Ghost’s very frequent doctor appointments, you went on, working around the clock and going by the books.

Nothing has to change, especially if it meant nothing.

And yet, that silly little "nothing" began to occupy you through the quiet hours, and through the night.

An odd weight began to settle in your throat and chest whenever you saw your special patient, and the nicknames had begun to bother you more and more. You were too busy to think, too overwhelmed by people for an appetite, and too tired to make head nor tail of the week.

"... Doc?"

Your spine snaps straight at the sound of your name. How long have you been floating down your reverie?

"Ah, I'm sorry — yes?"

You colleague, who stood poised in blue scrubs whilst holding a clipboard, grins at you. "Casper was just looking for you. He left though, think his captain called for him or something."

"Ah, I see."

He shook his head lightly and turns to leave, but you stopped him with a question that you could not bear to have unanswered any longer.

"Why do you call him Casper?"

The man hummed, leaving you to sit with a disconcerting moment of silence as the answer sat on the precipice of his tongue.

"You know the plot of Casper, don't you?"

You swiveled on your office chair across the tables to your computer, a new task set to mind. Frantic fingers tapped away to solve that nagging mystery, and you felt the fine ends of a thread beginning to pull at the seams of your logic.

From the 1995 movie, he said.

The tab screen loaded your search, and your eyes scan the brief descriptions under each link. A small drop-down bar caught your attention, and in your gut you felt a twist of discomfort at the words that displayed before you.

Casper (1995) Plot What is the relationship between Kat and Casper?

Your breathing stopped at the insinuation, and a weight pulls on your lips as you read on.

… Casper, the ghost protagonist of the movie, falls madly in love with James' loner teenage daughter, Kathleen “Kat” Harvey, who is also looking for a friend.

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FOOTNOTES:

"Lazarus" is the machine that was meant to bring Casper back to life, so the rumours are suggesting that the reader gives Ghost life.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst #call of duty x reader #call of duty #duckyscribes

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ghouldump · 5 months ago

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I have been thinking about young doctor reader whos first reaction to seeing her one night stand admit he his a vampire is to ask if she can study him and do a couple of tests on him

I imagine this to be a lestat vibe yk? He would love the attention and strange admiration of his new weird beloved, while trying to keep her eyes always on him

"so are there others like you?"

"no by beloved, i am plenty enough to please"

Or maybe armand because he wants to be somebodys person in desperate way and i feel like he would manipulate her into staying in his life and be his eternal companion

Sorry if this was weird 😅

002

i couldn’t decide 😂 this is super short and straight to the point

LESTAT DE LIONCOURT

Lestat would take advantage of the opportunity BUT not nearly as extreme as Armand and he has to be really into you - which, luckily he was. You had just moved back home to New Orleans, after living in Texas for a few years, since finishing your residency.

As soon as your relatives and old friends hear about you being back in the lively city, you are invited out instantly. At one of the many parties, he noticed you, dancing with a few friends, you caught everyone’s attention with how festive you were.

He stared from afar and one of your multiple friends told you that he was looking. Encouraging you to approach him, he could hear their annoying giggling as you walked up. However, he also noticed how more beautiful you were as you approached.

“It isn't polite to stare and not say hello, you know,” you told him, as he smirked.

“I was simply enjoying the view”

“Y/n,” you held out your hand.

“Lestat,” he said, kissing your knuckles, your friends gasped loudly, making you look back at them.

“Sorry about them,” you laughed.

“They are surprised that I am talking to you,” he said, hearing their thoughts.

“How do you- my god, your eyes, are these your natural color?” you asked, leaning closer, looking closer.

“Yes”

“I’ve never seen a color so pretty, natural, only to a few patients after-

“After what?”

“They've died,” you said.

“Interesting”

“Allow me to look further into this Lestat, I’d love to understand this better,” you told him, giving him your card.

“Doctor. Y/n, how about we leave here and you can tell me a little more,” he smirked, interlocking your arms, and leading you away from the party.

Ending up in his bed was the last thing you expected to happen. Your fingers ran through his blonde wavy hair, as his hands pressed against your back, holding you in his lap. Blinded by the euphoric pleasure, you didn't even notice the fangs, wincing as he drank your blood.

It wasn't until you were dressing, that you came to your senses, rushing to leave his townhouse. You planned to avoid him, you didn't understand him, and you figured it was best that you didn't dig. However, he plagued your mind, entering every thought, and you could hardly focus during your first day of work.

As your coworker stopped in front of the house, you thanked him for dropping you off and climbing out. You still hadn't bought a car and there was a good distance between your home and the clinic. Watching him drive away, you turned to the steps, but stopped, seeing Lestat.

“How was your work?” he asked, tilting his head.

“How did you find my house?”

“I asked where the pretty doctor stayed and they led me here, did you not want to see me?” he asked, childishly pouting.

“You bit me,” you exclaimed lowly, watching as he began to grin, devilishly.

“And you tasted exquisite, a rarity, beauty, brains, and sweet blood,” he praised, approaching you.

“Please leave”

“Come inside, we have much to talk about, doctor,” he clapped, walking to the door. Your eyes widened as it opened on its own.

Hesitantly, you followed him into the living room, where he began with small talk before he dropped the information, he's a vampire, willing to become your little experiment if he was allowed to feed on you, whenever he'd like.

He liked you, you weren't a nuisance, much like other humans, which is why he preferred the idea of you giving up your blood willingly, still being able to keep your mortality.

You questioned his motives, why did he want to keep you alive, if he thought your blood was good? What did he gain from this? Why didn't he kill you? What was vampirism? Being met with silence, you begrudgingly accepted the transaction.

As your subject, his dramatic theatrics only increased. He was falling out at every prick, claiming it was better for him to drink, your blood from your neck, instead of an IV. It brought him great joy to have so much attention form you.

He would answer any questions seriously, before patting his lap. It was snack time, and he preferred you to sit there instead of next to him. Although, you could sense that he was withholding.

I mean, according to Lestat, he was the only vampire, one in a billion. There were no others, nor was there a need to search. He was all you could need, powerful, rich, and handsome. He was perfect.

For nearly a year, you ran all kinds of tests on him, comparing human studies to his DNA. Then you began to pull away. You were growing closer with him, staying at his house, or he at yours. Feelings were beginning to surface, after months of consistent intimacy.

Nonetheless, you knew better than to think you would have something together. He didn't think the highest of mortals, so what made you different? Little did you know, you couldn't be more wrong.

After seven months of only being with Lestat as his doctor, but also sexually, you decided to give another man a chance. Sleeping with a mutual friend, you thought it was fun until you woke up in the middle of the night, and were surprised to see a deranged Lestat, holding the man as a hostage. Only he was worthy to be subjected under you, to be touched and held by you.

You were near perfection, he could only imagine if you became a vampire. He was your greatest experiment, able to bestow the dark gift unto you. Yet here you were, entertaining other men

You were confused for a moment, realizing it was jealousy, causing him to act so crazed. Calling him out, he confessed his feelings, his anger and disgust towards this man. You had proven yourself to be worthy of the best and he was the best, waiting for you.

Your heart fluttered at his words, genuinely touched when he offered to share the dark gift with you. Nodding, you exhaled as he whisked you into his arms, sinking his fangs into you. Draining you, before feeding you his blood.

The man continued to squirm, his hands and mouth covered and tied, watching the scene in fear. Regurgitating and groaning, you held your stomach, clinging to Lestat in pain, before you stopped.

Standing upright, you faced Lestat, the man’s heart was pounding as your maker pointed to him. Your first meal. Pouncing on the man, Lestat couldn’t be more satisfied, with you as his fledgling, he could now be your patient for the rest of eternity.

ARMAND THE VAMPIRE

Armand was always watching, always one step ahead, and so, when he caught on to your curiosity, his scheme began. While you were a practicing physician, you were constantly looking for your next experiment. Someone you could poke and prod to further your research.

It was your secret, a taboo, you'd been undergoing all sorts of analysis since before you'd gotten your degree. Moving to Paris, you initially put your focus into your residency, until the vampire theater was brought up. Everyone was raving about the place and you had to see it yourself.

Watching the play, you sat on the edge of your seat in disbelief. The murdering of the girl felt too real, her open wounds obviously infected. Then her screams, those screams, the sound of pure agony and fear, you were quite familiar with it.

When the play ended, the actors came back, along with the director, all of them bowing. Staring at the crew, you were inquisitive towards all of them. Strange eyes, ghostly skin, glass-like, sharp nails. If it wasn't for the apparent powdered makeup, you would assume they were dead.

Despite your suspicion, you kept returning out of curiosity. Your eyes could hardly focus on the play ahead, drifting off to the director. It wasn't until one night, that his eyes finally shifted to your own. Nodding slightly at you, you smiled, before turning your attention back to the play.

Your concentration changed from everyone to him overnight. You kept visiting, a small notebook in hand, writing brief notes about his appearance. Nothing about him seemed natural, and that drew you in more.

"I'd prefer if you spoke to me, instead of trying to follow me and make notes about me," he said, smirking as your heart skipped a beat.

"My apologies, it's a bad habit of mine," you shook your head, shoving the notepad into your pocket.

"You're a doctor?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"You wrote out a few side notes, about wounds and how they should be treated"

"Yes, I mean, I'm still in my residency, but I am a doctor,” you said.

"And how are you liking Paris?" he asked, as he sat next to you.

"It's fine, I am into the darker aspects of life and death, and I was over the moon, finding a vampire theatre, where everything feels authentic. Then, I saw the director, and I've been to nearly every show since," you confessed, as he stared over at you.

It didn't take much longer for him to pull you into the basement, where you partook in the sinful acts.

Pressed against the cold railing, you kept trying to keep quiet, while his face was against your shoulder, taking in your scent.

You begin to regularly meet up with him and it isn't until one night you are out with a male colleague that you find out his identity. He is with his coven members, fuming in jealousy as he watches you laugh with the man. The conversation was nothing but platonic, but the thought of you in the same space as another man made him physically sick.

He naturally, kills the poor guy and you catch him, screaming as he drops the body, it catches on fire, and he turns to face you, blood dripping from his mouth. You run to try to evade him, but he quickly corners you.

He is too jealous, focused on why you were out with another man, to even notice you were confused and afraid.

Realizing you were reeking in fear, he apologized profusely, begging for forgiveness. He knew you only accepted because you were scared he would kill you next, but he would never, at least not unwillingly.

He takes you home where he confesses that he is a vampire and you have to swear to never tell a soul because it goes against the vampire laws. You want distance from him, but he is consistent, bringing gifts, asking for forgiveness daily, trying to prove that he would never harm you.

Finally, you believe him and he becomes your subject. He is the most willing, you'd ever had, allowing as many needles as you want, as long as it means you are touching his skin. He does manipulate you to drop out of your residency and focus on studying him. He says researching vampirism is a one-in-a-million chance, and he is the perfect experiment.

You are so caught up in your research, that you don't even realize that you are straying further and further away from the possibility of being saved. He loves you, he needs you, just as much as you need him, if not more. The final step to his manipulation tactics, turning you.

He could never allow you to age too much and become old, weathering away. You were his lifeline, he needed you as badly as he needed blood, and after months or even years of extreme brainwashing and manipulation, he turned you and made you his companion and fledgling.

#lestat de lioncourt x reader #lestat x reader #lestat de lioncourt #armand x reader #armand the vampire #interview with the vampire #amc iwtv

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touchstarvedbbg · 3 days ago

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hi, may I request about (gender neutral) mc who always avoids eye contact when talking to anyone and LI's reaction about that (for more specifics: mc have scopophobia)

Oooh, yes! Can do!

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Touchstarved LIs x Reader who avoids eye contact headcanons

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Pairing: Vere, Leander, Ais, Main, and Kuras x reader

Triggers: Nope!

Other notes: this work is completely SFW!

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Vere

|🩰| He’d be teasing about it, sarcastically asking if you’re “too afraid to look at somebody as good looking as him”

|🩰| Once he realizes it’s not an awkward first-meeting type of deal, and is instead something you actually avoid like the plague (which happens somewhat quickly, he is perceptive despite his.. less than intelligent choices) he’d be slightly less teasing about it.

|🩰| That’s not to say he wouldn’t still do it, because Vere totally would tease you from time to time.

|🩰| Tries to get you to look at him quite often, maybe it’s him genuinely trying to help, or maybe he thinks it’s cute or entertaining that you can’t hold eye contact with him.

|🩰| “Look at me, (Name). Let me see those pretty eyes of yours.”

|🩰| Vere knows better than to force you to look at him for long though, he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable around him because of it.

|🩰| He really does like seeing your eyes though, so he’d try to find ways to help (In his own way, at least.)

|🩰| Usually it irks him when people stare at his ears for too long, but if that’s how he’s able to get you to look up at him when you’re talking, so be it.

|🩰| would purposely move his ears around more (like how a dog does when it’s listening!) in order to get your attention on him and off of the floor or the world around you.

Leander

|🩰| It takes him a while to pick up on it, especially if you meet over drinks. The slightly dim surroundings of the room around you making it harder to notice you avoiding eye contact.

|🩰| Once he sees you out of that setting, Leander would eventually come to the realization that you genuinely cannot make eye contact with him to save your life.

|🩰| Doesn’t bring it up directly in order to avoid making it awkward.

|🩰| Tries to see if having a few drinks would loosen you up, if that doesn’t work, he’d try to find other ways to coax you out of your shell. Maybe you’re just shy?

|🩰| When you do look up at him, he always compliments the way your eyes look. The way that your expression changes at the compliment is adorable.

|🩰| Tries to make you as comfortable as possible, finding things you like doing, the more you come out of your shell, the more likely you are to actually look up, right?

|🩰| Leander would go as far as to act a fool in front of you, trying to make you laugh at some of his antics.

|🩰| Sure, he loves the way that your eyes look, the way that they compliment every part of your being, but what he genuinely loves more than anything is the fact that you’re comfortable enough with him to look into his eyes is enough.

Ais

|🩰| Sort of a mixture between Leander and Vere, if that makes sense. Sure he’d be teasing about it, but he’d also try to loosen you up a bit. Whether it be through drinks, things you like doing, anything.

|🩰| Would probably ask Kuras if he’d have any clue while he’s helping out at the clinic. He’d never mention your name directly to avoid any awkward interactions.

|🩰| Totally would lift your chin with his hand, smirking at the way you immediately try to look away. Ais would keep it there for a while before eventually letting go and offering you a drink to ease the mood.

|🩰| While Ais does want to see your eyes more often, he also does enjoy the way that you’re almost too intimidated to look at him directly. Sure, he doesn’t want to actually scare you, but subconscious acts of submission do fuel his ego, even if only a little bit.

|🩰| Ais definitely finds your timid nature cute, finding ways to get you to look up at him before turning away all flustered. He loves being able to get a rise out of you like that, along with being able to see the way you look up at him in shock whenever he tries a risky move or two.

|🩰| Along with Vere, Ais is rather bold- this would definitely be more obvious with him though (as mentioned above).

|🩰| Alongside Mhin, Ais would be one of the most likely to simply leave you be once he realizes how much he truly enjoys being able to fluster you. Unlike Mhin, however, Ais does it because he genuinely finds the fact that you are unable to look up at him endearing in a way.

Mhin

|🩰| Mhin seems like the type to dislike holding eye contact with other people themselves, so it wouldn’t be until after the two of you got to know each other quite well that they would take notice to your inability to look straight at them.

|🩰| Mhin, though very perceptive, doesn’t pick up on your lack of eye contact because of theirs a majority of the time. Unlike you, however, they variate between that and holding eye contact a little too well.

|🩰| They do ask about it occasionally, trying to figure out exactly why you basically refuse to look directly at anyone.

|🩰| They certainly wouldn’t push you to change it, though, allowing you to come out of your shell (or don’t, they genuinely enjoy your company without serious eye contact).

|🩰| On occasions when you’re comfortable enough to hold eye contact with them, Mhin never mentions it (god forbid they embarrass you and make you look away, you do have pretty eyes.)

|🩰| They do enjoy the rare moments you look at them though, a small smile cracking through their usually rather cold and rough exterior.

|🩰| Mhin would never try anything too brash, both out of fear or embarrassing you, but also because they recognize that sometimes it takes a long time to trust a person. You can take all the time you need, and they would gladly wait for you.

Kuras

|🩰| Kuras is used to people staring at his eyes for a long time (likely due to their piercing golden color that is almost nonexistent amongst humans.) That is why, when you wont even hold eye contact with him for more than a moment, he picks up incredibly quickly.

|🩰| Whether or not he means to be like this (one can only guess, he does lack emotional tact.), Kuras is not at all subtle in his attempts to get you to look at him directly.

|🩰| “Why do you avoid eye contact, (name)? Certainly it would be more professional to look other people in the eyes.”

|🩰| Kuras doesn’t mean to be rude with his bluntness, though he quickly realizes what he said could be taken as him criticizing you. After he catches himself once or twice, he does genuinely try to be more empathetic (albeit struggles)

|🩰| Works with you to find ways to make it seem like you’re making eye contact for when you would need it, things like looking at the bridge of somebodies nose, their eyebrows, whatever makes it easier for you.

|🩰| When you do occasionally look up at him directly, he finds himself staring silently for a while into your eyes. It’s very rare that he shows a genuine, non-teasing grin, but in those moments he is genuinely smiling because of you.

|🩰| Kuras is usually such a confident person, but seems like the type to struggle giving genuine sounding compliments. As such, he very rarely does mention how beautiful he finds your eyes. Instead, you find him subconsciously staring just a little longer than he normally does at your eyes, cheeks slightly reddened. He’s not very vocal about it, but Kuras does make it obvious that he finds you lovely in his own way.

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i-drop-level-one-loot · 1 year ago

Note

I’m back in my silly nonsense again and I do have a request, if that’s ok, I seriously don’t wanna annoy or stress you out hun but I do have a specific request in mind.

A sadistic yandere doctor x reader

It starts out simple enough like the reader goes in for a simple checkup and there’s a new doctor taking care of them and it escalates from there, every appointment with the new doctor becomes more unnerving and unhinged until escalating to abducting his “patient” and keeping them to himself

I dunno this sounded better in my head and plus you’re more creative than I am😅 I had this lil idea for a while and I’d figure it was worth a shot to ask, thanks for putting up with my silly shenanigans 😅

CW: Abduction, drugging, obsessive yandere, former bully reader, foul language, trypanophobia and mild iatrophobia

I took this ask and fucking R A N

The line between hatred and love is much thinner than one would like to believe.

(Reader) sat stiffly in the waiting room, staring at their phone while scrolling, not paying attention to anything that passed their eyes. Time was not moving fast enough, and it felt like they were about to have a heart attack while waiting for the doctor, fifteen minutes past their scheduled appointment time. They nearly jumped when the nurse finally called their name, not bothering to offer even a polite grin to the nurse as they were led back to get weighed, praying to whatever was listening that their deodorant didn't fail them. Sweat glued their shirt to their back, but (Reader) refused to take off their jacket.

Going to the clinic was always a hassle, and if it wasn't for the pain in their neck that refused to ease up they would have continued to avoid it like the plague. The nurse brought (Reader) back to an empty room, and left them there again, now waiting on a paper sheet that crinkled obnoxiously whenever (Reader) shifted and was ten times colder than they were in the waiting room. (Reader) took a shaky breath and continued to scroll absentmindedly on their phone.

A soft knock at the door was enough to make (Reader) drop their phone, diving for it as a nurse wheeled in a cart. "Hello, dear, how are we today?"

(Reader) popped back up, flushed. "Peachy."

"Lovely." The older woman grabbed a chart and read over (Reader's) information. "I'm going to take a quick little blood sample and get you checked in for Dr. Campbell."

Their face felt cold with how quickly their previous embarrassment faded into fear. Both at the thought of getting their blood drawn, and in confusion at hearing a new name. "Actually, my doctor is Dr. Kowl." (Reader) tried to correct the nurse.

The nurse smiled brightly. "Dr. Campbell is our newest doctor, he'll be taking over for Dr. Kowl when he retires. Can you remove an arm from your jacket please?"

(Reader) slipped their left arm out for the nurse, holding in their breath and averting their eyes while she pulled out a clean needle. Even if they couldn't see it, just knowing that it was getting closer to their arm sent a rush of adrenaline up and down their body so quickly that (Reader) was afraid it would knock them out. They swallowed a lump of snot threatening to choke them, rolling their eyes back to look at the ceiling as they ignored the tiny prick of pain.

"All done."

The sleeve was rolled down before (Reader) turned their head, a tight grimace plastered on their face. "Great."

"Dr. Campbell will be with you shortly." The nurse's demeanor was warm, but (Reader) couldn't feel it past the cold crispness of her scrubs. Clinic doctors weren't as bad as hospital or ER doctors, but they still were not pleasant to be around.

• 17 years ago •

A chubby boy with dark curly hair obscuring his eyes nervously watched (Reader) from afar, working up the courage to go speak to them. (Reader) had a bruise on their neck, partially hidden by their hoodie, and the young man was worried for the stranger in his high school. Tugging on his baggy shirt awkwardly while shuffling his feet, he made his way to the sad looking teen, struggling not to lose his nerve. "Hey.." he struggled not to stutter. "I was just, uh, wondering if everything was.. okay?"

The look of loneliness and emptiness on (Reader's) face was gone so fast that the boy thought he imagined it, now only seeing disgust and rage.

"The fuck you just say?"

• Present •

A young doctor with wavy brown hair stepped into the room, his downward turned eyes widening every so slightly, a bright, welcoming smile contrasting his surprised gaze, as he entered (Reader's) view. (Reader) was equally shocked, taken back by how handsome their new doctor was. "How are we feeling today?"

Hearing that typical doctor's greeting paled (Reader's) complexion, reminding them that no matter how hot this man might be, he was still a doctor. "I, uh, got a pain. It won't go away."

Dr. Campbell nodded, gently touching (Reader's) jaw as he tilted their head, watching their face carefully as they grimaced at certain angles. "Have we already taken X-rays?"

"Yeah, there's nothing wrong. Urgent care said it was a pulled muscle, I'm just here for a follow up." (Reader) noted how the new doctor searched their eyes uncomfortably; it was as though he was looking for something specific. "Is there something wrong?"

The doctor removed his hands, smiling again, but this time the smile seemed disingenuous, almost melancholy. "I'm sorry, I just.. you look like someone that I used to know." His jaw clenched under his smile. Dr. Campbell swiveled away, rolling to the computer and tapping on the keyboard for a couple of minutes before clicking his tongue. "I'm sorry, (Reader), but it looks like something went wrong with the blood sample we just took. Can you roll up your sleeve for me so I can get a new sample?" He asked while already reaching into his drawer, grabbing a fresh syringe and three vials.

(Reader) sighed, frustration displayed openly on their features. "Really?.."

• 17 years ago •

"Cry, bitch!" (Reader) snarled, kicking the new kid in his ribs. His only real crime was not knowing that, despite the lack of piercings, (Reader) was practically the leader for the high school's most notorious delinquents. The only reason (Reader) hadn't been expelled was because their grades never dropped below an A-, and the school prioritized their placement as the second best school in the country over a few accusations of harassment.

"Hey (Reader), who's your new friend?" Nate asked while sauntering over with the rest of (Reader's) friends.

"Dunno. Hey new kid," (Reader) bent down, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair and yanking his head up, "what's your name?"

The kid could barely speak through his sobbing. ".. Ichabod."

"HA! What kind of name is that?!" Lily cackled hysterically.

"From now on, I think you're going to be my new best friend.. ain't that right, pussy?"

His dark brown eyes couldn't help but fixate on (Reader's) neck as they glared down at him, the bruise shaped like fingers was so dark that in the lighting it looked like it was bleeding. "Well, that's the worse fucking name I've ever heard in my life. No wonder you're such a pussy.

• Present •

"I'm here for Dr. Campbell? I have a twelve-thirty about some blood results?" (Reader) grumpily muttered, pissed that they had to be back at the clinic only a week after their last appointment. Hearing Campbell's name, one of the receptionists smiled, fluttering her lashes and biting her lip subtly.

Her colleague saw her reaction and made a noise of approval. "That new doctor, he's quite the charmer, isn't he?"

"Stop!" The younger woman smiled harder, rolling her eyes. The whole thing made (Reader) grossed out. Yeah, the man was cute, but not when you're on the job. "Besides, he's.. unavailable."

"What? I didn't see a ring on his finger."

'They have forgotten me.' (Reader) puffed out their cheeks and patted their sides loudly, hoping the two medical professionals would get the hint and just sign them in.

"Apparently, he only became a doctor because of his highschool sweetheart. He said he had somebody whose 'attention' he 'wanted'." She sighed dreamily. (Reader) sighed also, but only out of frustration.

"Hey." (Reader) snapped, embarrassing the two receptionists as they looked to (Reader), mouths open like (Reader) was an apparition. "Twelve thirty. (Reader). Is there any paperwork I need to fill out?"

"Sorry! No-"

"Great." (Reader) interrupted the lady, heading over to the horribly uncomfortable chairs a few feet away. However, nearly as soon as (Reader's) butt touched the seat their name was called out, startling them on the speed.

They raised their eyebrows but didn't complain, heading back past the smiling nurses with disdain.

Dr. Campbell met (Reader) in the hall, sneaking up behind them. "Not big on smiling, huh?" The tall man grinned, feeling immense joy at the way (Reader's) face blanched and their muscles tensed.

"I'll smile for some good news." (Reader) forced a smile onto their face, the faux sign of friendliness not reaching their eyes.

He held out a hand as if to say 'after you', directing (Reader) to an open door.

• 16 years ago •

Ichabod couldn't look away from (Reader), studying their shaky visage as (Reader) barely held themselves together, teetering in the corner of the dirty basement. It was interesting, the first real emotion Ichabod had ever detected from (Reader) besides disgust.

Fear.

The group of 'friends' all drunkenly sat around Lily's older brother while he tattooed the minors in his dingy home. (Reader) was trying their hardest not to barf as the gun entered their friend's skin rhythmically.

"(Reader), check it out!" The dumbass child held up his arm, proudly displaying a jagged dog. "What'd ya think?"

"It looks like shit." (Reader) spat. The horror was masked by their hatred, fooling everyone except Ichabod. He stared a little too hard, finally drawing the attention of (Reader).

(Reader) could see by the look in Ichabod's eye that he saw their dirty little secret. Rage buzzed throughout (Reader's) body. "Why don't you give one to the pussy?"

Gasping, Ichabod went weak, experiencing something close to betrayal. He never felt an ounce of companionship from his 'best friend' but he was always looking for something from (Reader), he just couldn't understand what. Nate jumped up, launching towards the group's punching bag with sadistic glee.

(Reader) went blank, as they often did, showing neither pleasure nor anger as their friends closed in on Ichabod. "What about it? Since you're not fighting back, I take it that means you want one?" They paused, almost hoping for a reaction other than fright. But Ichabod was frozen, pleading (Reader) with his large teary eyes.

• Present •

"Fine. Hey Marty, why don't you write-"

"This better be the last time." (Reader) finally opened their eyes, too blinded by their phobia to question why their doctor's face was pink; why his large eyes were half lidded; and why he was smiling at them like they were the most attractive person he's ever seen in his life.

Dr. Campbell shuttered, eyes glazing over as he watched (Reader's) face contort, sweat beading on their forehead as the needle pierced their arm. (Reader) was so focused on not crying that they had no clue the look their new doctor was giving them. Being able to see this side to (Reader) was a privilege, one reserved for best friends.

"This should be the last test." His voice which usually oozed like honey quivered oddly, tickling a memory (Reader) couldn't quite recollect.

"Yeah, well, bit aggravating that both times I've gotten my blood drawn, something went wrong and it needed to be taken again." They pulled on their jacket with a huff. "Arm's beginning to look like a junkie's."

"Well, I do apologize for that. You can schedule your next appointment at the front desk. Your results will be in by next Thursday, we'll discuss them together then."

"Great." (Reader) left the room as quickly as possible, the agitation felt from being trapped in a doctor's office trumping how woozy they were. The nervous adult left the doctor behind, unaware of his erection hidden under his clip board. Dr. Campbell pocketed the blood sample, casually readjusting his pants through his pocket as he did so.

His smirk faded into something haunting, something damn near evil. "Last appointment, huh?" The doctor couldn't help but roll up his sleeve, his hard on becoming almost painful in the position he was sitting. A faded blue ink tattoo fuzzy with age and poor in quality marred his arm like a beautiful blemish.

• 15 years ago •

Cigarette smoke drifted up towards the gloomy clouds, the senior leaning against the fence that separated student and faculty parking lit a new cigarette as soon as the last one finished. Ichabod recognized (Reader) from behind, and found himself incapable of running and hiding, pulled in to his tormentor's side against his will. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of (Reader's) face, one eye completely swollen shut and their skin dark purple. Their one good eye stared at nothing, unblinking and dead.

(Reader) didn't look at Ichabod, knowing there was only one person dumb enough to approach them when they looked like this. No matter how hard they pushed him, he never stopped looking at them with that pitiful sentimentality. "Don't hang out with us at lunch today." Nate failed another history exam, and would be looking for someone to take his anger out on. (Reader) didn't know why they were sparing such a little bitch from getting his ass beat. Maybe they were just bored of him.

Ichabod flinched like he had just been hit, trying to will (Reader) to look at him, to explain themselves.

"Actually.. I'm done with you." They finished off their cancer stick, and dropped it into the gravel. "Stop hanging out with us."

"Why?" It was the only thing he could force himself to say.

(Reader) wondered why themselves. Would a therapist have been able to understand? See past their anger, their disgust? The only reason why (Reader) started bullying Ichabod was because he was new, and no one told him that (Reader) wasn't worth his sympathy. They knew he saw it, the bruise on their neck, and they could see it in his stupid face. And it pissed them off. Everyone knew-

(Reader) wasn't someone to pity.

Watery eyes threatening to overflow shook under the force of his tumultuous feelings as the baby faced young man got in (Reader's) line of sight. Even getting decked would be better than being ignored. But there was nothing in (Reader's) eye. He was invisible to them. "I hate pussies."

• Present •

"So, just a pulled muscle?" (Reader) grimaced, raising their hands in annoyance.

Dr. Campbell smiled, showing off all his pearly white teeth. "Thank God it wasn't something more serious."

"Great." Slapping their knees, (Reader) stood, ready to leave and hoping to never come back again. However, their body was stopped at the door by a strong hand gripping their wrist painfully, a deep scarlet staining Dr. Campbell's face and what was visible of his neck. "What?"

"Have we met before?" His face was smiling but his voice was on the verge of cracking.

"Yeah. Three weeks ago. When I first came in."

Long eyelashes nearly pushed his glasses off his nose. The doctor had (Reader) trapped in his arms at this point. "Are you sure? Are you sure I don't look familiar?"

The rising feeling of anxiety quickly morphed into anger, just as it always did, just like when they were a little kid. It took every ounce of self control they had to not knee the new doctor in the nuts. "Am I supposed to?!" (Reader) raised their voice, clenching their fists, feeling their entire body tense as it prepared to fight.

A laugh escaped him, jerking uncontrollably as he felt himself nearly cum just from seeing the old (Reader) trapped in his arms, unable to escape him, knowing that they were just masking their fear, just like that day in the basement all those years ago. "Thank you.." The look in his misty eyes grossed (Reader) out. "Thank you for not changing."

• 15 years ago •

"What?" Ichabod asked in disbelief. The office attendant spoke clearly but her words just didn't make sense.

(Reader) had been missing for nearly a month before Ichabod had the courage to ask anyone where they went. His tan skin had already begun to heal, the bruises left by (Reader's) shoes and the cuts left from their punches had faded. The only memory he had left of them was the tattoo on his arm he kept covered up. If he ever wore a short sleeve shirt it would be over, the pain would end, but he would also never see (Reader) again, and he couldn't have that.

"(Reader) doesn't go here anymore, sweetheart. They got their G.E.D so they could graduate early. One smart cookie, that one."

'But that's impossible.' Ichabod thought to himself. He knew (Reader), knew them better than anyone else. He was special. There was no way he couldn't have known about this. He was closer to (Reader) than their piece of shit friends, and that's why (Reader) hurt him! Deep down Ichabod just knew that (Reader) only hurt him because he could see them for who they were. No one else knew how scared (Reader) was. No one else cared about (Reader's) home life. Only he did.

Only Ichabod knew how terrified (Reader) was of needles.

Through the tears and spit, hiding his body from his parents so they wouldn't know what was happening at school, lying to teachers when they voiced their concerns about potential bullying, Ichabod had convinced himself that what he and (Reader) had was special. Because only he saw how scared they were. He told himself that it wasn't because no one else cared about the "future criminal", but because he was special to (Reader), and only he was allowed to see them vulnerable. That was a privilege for best friends only.

'Was it because I didn't give them enough attention?'

He walked through the hallway without a limp, without a hunched back, just like a normal student. It disgusted him. The walls were plastered with students' artwork, motivational posters, and recruitment ads. A smiling man in a white lab coat caught Ichabod's attention, pulling him out of his dark emptiness and showing him the solution to his problem.

"I'll make you see me."

• Present •

"Stupid son of a bitch!" (Reader) moved at a fast pace through the parking garage, nearly jogging to their truck. They had been doing so well, such a good job, but one moment in a stranger's arms and their mind was invaded by a voice they hadn't thought about in almost a year.

Their mother's words tumbled from their lips as they fished for their keys, shaking with apprehension disgust. "Fucking coward, fucking pussy, goddamnit, good for nothing-"

The old familiar tingling of adrenaline, the need to punch something.

Reaching their truck didn't provide any relief. The keys they were searching for kept evading their fingers as though they had a mind of their own. In the black of their tinted window another figure approached their reflection. (Reader) angrily whipped around, ready to start swinging. Behind them stood Dr. Campbell, wearing a baby blue short sleeved polo tucked into a pair of black slacks. The collared shirt exposed his muscular arms and accentuated his broad shoulders. He would have been so attractive if (Reader) didn't know what he looked like in a lab coat.

"I'm glad I caught you! I didn't have a chance to apologize in there, you rushed off before I could explain myself."

"Don't make up excuses for being a pervert." (Reader) snarled, ready to lash out like a cornered animal. They still couldn't feel the keys in their pocket.

The man smiled so sweetly at (Reader) that it made them want to bite him. "It really hurt my feelings. I thought that maybe you just didn't remember me." His eyes looked down at his feet, but he wasn't an actor, and (Reader) could see plainly that there wasn't a drop of sadness in the man before them. "But I guess.. I do look different than I did back in highschool."

His right hand reached out towards (Reader) to caress their cheek. They almost smacked him away, but a small, shitty tattoo on his arm drained them of their blood faster than a gun shot wound, feeling their bravado leak out of them so quickly that they didn't have time to remember to be pissed.

(READER'S) BITCH

Before they could recover and throw the first punch the hand clamped over their mouth, and a needle was revealed from behind his back in the other hand.

They struggled, but Ichabod hadn't spent his years in med school working out to impress (Reader). Eyes wide with horror watched the needle approach their neck helplessly, and Ichabod could almost cry at the beautiful sight before him. The fear that only he was able to see, only he was allowed to experience, God he could have fucked them right there and then, but he controlled himself. This had all been planned out, and he couldn't fuck it up just because (Reader) was shaking beneath him so cutely.

The needle went into their neck, injecting a drug to knock them out for a few hours. (Reader) screamed silently into his palm, and he watched as they recognized the adoration in his eyes with terror. (Reader's) keys were pulled out from Ichabod's back pocket, dangling teasingly in front of (Reader's) face as they went limp. "You said you hated pussies." His smile was mocking as (Reader) went dark, unable to stay awake. There was so much they wanted to say. They wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness. To tell him he wasn't a pussy, that they were never speaking to him when they called him that.

They didn't understand why he looked down at them so kindly. (Reader) hoped that if he killed them it would be a swift death. They felt that they deserved it after all this time.

What he had in store for them was much, much worse than death.

#yandere #thank you for the story idea #i took this and ran #yandere doctor #sadistic yandere #cw abduction #cw drugging #cw trypanophobia #cw iatrophobia #thank you for interacting with me #yandere x reader #sorry this is a bit off from your ask

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altocat · 9 days ago

Note

How do you think Sephiroth reacted to Angeal's death

I've explored variations of this scenario many, many times. And will keep doing so until we have a canon reaction lolol so let's have another then, shall we? Tasty angst for Alto 😈

At first...Sephiroth has no reaction at all. His body is on autopilot, filing away his reports, making his rounds, stoic and blank-faced.

Because of his lack of a real reaction, Zack assumes that he never cared at all, avoiding him like the plague, their fragile bond momentarily shattered. Sephiroth wasn't a friend. Just an unfeeling machine.

At the funeral...they don't talk.

For the next few weeks, Sephiroth still seems perfectly composed, performing his usual missions, training, attending his usual bimonthly checkups in the lab. Zack avoids him. Sephiroth doesn't seem to care.

If anything, he is even MORE quiet and unapproachable than he was before. He doesn't mingle. He rarely seems to take his mind off of work. He doesn't eat or sleep. A mindless machine, drifting from hour to hour.

Until THAT afternoon.

It starts out like any ordinary briefing between colleagues. Lazard gathers Sephiroth in Zack in his office. They're the only currently remaining Firsts. They're going to have to pick up the pace to make up for the lack of numbers in the ranks. Doable if they balance their schedule. And Lazard will be happy to compensate them with extra vacation time in between. Really, it won't be nearly as bad as one might initially--

Sephiroth throws the glass he was holding halfway across the room. He punches the wall and leaves a huge dent, backing up into the corner, breathing heavily, scratching his arm.

Turns out, there's only so long you can suppress yourself, running on autopilot. Sooner or later, particularly in the white noise of perfectly mundane conversations, the intrusive thoughts arrive. Just as they had every night. Every hour. Every second. It began with a whisper. It mounted into a scream.

Zack has no idea how to react, watching Sephiroth gasp and tremble, his hands shaking, lost in the vertigo, his shoulders hunched, torso heaving.

Lazard comes to the rescue just in time, calling for a sedative. He promises Sephiroth he will NOT permit Hojo to enter his office, meeting Sephiroth's eyes.

"Take the rest of the day off. That's an order."

"He wanted the body."

"We'll regroup tomorrow and discuss your schedule. Retract my previous statements."

"He wanted the body, Lazard. He told me."

Zack looks on in stunned awe and stupefaction as Lazard gently guides the silver warrior to the oval chair in the corner, making him sit, watching him swallow one pill at a time.

"Take a few minutes to yourself."

"My apologies."

"Save your apologies, Sephiroth. Rest."

He allows Sephiroth to catch his breath, guiding him past the orderlies and back into the hall, step by careful step, escorting him towards the confines of his personal quarters.

Zack knocks worriedly on Sephiroth's door every few hours. No response. He buys Sephiroth a fancy bottle of wine, wrapped in a bow, promising to meet up to reconcile when they can.

Lazard spends a sleepless night in his office, staring at the cold, clinical text on the screen, rubbing wearily between his eyes.

It isn't personal.

It never was.

None of this was personal at all.

He has only one regret.

"I'm sorry, Sephiroth."

Soon, it will be his turn.

#asks #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephcanons #sephiroth #crisis core #final fantasy vii #angeal hewley #zack fair #lazard deusericus

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avelera · 2 years ago

Text

Just had a thought: what if, Hob's fear response is absolutely fucked since gaining immortality? Like he's not afraid of literally anything as long as he doesn't die?

Think about it, he's from the 1300s. His parent's generation saw 50% of the world die in the worst human mortality event the world has possibly seen to this day. Death truly is the ultimate horror to Hob. More than pain, more than famine, more than plague, or losing other people because the people who raised Hob, the previous generation had to soldier on after losing 50% of everyone they knew or more (up to 90% in some places, specifically small impoverished villages like the kind Hob would have grown up in). Those that made it had to find a reason to live again despite losing everything and possibly everyone because the whole world did and Hob is from the first generation after that. He would have grown up learning that there is life after suffering! That if you can just avoid being part of the 50% of the world that died horrifically, you're winning! To Hob, there literally is no fate worse than death. If you can just keep going, things will eventually work out.

This is completely baffling to Dream who, as King of Nightmares, literally exists in the space of, "There are worse things than death." Such as The Horrors. His kindest sibling is Death. He's clinically depressed. Dream is not afraid of death.

This makes Hob absolutely incomprehensible to Dream. And I, for one, am absolutely here for that clash of worldviews.

#the sandman #dreamling #sandman meta #hob gadling #my bestest boy i love hob so much

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a-court-of-fics-and-errors · 6 months ago

Text

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 41

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 2.4K

Author's Note: This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

As the cold grip of winter finally released its hold on Velaris, the city bloomed with vibrant colors and new life. Two months had passed by in a blur for you, filled with countless projects and community growth initiatives. Your first group home for struggling parents and their children had officially opened, and it was met with resounding success. The pride that shone from Azriel's eyes as he stood by your side at the grand opening was palpable.

Working closely with Titania, you continued to build relationships between yourself and other pleasure makers who were hesitant to come out of the shadows and seek help. You delved deeper into the underbelly of Velaris, learning about the social pressure that kept pleasure houses sequestered in the darker parts of the city. Even healers refused to see them, dismissing them as unworthy patients. But with your determination and aid, a low-income health clinic was established within one of the homes you built. It became a vital resource for pleasure makers to receive personal healthcare and get their children checked up during their early years.

Everything was thriving - your projects, your community, and most importantly, yourself. Your mate remained quiet as always, but you felt content in your life. Though you still avoided large court events out of fear of seeing Philip, whom you refused to acknowledge as your father, you continued to hold meetings with High Lords to build their own resilience within their territories.

As Nesta's pregnancy progressed, her body swelled with the changes. She was plagued by early pregnancy symptoms: every part of her seemed to be inflamed, she couldn't even fathom the thought of food without feeling nauseous, and she was constantly exhausted. But despite all of this, there was a newfound brightness and happiness emanating from her. Her skin glowed with a radiance, her hair shone like spun silk, and her mood had improved greatly. In the midst of all this, you made it a point to set aside one day each week to spend the entire day with her. Cassian, on the other hand, pleaded with her to stop training with the Valkyries. This led to a heated argument that resulted in Cassian sleeping on the couch of the townhouse. However, as Nesta's baby bump grew more prominent and her usual training leathers no longer fit comfortably, not to mention the rising temperatures in the training ring, she began spending more time sitting on the sidelines and helping young females with their centering and breathing techniques.

—

Nesta stood next to you, her shoulders slumped in frustration as she stared at the wall. It was split down the middle, with two shades of green that were barely distinguishable from each other. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, her long fingers tapping impatiently as she sucked her lip between her teeth.

"So," you began, studying the two shades of green before you. "What did you need my opinion on?"

She gestured towards the wall, her index finger hovering between the two shades. "Which one?"

You glanced at her and then back at the wall, trying to discern the difference between the two shades. "Which color?"

Nesta let out a frustrated sigh, taking a step closer to the wall. With a flourish of her hand, she pointed to one side. "Sage green?" Her finger then slid over to the other side. "Or Brush green?"

You furrowed your own brow, trying to make a decision based on such subtle variations. Nesta's fuse was getting shorter by the second, and you knew your response needed to be quick. "I think the sage looks nice," you replied tentatively, mustering up a small smile.

Nesta stepped back to survey both shades again. "Are you sure?" she asked with doubt lacing her voice.

You nodded, but without much confidence behind it. Suddenly, the entire wall shifted and transformed into just one shade of green, thought if she asked you if the color was sage or brush you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Nesta looked back at you, running her tongue over her teeth as she considered the new look.

"You don't think it's too green?" she asked, eyes searching your face for an answer.

You struggled to form an answer. To be honest, green was just...green to you. The subtle differences in shades didn't seem all that significant in this moment. "I don't think so," you offered tentatively.

Nesta didn't even spare you a glance as she considered your words. Your opinion held little weight in her mind, and you were well aware of that fact. Her own opinions were firmly solidified and what she really needed was someone to validate them.

"I think I hate it," she declared, her decision final. "Let's try the cream again." And with that, the house washed over the wall once more, painting it a light cream color for Nesta to scrutinize once again.

With a sigh, you spun on your heel and made your way over to the rocking chair that Cassian and Azriel had spent the last two hours putting together. Despite their efforts, there were still some doubts in your mind about the stability of the chair, especially since Azriel had pointed out that they had initially put the legs on backwards and had to redo their work. And if that wasn't enough, you were pretty sure the armrests were also attached the wrong way. You kept this thought to yourself, knowing how hard they had worked on it.

Nesta took a few cautious steps back, her hand resting gently on her swollen stomach. She closed her eyes and let out a small moan, her fingers grazing over the soft knit of her cream-colored sweater. With her other hand, she rubbed her lower back in search of relief from the pain that typically lingered in her body now.

"I also like the cream color," you chimed in, pulling your legs up onto the rocker with you. You reached for a blanket that was sitting nearby, admiring the delicate embroidered flowers that adorned it. You knew it was Elain's handiwork - she always seemed to have a new hobby she was mastering. As you let your fingers trace over the pinks and greens of the design, you couldn't help but wonder if someday she would make an embroidered blanket for your own babe.

Nesta's frustrated groan snapped you out of your daydreaming as she turned towards you. "None of it looks right," she complained, gesturing towards the various swatches of fabric and paint samples scattered around the room. "The green clashes with everything, the cream is too plain, and there’s no way the blue works in this room." You weren't entirely sure what she meant by a color "working", but you nodded along in agreement nonetheless.

Her gaze drifted towards the wooden box sitting in the corner as she let out a loud grumbling groan, "Cassian was supposed to build the crib this morning before he left." You craned your neck to look at the large wooden crate adorned with a crudely drawn image of a crib.

"I can do it," you offered, turning back to Nesta who was now staring at the wall.

She waved a dismissive hand, "No, no," she insisted. "Cassian made a promise and I intend to hold him to it."

You couldn't help but smile and bite your lip to suppress a laugh. You knew that Cassian was in for a tongue-lashing when he returned home, but you suspected that he and Azriel were most likely hiding somewhere in the War Camps or deep in the woods. You remembered Cassian admitting to you at a family dinner once that he would rather be covered in mud and shit than face Nesta's wrath.

In a calmer, more soft voice, you offered, “It’s all going to look great, Nesta.”

Nesta's hands instinctively went to her belly, cradling it protectively. She let out a deep sigh before sitting down on a nearby wooden crate with a drawing of a changing table on it. Her face fell into her hands, her fingers tangling in her disheveled hair. You could see the exhaustion and stress etched on her face as you folded up the baby blanket and set it aside.

"Is it just about the nursery?" Your question hung in the air as Nesta turned away from you, staring at the paint-splattered ceiling. You folded up a soft blanket and placed it next to you on the side table, trying to catch Nesta's gaze.

But she seemed lost in her own thoughts, detached from reality. "I don't want to assume anything," you said softly, "but I need to know if this is really about paint colors or if there's something else bothering you."

Nesta's eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, the weight of her thoughts causing a heavy silence to fill the room. "I just want everything to go well," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Want what to go well?”

"I want this pregnancy to go well. I want our baby to be healthy. I want to be healthy." She placed a hand on her stomach and let out a bitter laugh. "I never cared about any of this before. Paint swatches, burp cloths. But now, it's all I can think about."

You had figured as much. As much as she tried to play it off as hormones and nesting, you and Nesta both knew that all of this stress was about something more, something deeper.

"It's going to be okay," you reassured her. "Your baby will be fine."

Nesta nodded, but you could tell she didn't truly believe it. Her eyes flickered down to her stomach, where her precious bundle was safely nestled. "I know," she said, but there was no conviction in her words.

"You're still nervous," I finished her sentence for her.

Immediately, Nesta shook her head, as if trying to deny it. But her shaky denial only confirmed my suspicions. Her lip trembled as she bit into it.

“Hey,” you offered her, “It’s okay to be scared.” You stood, walking over to her, your feet crinkling sheet on the floor Nesta had insisted Feyre lay down when she painted the closet door. You came to crouch in front of her, your hands taking her own as you tried to catch her downturned gaze. "No one expects you to have everything figured out right now."

Nesta’s grey eyes met yours and you could see the slight tears building on her lower lid.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked gently. "What's on your mind?"

After a moment of hesitation, Nesta sniffled and opened up. "I'm afraid of losing them," she admitted, tears now falling freely down her cheeks. "I'm afraid of what will happen after they're born. I'm afraid that I won't be a good mother, or even a decent one." You listened quietly as Nesta's fears poured out. Her doubts and insecurities about motherhood, about the baby, about herself. "I don't want them to hate me," she sobbed, clutching at her stomach. "And I'm scared that all are going to look at me and think I’m just like my mother."

You gave Nesta the space to mutter out her incoherent inner thoughts, all of them crashing out one after the other as she heaved out sob after sob. All you did was nod, hold her hand, and hold that space with her.

Eventually, she looked up at you with tear-stained eyes.

"That must be really hard," you said softly, squeezing her hand gently. "I wish I could take away your fears."

Nesta sniffled and chuckled. "Yeah, me too."

"Let me tell you something," you said firmly, holding her gaze. "You are going to be an amazing mother. And you know how I know that?" Nesta's lips quirked into a small smile despite the tears still lingering on her cheeks.

"Why?" she asked softly.

“Because you’re worried about it now.” Nesta laughed lightly as she glanced down to the floor. “Terrible mothers don’t worry if their children will hate them, or if people will judge them for how they parent.” You laughed, “And I also know that this baby is going to be so incredibly loved by you and Cassian, and all of us. Because you’ve worked so hard to bring them into the world, that you won’t be able to do anything but shower them with more love than their little heart can take.”

You met her gaze again as she smiled, her lip trembling. “You’re going to cheer them on when they succeed, and hold them when they’re sad, and you’re going to teach them how to breath through their fears and face them.” You squeezed her hand tenderly. “And Cassian,” you shrugged, “He'll probably be the reason they come home with a few bruises or scrapes, but he'll also be the reason they never back down from a challenge. They'll learn to laugh in the face of fear because they know their mom and dad will always have their backs."

You couldn't help but smile as you looked down at her growing belly. "This little one already has so much love surrounding them," you said, squeezing her hand. "And they'll know even more love from you because you are going to be an amazing mother." As Nesta wiped away her tears as you continued, "You'll never be like your own mother, I promise. You've experienced firsthand the pain of growing up with her and you will use that knowledge to be the best mother possible for your baby." Your voice softened, "That's not to say there won't be mistakes. You might get frustrated and raise your voice, or say things you don't mean. But most importantly, Nesta, you would never hurt them. Never ever." You locked eyes with her as she nodded, with more confidence than she had before.

"You're going to be a fantastic mom, and you have a whole family who believes in you," Nesta sniffled and nodded, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.

"And if Feyre can handle being a mom, then surely you can too," you teased, earning a genuine laugh from Nesta.

"Hey now, I'm just stating facts," you shrugged playfully. "But let's be real, there's no way your little sister could out-mom you," you joked as the two of you laughed together. The two of you sat there for a moment, giggling with one another, hands clasped together until you settled back on the floor, gazing up at the ceiling. "Oh, by the way," you broke the silence, "I have no idea what color would look good in here, but I do know this ceiling color reminds me of something that comes out of a baby."

Nesta's glorious laughter that echoed throughout the room and probably down the entire mountain to Velaris.

Readers, just made myself vomit with that, good god that was sappy:

@thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @that-one-bibliophole

@weepingwerewolf @caninnes @loglady00 @skylarkalchemist @darling006 @sleepylunarwolf @acourtofbatboydreams @quiettuba @julesofvolterra @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger123 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardustt @romantacyreader28 @caroline-books @slytherintaco @sevikas-whore @sidthedollface2

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soullessseraphim · 4 months ago

Note

what does Liam think of the arcana m6? (and courtiers if you want)

HmmmMMMMMM !!!

What Liam thinks of the main 6 + courtiers !

🐦‍⬛Julian : Hell yeah. Really happy to have someone to be a lil funky with ; loves him very much. They both have theatrical personalities, Julian noticed that about Liam back during the Plague : the way he'd stroll around the clinic and hoping from one patient to another, waltzing over to Valdemar to ask them something... It had charmed him back then and even after. Liam is very keen on helping out Julian and spend time with him, doesn't exactly see his life without him.

🐐Lucio : Hell nah. Too prideful, too condescending... Will absolutely adore gossiping about him, talk shit behind his back, in good faith (unless Lucio does something that genuinely pisses him off, then Lucio get spooked a few times).

🐺Muriel : thinks he looks like a gentle giant (is absolutely right). He's pretty hurt at how avoidant he is. With his issues about belonging he takes the initial rejection and avoidance on Muriel’s part to heart a lot.

🐍Asra : Very mixed feelings. On one hand, he is aware that they had a story together before the Plague and everything, but... He doesn't have any feelings towards them anymore, and the way Asra still cares for him makes him uncomfortable. Doesn’t want to talk about it to others to not be labeled as selfish.

🦉Nadia : unironically calls her ma'am, miss, madam. Very impressed by her and her natural authority. Very quiet around her and almost timid. Considered becoming a courtier just so he could display he was working under her orders (totally not because he wants to be besties with the courtiers too nooooo haha).

🐱Portia : EEEEK PLANT FRIEND. Likes to spend time with her once in a while to stay in the cottage and tend to her garden, although she doesn't trust him with bringing in new flower specimens since he told her about that one variety which only grows over dead bodies...

🪱Vlastomil : Would hang around him more if he just... Didn't talk about worms so much. Sure, it’s interesting, but... Once you've gone around the whole of the subject well uh... The problem is Vlastomil won’t talk about anything else.

🐏Valerius : off-brand Lucio? No thank you. Nice hair though. Nice taste in wine. But he CANNOT handle his attitude. Has had to refrain from chaining him somewhere a few times.

🪲Vulgora : Initially scared of them at first, but over time, started quietly laughing at their antics, and would even join in with their banter, making them laugh loudly too. Decline all their offers of sparring ; once they were so insistent he had to show off one of his spells (necrotic touch - he made a couple of flowers wilt in his hands) to convince them not to. The added danger of potentially getting seriously hurt in a spar with Liam only fueled their desire to fight more, much to the necromancer’s despair.

🐦Volta : He finds her too clingy, but very sweet. Would hang around her more if she weren’t so touchy, but he loves talking with her, she's a great conversationalist.

🩻Valdemar : FRIEND. FRIEND. FRIIIIEEEENNNND 🗣🗣🗣💥💥💥💥‼️‼️‼️ (need I say more)

#the arcana game #the arcana #quaestor valdemar #procurator volta #praetor vlastomil #pontifex vulgora #consul valerius #portia devorak #julian devorak #asra alnazar #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #the arcana courtiers #apprentice liam #the arcana mc #the arcana oc

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star--anon · 2 months ago

Text

I'm bored, let's talk Minho's trauma post-WCKD

Minho refuses to acknowledge his injuries

his back looks like cracked mud with how many scabs he has

and there's a faint sour smell

he tries to cover it up by wearing three shirts

which are abrasive and do nothing but tear his scabs open whenever he moves

if anyone offers to take a look, he practically bites their hand off

it's mostly the doctor trauma

strange adults wearing clinically white lab coats, pushing unknown chemicals into his body while they promise to "fix" him

he can barely handle sleeping in the dark

he doesn't need doctors touching his back

kids in Paradise avoid him like the plague

the older kids try to give him encouraging smiles

the younger ones run away at the sight of him

He's pretty sure he looks horrendous

just a lumbering mass of scar tissue and bruised flesh, deep dark bags under his eyes

his friends give him big sad looks

the doctors eye him like he's prey

He's sick of it

sick of being different, sick of being delicate, sick of being changed

He's still the same Minho that ran in the Maze

and nothing WCKD did to him will ever change that

...because if WCKD changed him... then they won.

And Minho can't handle that.

Minho won't allow that.

He's forced to go to a therapist once a week

it's that or get strapped down and have his brain get cut open

(Thomas' idea to substitute brain-chopping with therapy)

(Minho's grateful for it, and he hates Thomas for it at the same time)

every session, his therapist runs him through some "identity-reaffirming practices"

"My name is Minho" means nothing if the boy Minho used to be is still rotting in a cold, dark cell somewhere

while his husk is being forced to sit through 30 minutes of a glorified Feelings Circle

(which is a real thing Chuck tried to start in the Glade)

(....Chuck.)

(Alby, Newt, Winston, Newt, Jack, Newt-)

He doesn't realize he's lost control and is beating at his own head until he wakes up in a hospital bed with a pounding headache

..Nobody in Paradise seems interested in the Old Minho either

he always has to be "Minho the WCKD Survivor"

or "Minho the Patient Who Suffers From Hallucinations"

or "Minho the Patient Who Needs To Be Strapped Down And Sedated During Operations"

or "Minho the Brainwashed Idiot Who Needs To Be Told His Own Name"

even Thomas doesn't understand

and Thomas used to understand everything about him

Thomas, who offers to sleep in the same bed as him

because he knows the nightmares tear Minho apart

Thomas, who cradles Minho so, so gently when he wakes up sobbing

Thomas, who patiently feeds Minho pudding if Minho's too weak to lift his own spoon

Thomas, who treats Minho like a fucking time bomb

Thomas, who's just waiting for Minho to explode

Minho doesn't need that flash of pity in Thomas' eyes

He doesn't need a seat or a hug or a cup of tea or a "cuddle night"

He doesn't need Thomas!

He doesn't need Thomas, who begs him to please, just let him at least wash the wounds on his back

They're infected, Minho! Can't he tell the scabs on his back are infected?

Can't Minho see how he's hurting himself?

and not a single goddamn person in Paradise seems to understand that Minho doesn't want to be hurt anymore

He just wants to be... Minho.

He snaps one day.

He can't help it.

One moment Thomas is holding a bottle of alcohol and two ibuprofen pills with shaking hands and tears sliding down his cheeks

and the next moment...

Minho doesn't know what happens in the next moment

He just remembers blinding white lights in his eyes as he feels those familiar straps get tightened around his arms

plastic gets stuffed between his teeth, and he opens his mouth automatically to let them gag him

he's bitten too many guards for them to take chances anymore

they shouldn't have let him near Thomas. They shouldn't have let Thomas take a chance with him either.

the doctors reassure Minho that it wasn't his fault.

they tell him that Thomas is bruised, but not permanently injured

"Gave him quite a scare, though," one of the doctors says. She laughs, too, like that's supposed to be funny.

then they secure the straps and sedate him and cut him open

it all passes in a blur that feels just a little too much like WCKD

sometimes he's aware of someone crying in the room

sometimes he's aware of nothing at all

the person crying might be him. it's usually him.

sometimes it sounds like Thomas, but that's probably just his ears playing tricks on him

sometimes the doctors like to be cruel, and they lie to him about how Thomas tells them all the time that he misses Minho

and that Thomas is eagerly waiting for Minho to get better

and how Thomas forgives him

he's let out of the hospital, but he's not allowed into Paradise anymore

they keep him in a small room, and they monitor him with a camera

there's another camera in the bathroom. They don't even bother hiding it

He hates it at first. The lack of privacy

He screams at the doctors who come by to give him food

to the point where they end up having to strap him down and just pump his lunch and dinner into his body via mysterious liquid

after a while, he accepts it

it seems to make his therapist happy when he accepts it

(because of course they still make him go to therapy)

...This is who he is, after all.

not "Minho the Glader"

or even "Minho the Tortured Boy"

and especially not "Minho the Friend Of Thomas"

he's just another lab rat

just something to be locked away and studied

it's a name WCKD gave him a long time ago

and it's stupid to keep pretending like WCKD doesn't control him

A7. The Rat.

#tmr minho #tmr thomas #thominho #the maze runner #rambles #headcanons #I'm bored let's talk #I don't take constructive criticism because I'm not wrong

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florencetypemaniacs · 8 months ago

Text

I had no idea this was a Tumblr classic but I'll give it my best shot.

💙 ROSEMARY

Rosemary's eyes caught the mark right as you walked through the door, and she felt all the air leave her lungs.

What did I suspect? MC is amazing; of course, they found someone.

Rosemary bit her lip and turned away from the room. She walked out the door, the sound of her steps grounding her.

She swallowed her disappointment and sadness. Rosemary felt her heart clench as her thoughts ran to someone touching you. feeling your warmth and how she longed for that to be her, but it was too late. She would just have to accept that.

I shouldn't even be upset. We aren't together, even if I thought maybe—never mind all that. It was a stupid dream. MC deserves someone good and whole. Someone alive. Not broken and dead.

Rosemary let out a shaky breath, trying to keep his voice out of her head.

Who could truly ever love someone as useless as you?

¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎¤▪︎

Rosemary!"

Your voice rang out in the room like a bell, and Rosemary froze before putting on a fake smile that she was used to wearing.

"What can I do for you, dollface/angelface/handsome?"

Your hand reached to your neck, rubbing it, and Rosemary spotted another hickey.

Her heart clenched as she stared out the window that you were both looking through, wishing to the stairs for this painful feeling to go away.

"How are you not covered in these things?" You asked, and Rosemary snapped her head towards to look to see you pointing a finger at your love bite.

Rosemary stayed very still, keeping her composure; however, inside, she was having a mental battle.

Is MC asking me why I'm not covered in love bites?

Rosemary gripped the side of her dress; it was all so cruel. Were you gloating or just asking an innocent question?

With pursued lips, Rosemary spoke. "I suppose I am not that lucky; a lady gets tired of bothersome affection." She did not mean for the words to come out with so much acid, but they did, and there was no taking it back now.

You look a little befuddled. "What does being a lady have to do with bug bites?"

Rosemary's mind comes to a stop at the mention of bug bites. "Excuse me?"

You point your finger at your mark again. "What does having to be a lady have to do with bug bites?"

Is it a bug bite?

Rosemary felt her heart leap and reached towards you to... Hug you? Confess? Kiss you?

She didn't have a chance to do any of that, as your aunt Zinnia called for you, making you turn away from her.

"Coming!" You yelled down the stairs and then turned towards Rosemary. "I'll talk to you later, Rosemary!"

Rosemary was left fanning her face with her hand and thanking the stars.

🩵 TAI

You were in his clinic, giving him a delivery, when he saw it. Tai would have been able to do his witty banter, but with his attention on your mark, he was quite lacking.

Is that a hickey?

Tai blinked back out of his thoughts when you reached out for him, questioning if everything was alright.

"Tai? Are you okay? You just kind of zoned out."

Tai snatched his arm back from your touch as if he were burned, earning him a concerned look from you.

I'm so damn foolish.

Tai knows it was illogical, but he felt anger build inside him, and even in that moment, he knew it wasn't directed at you but at himself for letting his infatuation for you get out of hand.

Although he had to let that anger out, you were right there, parading your lover's mark right in front of him.

"Oh, in a rush? Sorry that this is such a hassle for you; maybe it would be best for you to leave."

Before you could even utter a sentence, he had already shut the door in your face, not listening to your shouts from the other side, and soon they seemed to disappear.

I am a complete fool.

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Tai avoided you like the plague, but even though you were miles away from him, he still couldn't get you out of his head, no matter what he tried.

Tai grimaced as you walked into the door of his clinic, his eyes trying to scan you, when he noticed another love bite on your neck.

"What do you want, Oleander?" Tai said in a dead tone, which you seemed not to notice as you touched your neck, seemingly distracted.

Another hickey? Oh, I'm sure MC has a lot on their mind.

"Uh, I don't know if you can even help me, but..." You began to feel a little embarrassed, and Tai just gave you an unblinking look, his face as blank as always. "Can you give me a prescription for some kind of itching medication? This bug bite is killing me."

Tai doesn't blink; his eyes trained on the "hickey," and he narrowed his eyes. "Bug bite?" Tai crossed his arms, not ready to believe this excuse that you were making up. "You were bitten by a mosquito on your neck?"

Completely missing Tai's skeptical tone, you nodded your head, leaning against the counter and absently scratching an itch. "I know, right? Our bugzapper broke, and the one Aunt Zinnia bought online isn't here yet."

Now that Tai was getting a better look at it, it did look a lot like a bug bite. He uncrossed his arm and said it in a softer tone. "Peppermint. Mosquitos hate peppermint."

You perked up. "Really? I think Aunt Zinnia has some peppermint oil! Thanks, doc!" You start to hurry out the door a little pep in your step.

Tai just stood there processing what happened, and his chest filled up with relief.

💛 MARCEL

The moment Marcel saw the mark, he felt a pit in his stomach start to form, although a smile was still on his face, and you were none the wiser as you talked.

I'm jumping to conclusions. MC wouldn't: But the more he stared at the mark on your neck, the more the smile would start to slip, making you question it.

"Marcel, are you okay?"

Marcel's head snapped up, and the smile was back in place. "I'm just feeling a little under the weather."

Before you could say anything, Marcel was walking briskly out the door, his thoughts racing as he closed the door to a private area behind him, falling to the floor.

Stop. MC already has someone. No use getting upset over it; they are happy, so I should be happy for them. I could make myself happy for MC.

Marcel bit his lip, got off the floor, and went over to the mirror, making himself smile as he said it in a cracked, fake, happy voice.

"Hey MC!"

Needs work, but I can pretend to be happy until I am.

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"Hey, Marcel!" You called from your bedroom. and Marcel cringed a little as he slowly made his way towards your bedroom, putting a smile on his face as he walked to the door.

Be happy. Be happy. Be happy.

''Yes, MC? Is there something I can do for you?"

Marcel asked, praising himself when his voice didn't come out in a desperate sob but rather in a charming tone.

You tried to hit one of the mosquitoes on the desk with your hand, and even though it was quite gross, the anger you felt for those little bastards was greater.

"Can you go get me a fly swatter?

''Ah, do you have pesky bugs that need attending to?" Marcel asked, his eyes gleaming as he watched you try to kill another bug on your lap. The action looked more like an intrepid dance than killing a bug.

You gave him a look. A look only you could give him, and he cursed himself for those eyes, still making his knees weak.

MC is with someone. MC is with someone. Someone who isn't you.

"You have no idea! They made me a buffet last night." You pointed to your neck where the "hickey" was, and Marcel's eyebrows raised in confusion.

"Those are bug bites?" Marcel asked slowly, hope bubbling in his chest.

You gave him a weird look. "Uh, yeah, what did you think they were?"

Marcel started to laugh, the hope just spilling out of him in a gasp of breath that left you asking questions that Marcel couldn't answer at the moment.

I guess I was jumping to conclusions.

❤️ OWEN

Owen was so sure you were serious that it wasn't a game, but...maybe he just let the feeling clouded his judgment.

Owen tried to look anywhere but the new asseroery on your neck but it was hard as he bit his tongue. He just wanted to know why you changed your mind, if it was all a game, or maybe you just met someone better. It was a high possibility and with the mark on your neck.

Oh God, Agate was going to have a field day with this.

You looked at Owen across the table, In concern a teacup in your hand. "You alright Owen? You grip that tea cup any harder and it might break."

Just leave it alone. Just leave it alone.

"So ye found someone to keep your bed warm at night?" Owen asked, his tone usually softer.

You raised an eyebrow in confusion to ask him who or what he was referring to before he cut you off.

"I'm just guessing from that-" Owen said, pointing towards your "hickey."

Just leave it alone. They are probably happier. Hell, if the mark is any indication, they are fine, but....if I just had another chance to prove...

"I just want you to know there is someone else out there too.....if you would have them."

Owen's gaze remained fixed on yours, and he was aware that he wasn't being particularly passive, but that wasn't his style to begin with. But even he understood it was too perilous to give out a full confession, so he opted for the word "someone" rather than himself.

Please let me be that someone.

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"Owen?"

"Yes?" Owen asked, his voice barely audible.

Your eyes flashed with hesitation. "What are you talking about?"

Owen gulped through his dry mouth. "Listen, lass/duck/lad, all I'm saying is that I'm here for whatever you need as a brother, mate, or something more."

Owen gave your hand a gentle squeeze, so you could pull away at any moment, but you just held on tighter. Owen looked down at your hands, and his breathing seemed to become more even.

"....something more." You said the words slowly like they were foreign. Your heart beat in your chest and the prospect, you leaned over closed, and Owen held his breath. However, there was a question on the edge of your tongue that you couldn't ignore. "What brought this on? What do you mean about someone in my bed?"

Owen ran a hand through his hair. "You don't have to lie to me. I saw your love bite."

Your eyes widen, and your hand reaches instinctively toward your neck. "What?" You remembered the mosquito bite as a familiar itch. "Oh Owen, this isn't a hickey; it's a mosquito bite."

Owen blinked in surprise; his eyes widened, and a pink tint rose to his cheeks as he looked closer. "Ah. I see that it is." He was so caught off guard that you felt the genuine relief come off him in waves.

The redhead got up and leaned over you, cornering you like you were prey, but you weren't scared. On the contrary, you felt quite secure when he looked at you with sincere eyes.

"So...can I be that someone?"

💚 ZANE

Zane's eyes always seemed to roam your body from head to toe whenever you walked into a room.

Lips. Legs. Torso.

He always seemed to try and figure out if anything was different, but when your hand kept going to your neck, that was what his eyes went to in a flash.

Then, his whole world came crumbling down.

Something bubbled up inside him—a familiar feeling he knew all too well, boiling rage. He wanted to laugh hysterically, cry, and shout all at the same time.

Because it was all so stupid. It really was. You weren't even important. but you were. Hell, you were the most important thing to him, and you weren't even his to begin with.

Before you knew it, you were being pulled into the other room, the door slamming behind you, making you jump. "What the hell, Zane?"

"Who?"

You crossed your arms; Zane's back was to you, but there was a coldness in the room that you couldn't quite comprehend.

"Zane, you better start making sense."

Zane whirled around, and your eyes widened at Zane's expression of hurt and hunger combined. You had to take a step back.

Shadows are wiped out of the corners of the room, and before you know it, you're pressed against the wall, the tentacles trailing your body, leaving you with a feeling of hot pleasure.

A tentacle grabbed your chin, tilting it to the side surprisingly gently. "Who did that to you?"

You struggled against the shadows. "Did what, Zane?!" You asked, and you knew he wouldn't hurt you. Not this, Zane. Not you, Zane.

"Who did you let suck on your damn neck?" Zane looked straight into your eyes, and all you saw was raw sadness staring back at you.

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You shook your head when the realization hit you. "Zane, this isn't a hickey; it's a mosquito bite."

Zane stopped and looked into your eyes, narrowing his own, and he must have seen the truth behind your statement because the shadows relaxed around you.

"A mosquito bite," Zane said each word carefully, and relief hit him like a ton of bricks.

An urge hit Zane like an animal instinct to mark you with whatever he could, although he settled on his lips.

You nodded. "I would never. I mean, that is to say that I-" Your words died in your mouth when the shadows wrapped around you in just the right way, and Zane's mouth was on your neck.

"Zane?" Your voice came out hoarse, and Zane chuckled.

"I need to mark you to make sure everyone knows you're mine."

🧡 MARGARET

Margaret felt her heart break when she saw the mark, her hands in fist as she tried not to cry.

She thought that you—well, she guessed it didn't matter what she thought because you already had a lover.

It's okay. It's okay.

Margaret repeated In her head as you spoke, clearly concerned.

"Margaret, is everything alright?" You asked, coming closer to put a hand on her shoulder to try and comfort her.

"You have a mark." She said, her voice barely above a whisper as she pointed to your neck.

"Oh yeah." You said it in a sheepish tone. "It's a-"

"I think I have some kind of ointment I can give you," Margaret said, turning away from you to go get the ointment her voice tighter than normal.

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Margaret waited; she waited for you to bring up this new lover. For at least Camila to spill something but nothing.

Did you not trust her? Did you think she would get upset? Did you know about her crush on you?

It hurt like nothing before that you were already taken, but the more she thought about it, the more she just wished for your happiness. It was selfish not to trust her as a friend, and now that rooted self-doubt right into her heart.

When you came in with another mark, she turned away.

"Hey, Margaret, can I have some more of that ointment for this bug bite?"

Margaret's whole world stopped as she slowly turned around to face you, her mouth finally working after what felt like a minute.

"Your....what?"

"My bug bite." You said, while absently scratching it, and Margaret couldn't help the smile that etched itself across her face.

Hope filled her to the brim as she vibrated with happiness. Now, really looking at the "love bite," it did look like a bug bite.

"I will get right on that!" Margaret said with a smile.

#interactive fiction #twine interactive fiction #ask #answered ask #MIS-Ask #MIS-Answered Ask #MIS-RO:Rosemary #MIS-RO:Margaret #marcel #margaret #rosemary #MIS-RO:Marcel #MIS-RO:Zane #Zane #MIS-RO:Owen #Owen #MIS-RO:Tai #Tai #my inner sins

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ang3lc · 2 months ago

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Panther | Fault Lines

[PREV] | [NEXT]

MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 2k words

7.23.22 - 0923

The hum of the engines droned in my ears as I sank deeper into the uncomfortable seat, staring out into the sky. Stars and faint city lights blinked in and out of sight as the plane glided through thin clouds, but nothing out there held my attention for long. I kept trying to let the white noise calm me, but something clawed at me from the inside, sharp and restless.

This mission had too many unknowns. They'd given me barely anything before sending me up here, but whatever was waiting in D.C. felt like it came with strings attached. I shifted, cracking my knuckles to give my hands something to do other than pick at the skin on my fingers. The quiet had my mind wandering into places I'd spent years avoiding like the plague.

I took a shaky breath, but that only made the memories edge closer. Shadows of a different night fell over my vision: a dark hallway, a closed door at the bottom of the stairs. I could hear his voice, booming and vicious, rattling through the floorboards as I crept closer, Mr. Blankey in my clutches. I was a kid then, smaller, terrified, but moving toward it anyway, barely breathing. The steps groaned under my feet, but I kept going, pulse racing. I could still feel the way my heart had pounded back then, every beat reminding me I was just a kid who shouldn't be there.

My chest tightened. I gripped the armrests, forcing myself to swallow down the memory, forcing myself to stay here, in the present. Not now, but the feeling lingered, like some shadow I couldn't shake.

The engines hummed louder, steady, keeping me grounded, at least for now. But with every mile that brought me closer to D.C., I felt the weight of something else growing, something that had stayed with me all these years, buried deep. This new assignment wasn't just another order. It wasn't routine. And I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was coming, I was running straight into it, alone.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, closed my eyes, and tried to will the memories away, at least for now.

Focus, I told myself. Get your fuckin' shit together, Bea. You've fought wars 'n carried wounded soldiers through minefields.

The darkness would have to wait.

...

The wheels hit the tarmac with a thud that seemed to echo in my bones, rattling loose the last pieces of sleep I'd managed to catch during the flight. The plane rolled to a halt, and I watched the gray, washed-out landscape of D.C. in the early morning light. The city lay ahead, sharp and distant, an expanse of concrete and stone framed by the hint of dawn just beginning to edge over the horizon. Everything felt cool and clinical—the exact opposite of where I'd come from, of what I knew.

I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment, feeling the weight of it shift awkwardly as I slung it over my shoulder. I stepped down the narrow aisle, my boots echoing softly on the metal, the sound carrying in the quiet emptiness of the plane. The flight crew nodded as I passed, but I kept my gaze forward, focusing on the strip of light spilling in from the doorway. Stepping out, I was greeted by the damp warmth of D.C.'s humid air clinging to my skin, heavy and unyielding, so different from the dry heat back home.

At the foot of the metal stairs, two men in crisp black suits stood waiting, arms crossed, expressions obscured by dark sunglasses that seemed more for show than necessity given the somber morning sun. Their gazes felt like they were peeling me apart, sizing me up, even if I couldn't see their eyes. I forced myself to look past them, as if I were unaffected, and continued down the stairs.

One of the men inclined his head. "They're ready for you at headquarters. Car's this way."I nodded, sparing him only a glance, and followed him toward a sleek, black Subrurban idling on the runway's edge.

The driver opened the back door, and I slid in, the blast of cold air conditioning making goosebumps erupt on my skin. I stole a quick glance around the interior—leather seats, tinted windows, faint scent of new car and disinfectant. No distractions. No personal touches. Just business.

As we pulled away, the hum of the engine filled the silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio on the dash. I pressed back against the seat, my eyes fixed on the road ahead as we left the empty airstrip and merged onto the narrow road leading out of the private terminal. I knew where we were headed, but that didn't stop the questions from clawing at me, each one louder than the last. Why me? Why now? And for what?

I exhaled, trying to steady my pulse. For a brief moment, the distant trees lining the road blurred in my vision, and suddenly I was back in Georgia, in that cramped hallway with the smell of spilled beer and stale cigarettes, with the light overhead casting everything in a dull, sickly yellow. I could almost hear the shouts, the crash of glass—the sound of fists against flesh. My own hands tightened involuntarily, my fingernails would've left bloody crescents in my palms if I hadn't already peeled them to the skin. I forced my mind back to the present, locking the memory away, but the familiar burn of anger lingered.

The Suburban took slow, deliberate turns, leading us away from the city, and I felt myself refocus, letting the greenery of D.C. wash over me. Langley, McLean, the reflective green sign read, and seemingly the only one for miles. Guess that's where we're going. The roads were empty and seeming exclusive. We pulled onto several side roads, the air thick with anticipation as the CIA's main HQ eventually came into view—a looming fortress of glass and steel, clinical and unyielding.

The car slowed to a stop and I stepped out. Here, everything was clean and precise—just lines, steel, stone. The polar opposite of home. But somewhere within these walls was a purpose, one that I had been brought here to fulfill.

The door behind me slammed shut with a decisive click, snapping me back to the present.

I followed the suited man across the paved walkway, my boots echoing against the polished concrete, each step bringing me closer to the building's massive glass doors. As they slid open, I was hit with a wave of icy air, a stark contrast to the muggy morning outside. Inside, the walls were lined with brushed metal and sharp angles, every surface pristine, like they hadn't seen a speck of dust in years.

My guide led me through the lobby and down a series of identical corridors, each turn making it feel as though we were moving deeper into the belly of some steel giant. Occasionally, someone would pass us in the hallway, all nodding as they hurried by, eyes sliding over me with a mix of curiosity and disregard. They couldn't be phased by my scarred face or my seemingly permanent 11's. They had places to be, missions to plan, orders to execute. I was just another face in the maze. The complete opposite of Hunter.

Finally, we reached an unmarked door, the corresponding windows blacked out. My guide gave me a brief nod before opening the door and stepping aside, revealing a small, discrete conference room.

Shepherd, the man himself, sat at the head of a long, polished table, his shoulders set and his gaze focused, as if he were already sizing me up and trying to decipher what this meeting would mean for everyone involved. His pristine green suit matched the environment, various medals and pins signifying his commitment to the country. A General. 4-Star, at that.

Kate Laswell was sat beside him, her sharp, yet kind eyes flicking to me the moment I entered, assessing me like she could figure out every thought under behind my eyes if she looked long enough. Her conservative, yet practical clothing signified that she didn't spend much time at her desk.

And then there was John Price, sat the opposite side of Shepherd and Laswell, forming the perfect triangle. His expression was indifferent, his eyes shadowed as they followed me across the room. A plain tee and jeans from what I could see. His beard definitely wasn't in regs, most likely because he didn't have regs he needed to follow.

"Take a seat," Price turned toward me, his voice now slightly more welcoming, yet maintaining that undertone of command that left no room for argument. He's a Brit. Always hated those posh motherfuckers.

I slid into a chair across from them all, my back to the door as I set my hands on the table to keep them steady. I could feel a faint pulse of tension thrumming under my skin. General Shepherd cleared his throat, glancing between Price and Laswell as if to confirm they were all on the same page.

"Beatrice Dawson," Shepherd began. Southern, I noted. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're here."

"Sure am, Sir." I nodded and kept my gaze steady, waiting for the explanation.

Price leaned forward, resting his hands on the table as he spoke, his tone quieter, more measured. "We want to pull you in for a specialized task force," he said. "This team asks for a specific skillset. Focus, precision... My team. You're here because of what you bring to the table."

I nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in, but part of me remained cautious, guarded. My eyes flickered to Shepherd and Laswell, before returning to Price. " 'N the mission?"

Laswell's gaze sharpened as she spoke up, keeping her response measured. "We're in the early stages of an operation targeting a dangerous tyrant. Intel suggests that he's contributed and led terror acts across the globe. He's a... long-standing adversary that has resurfaced, and he's gathering power quickly. We want to hit him before he can gain more ground than he already has."

She paused, letting that sink in, and I could feel the implication hovering there. This wasn't some small, surgical operation; it was a full-scale assault on a highly connected man that wouldn't go down easily. I took a deep breath as I processed her words.

Price's blue eyes locked with mine and he chimed in. "This isn't a typical mission. It's going to require cooperation, absolute focus, and trust. You'll be working alongside men with extensive field experience. I can assure you, they're the best at what they do, and I expect you to operate alongside them and at that standard."

The words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken challenge and tension. I met his gaze, feeling a surge of determination rise in my chest. I couldn't help but catch the way he emphasized working as a team. I groaned internally, but the soldier that has been forged was rising to the occasion, nonetheless.

Shepherd leaned forward, his gaze steely and his arms crossed. "We aren't here to coddle you or hold your hand. You were selected because we trust you can operate at this level. But let me be perfectly clear: you do not jeopardize this mission. Not for anything. You follow orders, execute without question, and complete the objective. Are we understood?"

"Understood, Sir," I said, my voice steady.

Laswell's eyes softened just a fraction. My gaze flickered back to her as she spoke again. "Good. You'll have a chance to meet the team soon. For now, get settled, and be ready. You leave for Europe in less than twenty-four hours. Until then, you'll be set up in a secure hotel not far from where you landed. You are not to leave your room. Expect to be contacted tomorrow afternoon. Any questions you have will be answered on the plane."

Price gave me a final nod, a hint of approval in his eyes. "Dismissed."

I rose and gave them all a silent nod, feeling the weight of their expectations settle over me, the gravity of the task ahead pressing down as I stepped out of the room. The door closed behind me with a quiet click, and I was back in the silent hallway, alone with my thoughts.

This wasn't just another assignment. It was a step into something bigger. The stakes had just been raised.

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thearchvillain · 10 months ago

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gardenias. | nikolai

part II (part I)

nikolai lantsov x reader

summary: the setting is a grand event hosted at os alta with the intention of finding a future queen for crown prince vasily. the reader is a merchant's daughter trying to keep a low profile after her parents had dragged her there (against her will) with the hopes that she might catch the prince's attention. she, on the other hand, has different plans. plans that get entirely upheaved by none other than the younger prince nikolai who interrupts her illicit late-night meeting in the winter garden. now she's caught attention of one of the two people whose scrutiny she'd been trying so hard to avoid for the last few days of the event and she's not entirely sure she actually minds it.

preview: He held her gaze for a moment, hardly moving a muscle himself, before he spoke again, his voice firm. “No games. Remember?” The huff that left her might have been a chuckle, only completely devoid of any humour. She stared down at him for a moment, eyes glassy and tired, like it had all just caught up to her and she was finally crumbling. “I almost believe you. I think it’s the face. It’s a kind one.” Her eyes searched his face, clinical, like one would observe a painting of him on the gallery wall. “Or maybe you’re just handsome.” “Why, thank you.” He offered her his best attempt at a self-assured smirk and decided it fell flat. Even his ego was dampened by the moment, which was a feat in itself. He sighed. “What did they do to you?” “Is that a rhetorical question?” Kind of. “Do you want to answer it?” She shook her head. “Then it was rhetorical.”

word count: 3.4k (compared to 5k in the 1st part this is tiny)

pinterest 📸

tropes/warnings: not cannon, adult language

a/n: well, this is like a year too late to the game, but i could not get it out of my head. keep in mind that pieces of information and explanations are left out intentionally, we are only aware of what nikolai is aware of (which is not much, as he'll come to find out) and yes, i might have engineered some ✨drama✨ to bring them closer together emotionally, so we don't all get stuck on surface attraction and vague suspicions

nikolai's POV

If one imagined the Court to be an organism - which was not a hard thing to do, given how reliably it behaved - then the whispers of its courtiers were the lifeblood, coursing steadily through its golden vessels. And if rumours were a sickness, then one could hardly be surprised to see them spread to every last corner of this monstrous creature as quickly and reliably as a plague would. Which was very quick, indeed.

Nikolai had hardly managed to get his hands on a plate of some highly garnished and questionably nutritious food before the whispers reached him. It was not a particularly subtle affair, as these things rarely were, and Nikolai had a sneaking suspicion this was entirely by design. He didn’t think he imagined that the ladies had been standing a bit further away just a moment ago, and he knew with certainty that as far as whispers went, these could hardly be classified as hushed. They made a show of leaning in and raising delicate hands to their lips, but it was the eyes that betrayed them - sharp and quick, glossy with excitement, and slipping surreptitiously in his direction as if to check if he was listening. He was.

And if he took his overly-decorated food elsewhere in the garden, then the mill would start all over again, like a broken melody. She does have that look about her. Her poor parents, they’d say, but Nikolai did not believe their pity. It was, he thought, just a well-aimed knife. Hush, someone’s mother reprimanded, voice sharp, her mother’s right there. But by the looks of her, Nikolai doubted it was anything Mrs Braam hadn’t heard before. She sat, straight-backed and completely devoid of colour, at one of the wrought-iron tables set around the palace gardens. There was an abandoned tart on the plate in front of her, forgotten and replaced by the glass of brandy she gripped with a shaky hand, and next to her was an older Kerch woman who was valiantly attempting to drown out the whispers with conversation. Nikolai averted his gaze, unwilling to participate in this cruel charade.

But when his gaze landed in the distance it caught, as if on a shard of glass, on the pale green silk of her dress. Around her, a few ladies and their handmaids had formed a tactical formation of sorts, attack dogs in the finest silks, their eyes sharp and vaguely threatening. If even one of them caught someone staring, they’d turn in unison like hounds that scented blood and stare them down into submission, then turn back around and smile sweetly at Miss Braam, as if nothing had just transpired. Nikolai was therefore very careful to look only when one of them was taking a shot with her mallet, lest he meet the end of one of those glares.

And so he watched her in increments, like a series of paintings of an obsessed artist - the twist of her body as she swung her mallet, the errant lock of her hair cascading over her shoulder, the lovely twist of her smile when the ball went through the hoop. The fourth time he looked she was leaning on her mallet, watching the girl in purple take her shot, and he realised she had her mother’s eyes and none of her pallor. There was a brush of colour high atop her cheekbones so that in her green dress she looked like a maiden of spring, vivid in her liveliness. If she was concerned with the gossip, she did not show it. And when she caught him looking the fifth time, she met his eyes the same way she did last night in the greenhouse, steady and unflinching. And then she smiled.

_____________________________

She was smiling again when she entered the library in a flurry of silk later that afternoon, her voice light as she called out to the librarian, “Have you found it?”

Nikolai flipped a page, eyes skimming the blueprints and the calculations, and waited for her to notice him. If it was a bit theatrical, he blamed it on the boredom and not the fact that her irritation was a source of great amusement for him. And he knew before she even let out an annoyed huff, that she was bound to be irritated by his ploy.

“Your Highness.” Her voice was even, though it seemed to require not an unsubstantial amount of effort to keep it so. “I didn’t know you were using the library.”

Nikolai flipped another page and looked up at her only long enough to offer her a smirk. “No need to play coy, Miss Braam. I’ve sent everyone away. We’re alone.”

“Wonderful,” she said dryly and shut the door behind her, pressing her back against it. Nikolai allowed himself a private, self-satisfied smile. If she had been so keen on getting away from him she could’ve simply walked back out, but she hadn’t. “And I presume you were also the one that sent someone to tell me the book I was looking for was found?”

“Catching on quick.” Finally, Nikolai shut the book he was perusing and looked up at her. She was wearing the same dress she wore to brunch, the colour a muted jade in the soft, warm shadows of the library. And when he looked up to her face she had her eyebrow raised, like a school-teacher that had caught him staring. Nikolai offered his best boyish smile. “You look lovely.”

“Oh, shut it.” It was not the response he usually got, but he was still amused as he watched her turn her back on him and start fiddling with the lock. He had half a mind to ask if she was blushing again but she jerked that pin in place with such ferocity that he decided against it. Besides, it was answer enough.

Instead, he said, “And a personality to match it.”

She checked the door once, then jerked it again for good measure, and finally when she was satisfied that no one could enter and catch them speaking, she turned around and levelled him with a look. “Careful, I might decide to be polite and bore you out of your mind.”

“You’d combust.”

She pursed her lips but did not deny it. “What do you want?”

Nikolai uncrossed and crossed his ankles again, sinking deeper into his sprawl across one of the chairs that were neatly arranged around a long table, his gaze following her as she made her way towards him. “Only the pleasure of your company.” Then, his voice gone low and serious, he continued, “That, and to ask how you were doing — after the brunch, I mean.”

“Oh, that.” For a moment he saw something cross her features, a look of startled confusion, as if she hadn’t quite expected him to ask, or at least not in such a way. Or maybe he was just imagining things because next he knew she was propping her hip against the table and looking distinctly unconcerned. “As any scandalous woman - basking in the attention, utterly debauched.”

He must have frowned or made some sort of unstudied expression because suddenly she was laughing at him and using the brief moment of confusion to lean forward and steal the book from his lap. She smelled like something sweet and flowery, like a late summer afternoon.

There was a tone of playful accusation in her voice as she said, “So they did find the book.”

He ignored it. “You don’t seem particularly upset.” It was hard to tell if it was a statement or a question, but even Nikolai could not push down the bewilderment that coloured his words.

Y/N, to her credit, didn’t seem to mind his confusion. She moved one of the chairs and sat on the edge of the table, legs crossed, the book open across her lap as she ran her fingertips along one of the blueprints. “It would be quite counterproductive to be upset,” she said conversationally, flipping a page, “given that I’ve started the rumour myself.”

Slowly, Nikolai eased himself back into his chair, allowing the confession to settle over him, eyes never quite leaving her. He could tell from the too-casual way she flipped the pages that she was very much aware of his gaze and very intent on pretending she wasn’t.

He lost his patience after she flipped the fourth page. “How?”

She stroked the edge of the book fondly, like it was a pet or a lover, and took her time with flipping the page before she deigned to answer him. “I made sure to be seen sneaking into my room last night. Then I told one of my maids to talk about a handsome lieutenant she’d seen sneaking around the place at roughly the same time.” She flipped another page and sighed happily at whatever she saw on it. “Anyway, I figured someone would piece it together into a scandal sooner or later. By breakfast, the story was that we were seen together, and by brunch, well…” She looked up at him and smirked. “I’ll spare you the lurid details.”

Nikolai was rather proud of the way he didn’t wonder about the lurid details and instead focused on the matter at hand. “Why?”

“I wish to spare your princely sensibility.” She was flipping the pages and ignoring him again, though he could tell she was thoroughly amused by the game she was playing from the way the corner of her lip twitched slightly.

He drew a furtive breath in through his nose and closed his eyes to steel himself against the taunts. He was not fifteen anymore, he could hold it together. “No, I meant why in the name of Saints would you do that?”

“I do very little in the name of Saints or Ghezen these days, Your Highness.” Nikolai did not doubt that. She let the book fall open on her lap and leaned back against her hands, watching him thoughtfully. Then she shrugged and said, rather matter-of-fact, “I told you I bite when cornered.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think that meant you’d bite yourself.”

There was something vaguely unsettling at the way she smiled at him then. A woman cornered, a desperate snap of the teeth, a final show of defiance. Her voice was oddly flat in comparison as she said, “An animal will chew its own leg off to be free.”

For a moment, all Nikolai could do was stare. It occurred to him only then that the two of them seemed to have in mind two vastly different versions of last night’s events. He felt that on an intellectual level, this was quite a jump from the playful threat he’d left her with last night. His hands gripped the armrests, but he could not feel his fingertips, and for a minute he seemed to be overly aware of the blood rushing through his ears and the steady beat of his heart. He could not hear his stumbling thoughts over the sound of it.

Then he heard himself say, as if from far away, “Is that what you think of me? That this had been my intention?”

“I think,” she said, having gone very still where she sat, “that I’m not going to play your game.”

The air between them shifted, growing raw and strange as if someone had cast a strange spell over it. Belatedly, Nikolai realised that this was not the question he’d truly meant to ask, but he also knew that she wouldn’t have answered it either way. Not when her spine was so rigid and her fingers white-knuckled where she wrapped them around the edge of the table, not when she looked at him carefully as if half-expecting him to lash out. What are you so afraid of? He’d meant to say. But he thought she might not know the answer anyway, or that the answer would simply be everything.

Slowly he reached up to rub his face, careful not to shift from his spot and startle her. Then he leaned his head back against the backrest of his chair and observed the point where the tall shelves met the ornate ceiling. The silence between them felt like being underwater, still and suffocating.

“Okay,” he said after a while, to no one in particular. Then he drew a breath and looked back down at her. “Alright. No games.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He was looking at her down his lashes, head still tipped back, his voice carefully bland. She looked like she might object, so he continued, “So let me just make this clear. You attempted to shoot your reputation to pieces because you thought that would stop me from approaching you tonight?”

She hid her uncertainty like a snake hid its legs, but Nikolai saw it flash briefly across her features before she pressed her lips together and stared him down. “You and the others. But mostly you, yes.”

“You lashed out without thinking, didn’t you?”

A muscle feathered in her jaw, but she kept looking at him, tenaciously stubborn. If she was afraid of him still, she did a very good job at hiding it. Which, Nikolai thought, was a pattern. “What does it matter?” she asked, defensive.

“It matters because I didn’t think you’d go about it so self-destructively. And that’s on me.” He pushed himself up from the chair, a bit too quickly, and regretted it the instant he saw her flinch. He froze for a moment, allowing the uncomfortable feeling of it to wash over him and fuel his determination, before he turned away and headed for the door. “I’ll fix it.”

“What? No.” From somewhere behind him he heard her produce a high-pitched, panicked noise followed by the sound of her feet scurrying across the library. By the time she caught him, he was two-thirds of the way out. “Stop. No. Nikolai!”

As he felt her fingers dig into his wrist he thought, quite obtusely, that her hands seemed deceptively delicate from afar. Then he voiced the very next, stupid thing that came to his mind. “Is that all it took for you to call me by my name?”

She tugged at his wrist for good measure, clearly frustrated, then let go when she was sure he’d stopped attempting to leave. “What will you do?” she ground out after a moment, her breath quickened. Nikolai knew that if he reached out to touch the inside of her wrist again he’d feel the same panicked flutter of her pulse. He held back.

“I’ll discredit the source. Which shouldn’t be hard since your sources are pitifully unreliable.” He shrugged, falling easily back onto his confidence. “Or I’ll simply tell them all to shut up.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Isn’t it?” He smiled down at her, amused by the way she had planted herself firmly between him and the door as if he couldn’t simply go around her. “Just trust me. I’ll make it go away.”

“Well, that would entirely defeat the purpose of why I did it!”

It took an astronomical amount of effort for him not to laugh, though by the look she shot him the amusement must have slipped past his defences. He looked at the door above her head and did his best to collect himself before he answered. “Don’t say I didn’t try to spare your feelings.” He lowered his gaze back down to her. “But I would have asked you to dance even if they called you the whore of Ketterdam. So it was a moot point anyway.”

He noted again, the same way he had last night, that her blush seemed to creep up on her quickly and that it started not on her cheeks, but below, as a smattering of colour just beneath her collarbones. It rose like the tide, but she did not let him see it reach her cheeks, and instead let out a frustrated sigh before going around him. Nikolai turned to watch her as she went back to the table and threw herself down into the chair, sullen and rosy-cheeked.

“So the bottom line is that I have no choice?” she said eventually, looking up from her hands, her voice thin and tired.

Nikolai’s amusement melted into confusion. “What?” He’d miscalculated, again.

This seemed to frustrate her further because she shot him such a vicious glare that he nearly flinched from it. “Oh, don’t play stupid. You’ve got me cornered. Either I confess or you throw me out into the limelight tonight. Is that what you want to hear? That you win?” Whatever energy she had poured into this display of ferociousness seemed to drain her completely, because in the end she just slumped back into the chair and closed her eyes. “Fine then. You win.”

Nikolai just stared at her, confused, and it was a while before he remembered that he had use of his limbs and that he could just walk over to her. He did so slowly, cautiously, like one would approach a snared animal, before lowering himself into a crouch in front of her. “Hey Ketterdam?” She did not respond. “Look at me.”

She seemed so fragile then, eyelids fluttering with the effort to keep them closed, the skin thin and so translucent that he could see the bluish outlines of the fine vessels beneath it. Nikolai had no idea how she’d extrapolated all that from their conversation, but he suspected she’d been spinning herself into a frenzy since last night. He thought that if he looked at it from her side, and at an angle, he might see the logic behind it. If she felt her hands were tied and she’d tried to bite her way out of it, then he supposed what he’d just done must’ve felt like having her mouth taped shut. He ignored the faint wave of nausea that rolled over him then. She opened her eyes, so slightly that Nikolai might have missed it had he not been right in front of her, looking for the smallest twitch of muscles on her face. He held her gaze for a moment, hardly moving a muscle himself, before he spoke again, his voice firm. “No games. Remember?”

The huff that left her might have been a chuckle, only completely devoid of any humour. She stared down at him for a moment, eyes glassy and tired, like it had all just caught up to her and she was finally crumbling. “I almost believe you. I think it’s the face. It’s a kind one.” Her eyes searched his face, clinical, like one would observe a painting of him on the gallery wall. “Or maybe you’re just handsome.”

“Why, thank you.” He offered her his best attempt at a self-assured smirk and decided it fell flat. Even his ego was dampened by the moment, which was a feat in itself. He sighed. “What did they do to you?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

Kind of. “Do you want to answer it?”

She shook her head.

“Then it was rhetorical.” Nikolai leaned his elbow against the table, steadying himself, and propped his cheek against his hand as he looked sideways at her. She seemed calmer now, if entirely deflated. “At least now I know you’re not mounting a coup d'état,” he supplied, unhelpfully.

She made a derisive sound, and it took him a second to realise it was a snort. “Because I’m such a sorry mess? Yes, you’re right, nothing so grandiose.” Her fingers slipped absentmindedly across the book that was left forgotten on the table. “You could though, if you wanted to. I think.”

“Yeah, probably.” This time, he did smirk properly. Then he patted the armrest of her chair and pushed himself up. “Now go rest. And wear something ugly tonight, so I won’t even be tempted to look your way.”

This, he found, caught her attention, because her gaze snapped to him almost instantly, suddenly alert. “What’s the catch?”

“Saints, you would not believe me if I told you the Sun set in the West, would you?”

She didn’t answer that, just raised one delicate, precise eyebrow. Well, at least she didn’t look so defeated anymore, which Nikolai decided he’d take as a win.

“Try not to start any rumours in the meantime.” He winked at her, tapping his fingers against the table before he turned to leave the library. “One fire at a time.”

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