#even in a crowd of people she is star among them

[looking-to-rattle-the-stars]

mmm thinking about how i feel a little bit like howl when i take my girlfriends hand sometimes lol i’ve noticed i will often walk behind her and grab one of her hands and then adjust to be at her side keeping my other hand on her shoulder! and often if we are walking and holding hands and either enter a place or are walking up/down something i tend to raise her hand up lightly so that she may lead and/or break apart if need be,, wonderful pretty girlfriend…

[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter)

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: continuation

- Next part: dragon eggs

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @ferakillia

The dawn of their wedding day broke with a rare warmth for the North, the sky a deep, endless blue above Winterfell. Snow clung to the castle’s ancient stones, but the air was still, as though even the wind itself held its breath in anticipation. The entire stronghold seemed to hum with energy, its people gathered from every corner of the Stark lands to witness a union that had already become the subject of countless whispered tales.

Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard, the grey furs of his cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his usual starkness softened by the weight of the day. His heart, so often steeled against emotion, was lighter today, a sense of anticipation thrumming in his veins. He had faced battle, the harsh winters of the North, and the endless responsibilities of leading his house, but nothing felt quite like this. Today, he was not just Lord of Winterfell—he was a man about to be wed.

The courtyard was bustling with activity. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen fluttered side by side, their sigils sharp contrasts—wolf and dragon, winter and fire. His bannermen, all garbed in their finest, stood near the towering trees of the godswood, while the castle’s women prepared the space for the ceremony that was to take place beneath the Heart Tree.

The great Weirwood loomed tall, its ancient face carved into the pale bark, its red leaves fluttering like the blood of old gods. This was where Cregan had wanted to wed her, beneath the watchful eyes of the gods of the North, and though she had been born to the faith of the Seven, the princess had agreed without hesitation. She was to become a Stark, after all, and she would take her place among their traditions.

The quiet murmur of the crowd hushed suddenly, as a figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Cregan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her.

She stood at the threshold, wrapped in rich silver and deep crimson. Her gown was a marvel of southern craftsmanship, its fabric shimmering in the morning light like molten fire. The silver thread that wound through the delicate embroidery reflected her Valyrian heritage, its designs reminiscent of the ancient sigils of her forebears. Her hair, like strands of spun moonlight, was woven into intricate braids, entwined with tiny pearls and rubies that caught the light, making her appear as though a crown of stars rested upon her head.

And yet, for all the beauty of her attire, it was her bearing that stole Cregan’s breath. She moved with the quiet confidence he had come to admire, her violet eyes focused on him as though there was no one else in the world. There was no trace of nervousness, no hesitation—she was every inch the dragon’s daughter, proud and regal, yet today, she walked toward him as his bride.

The crowd parted for her, whispers trailing in her wake, but no one dared to speak aloud. Even Cregan’s bannermen, hardened men of the North, stood silently, as if afraid to disturb the moment. He heard the faint murmur of the word Valyria pass between them, a reminder of the ancient blood she carried, blood older than any in Westeros.

As she reached him beneath the Heart Tree, Cregan felt the weight of the moment settle over them both. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. The godswood, the crowd, the banners—all of it was distant, insignificant. There was only her, and the promise they were about to make.

Maester Kennet, chosen to officiate the ceremony, stepped forward, his voice strong but reverent. “We gather here beneath the eyes of the Old Gods, to witness the union of House Stark and House Targaryen. Winter and fire, bound together.”

Cregan turned toward her, taking her hands in his. They were warm despite the cold air, her skin soft against his roughened palms. As they stood there, so close, he could see the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes—a softness that she seldom let others see.

“I, Cregan Stark, take you, Y/N Velaryon, to be my wife,” he said, his voice firm but laden with meaning. “From this day until my last. I will stand with you, through fire and snow, through war and peace. I swear it before the gods, before my people, and before you.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, her voice steady and clear when she spoke her vows in turn. “I, Y/N Velaryon, take you, Cregan Stark, to be my husband. I pledge my fire to your winter, my strength to your cause, my loyalty to your heart. From this day until my last breath, I will stand with you. This I swear before the gods, before your people, and before you.”

The words hung in the air, tangible and full of weight. Cregan felt them settle into his soul, binding him to her in a way that was more profound than he had anticipated. There was a finality to it, but it was not a burden—it was a promise he wanted to keep.

Maester Kennet raised his hands. “By the old gods and the new, I declare you husband and wife.”

Cregan didn’t wait for the maester to finish. He pulled her to him, his hands still wrapped around hers, and kissed her. It was not a show for the crowd, nor was it born out of any sense of duty—it was a moment just for them, filled with the raw certainty of the vows they had exchanged.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound filling the courtyard and echoing off the ancient walls of Winterfell. Cregan, for once, did not care who was watching. When he pulled away, the smile on his face was genuine, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of the same emotion reflected in her eyes.

They turned to face the crowd, and as they walked through the throng, hand in hand, Cregan caught the glances exchanged between his bannermen and the ladies of Winterfell. His bannermen, who had known him since boyhood, seemed almost astonished by the expression on his face. They had rarely, if ever, seen him smile like this.

Later, the maesters would record that no one had seen Cregan Stark smile more than on this day, save for the birth of his first child with the princess. But in that moment, as they walked through the people of Winterfell, his heart felt as though it might burst with the weight of the joy he carried.

As the newlyweds entered the great hall, the feast that awaited them was grander than any Winterfell had seen in years. Tables were laden with food, goblets filled with wine and ale, and laughter already filled the room. But even amidst the celebration, Cregan’s focus remained on her—his wife.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You make Winterfell warmer, princess.”

She tilted her head to him, her smile soft but knowing. “Perhaps it’s not just the fire in me, but the wolf in you.”

He chuckled, a deep, content sound. “A wolf and a dragon. We’ll see what kind of legends they make of us.”

“They will make legends of us, Cregan Stark,” she whispered. “That I promise.”

And as the night wore on, with the fire roaring in the hearth and the joy of the wedding spreading throughout Winterfell, Cregan knew she was right. This day, this union, would be remembered long after both of them were gone. And the legends would speak of the dragon that brought fire to the North, and the Stark who stood beside her, unflinching and steadfast.

The cold air of Winterfell’s courtyard bit at Cregan’s cheeks, the chill seeping through even his thick furs as he stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the great dragon Vaetrix. Her crimson scales glinted in the pale northern light, each one like a shard of polished ruby set against the stark white backdrop of snow. Even at rest, her massive wings were tucked tight against her sides, a vast stretch of membrane that flickered like flame when she shifted, the tips of her talons sinking into the frozen earth.

To say Cregan Stark was a man comfortable on solid ground would have been an understatement. He was born of stone and ice, a wolf bound to the earth, as much a part of the North as the walls of Winterfell itself. But today, as he stood beside his wife, watching the dragon’s great form settle before them, he felt that comfort slip away, like snow melting beneath an unexpected spring sun.

She had offered—no, insisted—that he take to the skies with her, on the back of Vaetrix. Cregan had held his ground through worse. He had fought battles, endured the harshest winters, but none of that prepared him for this. He could handle swords and shields, but flying? That was a different beast entirely. Quite literally.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, casting a skeptical glance at his wife, who stood beside him looking perfectly at ease, even amused.

Her silver-gold hair, tied back to keep it from whipping in the wind, gleamed in the cold sunlight. There was a mischievous glint in her violet eyes, and a faint smile played at her lips as she regarded him. “You’re not afraid of a little flight, are you, my lord?” she teased, her tone light but carrying just enough of a challenge to make Cregan’s jaw tighten.

He looked back at Vaetrix, the dragon’s head lowering to the ground with a snort that sent a puff of steam curling into the air. The dragon’s golden eyes—deep, intelligent, and unsettlingly aware—fixed on him with what he could only describe as amusement. As if the beast knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Afraid? No,” Cregan grumbled. “But I’d be a fool to not be cautious of flying on the back of a creature who could swallow me whole.”

She laughed then, a bright, musical sound that carried over the stillness of the courtyard. “Vaetrix isn’t interested in eating you. She’d much prefer a herd of sheep over a Northman. Too much wool, not enough meat.”

Cregan raised a brow. “Comforting.”

She placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm despite the cold. “Come, Cregan. You’ve fought in battles, faced down far worse than this. Flying will be nothing. Trust me.”

It wasn’t the flight that unnerved him, but the idea of relinquishing control. He was used to being on solid ground, where he could command his surroundings. The sky was unknown territory, one he had no desire to claim. But as he met her gaze, the playful challenge there mixed with something deeper—her faith in him, and perhaps a desire for him to share in her world. He couldn't refuse that.

With a deep breath, Cregan nodded. “Very well. I’ll fly with you. But if we fall, I’ll haunt you from the afterlife.”

Her smile broadened, and before he knew it, she was pulling him toward Vaetrix. The dragon lowered her massive form even further, folding her legs beneath her to allow them to mount. Up close, Cregan could truly appreciate just how enormous the beast was—her scales, tough and unyielding, were the size of his hand, and her wings, even at rest, stretched out like the sails of a great ship. Each breath she took seemed to rumble through the earth, and the heat radiating from her was enough to melt the snow in a wide circle around her.

He watched as his wife climbed effortlessly onto Vaetrix’s back, her movements fluid and graceful, as though this was second nature to her. It probably was. When she looked back at him, the challenge was still in her eyes. Cregan sighed, grumbled something under his breath about never being able to say no to her, and climbed up after her, though with significantly less grace.

Once he was seated behind her, his hands gripping the edge of the saddle far tighter than he’d ever admit, she glanced back over her shoulder, her smile still firmly in place. “Hold on, my lord.”

“I already am.”

“Good. You’ll want to hold on tighter.”

Cregan opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but before he could form the words, Vaetrix gave a mighty heave and pushed off the ground. Cregan’s stomach lurched as the world dropped away beneath them, the courtyard and the walls of Winterfell shrinking rapidly as the dragon’s powerful wings unfurled and beat against the sky.

He swore, loudly and without shame, as the icy wind whipped against his face, stinging his skin and making his eyes water. The ground, which he had spent his entire life firmly planted on, was suddenly nothing more than a distant blur of white and grey far below them. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced—wild, untethered, and completely out of his control.

His wife laughed, the sound carried back to him on the wind. “Are you alright back there, my wolf?”

Cregan, still clinging to the saddle for dear life, managed to mutter something that sounded vaguely like, “I’ll kill you for this.”

She only laughed harder.

As Vaetrix rose higher into the sky, her wings beating with a steady rhythm that shook the air around them, Cregan forced himself to breathe. Slowly, the initial shock gave way to something else—a sense of awe. The land stretched out beneath them in all directions, a vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness that seemed to go on forever. Winterfell looked impossibly small from up here, just a cluster of grey stones nestled against the white of the North.

The sky itself was a wonder—endless, clear, and so achingly blue that it made him forget, for a moment, the biting cold of the wind. Up here, the world was different, quieter, as though they had left the cares of the earth behind.

“This is what it’s like,” she said over her shoulder, her voice softer now, no longer teasing. “To be free in the sky.”

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sensation of being so far above everything he had ever known. But as he watched the vastness of the North unfold beneath them, he began to understand. Up here, there were no boundaries, no limits. It was just them, the wind, and the dragon’s wings.

“It’s…” he started, struggling to find the right word. “Incredible.”

She glanced back at him, her expression softening. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” he shot back, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

She smirked. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m cold,” he retorted, though he was no longer holding on to the saddle quite so tightly. In fact, as they soared above the snow-covered forests, he realized that his fear was ebbing, replaced by something closer to exhilaration. The wind roared in his ears, but instead of dreading it, he felt alive—more alive than he had in years.

Vaetrix let out a low rumble as if sensing her riders’ mood. The dragon's massive wings tilted slightly, adjusting their course, and Cregan felt the shift as they glided smoothly over the treetops. The ground below seemed distant now, almost irrelevant.

Cregan glanced down again, marveling at how small everything appeared. "I’m still not sure how you trust her to do this."

His wife’s voice was warm as she replied, “Vaetrix is my partner, not just a mount. She flies because I trust her, and because she trusts me. It’s not about control—it’s about the bond.”

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. Perhaps that’s what made the Targaryens so different from anyone else—their bond with these creatures was deeper than a rider and a horse, deeper than any earthly connection. It was fire, blood, and something more.

Vaetrix’s wings beat steadily as they soared toward the horizon, and for the first time, Cregan let himself relax, loosening his grip just a little. He even allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Alright," he said, leaning in slightly toward her. "Maybe I don’t hate this as much as I thought."

She smiled, her laughter carried on the wind, and as they flew together—wolf and dragon—Cregan knew that he had just crossed a threshold. This, too, was part of the life he had chosen with her, part of the legend they were creating together.

And despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy it.

The chill of winter had wrapped itself around Winterfell like an old, familiar cloak, but inside the thick stone walls of the castle, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. The hearthfires burned fiercely, their flames casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones, but it wasn’t just the fire that made the air feel so stifling. It was the weight of the moment, the hush that had fallen over the great hall, the tense waiting, and the murmured prayers to both the Old Gods and the new.

Cregan Stark paced the floor just outside the chambers where his wife labored. His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a restless energy that he couldn't shake. His boots scuffed against the flagstones with each turn, and though the men around him—his bannermen, his household retainers—watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement, no one dared to speak.

It wasn’t that Cregan feared what was happening behind the door. He had seen battles, endured the harshest winters, and ruled his people with a steady hand. But this—waiting for the birth of his first child—this was different. This was something far beyond his control, something that stirred a deep, primal worry in him.

He had been kept from the birthing chamber, of course, as was custom, but the muffled sounds of his wife’s labored breathing reached him even through the thick door. It was agonizing—knowing she was enduring such pain, and yet there was nothing he could do but wait.

One of his bannermen, Arnolf, an older man with a long, weathered face, stood beside him, watching the young lord with a hint of a smile. “My lord, pacing a trench in the stone won’t bring the babe any faster,” Arnolf said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation.

Cregan stopped mid-step, shooting a half-hearted glare at his bannerman. “If I don’t keep moving, I’ll go mad.”

Arnolf chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ah, the first child is always the hardest. You feel as though the world is on the edge of changing forever—and you’re right, it is. But trust me, my lord, it will all be worth it.”

Cregan nodded, though his jaw was still tight with worry. He knew the risks of childbirth, even for a woman as strong as his wife. She was no fragile southern lady—she was a dragon rider, fierce and unyielding—but still, childbirth had claimed queens and common women alike. He had never feared for her before, not when she flew on Vaetrix, not when she faced down the dangers of the North, but now...

Another sound, a sharp intake of breath from behind the door, sent Cregan’s heart racing again. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to burst through and be by her side. He hated this helplessness. Hated that he could do nothing but listen.

“Cregan,” came a voice from the shadows. It was his half-sister, Sara, stepping forward, her dark hair pulled back from her face, her expression soft but commanding. “She’s strong. She’ll make it through this. You know she will.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I know. But it doesn’t stop the worry.”

Sara placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “It never does. But trust in her strength. She’s born of dragons, after all. And you’ll see your child soon enough.”

Before Cregan could respond, a cry pierced the air from beyond the door—a new, sharp cry that did not belong to his wife. It was the cry of an infant, high-pitched and insistent, as though the child had already inherited the fire of its mother’s blood.

Cregan froze, his heart thudding in his chest as the door creaked open, and the midwife stepped out, her apron bloodied but her face bright with a smile. “A son, my lord,” she said, her voice warm. “A strong, healthy boy.”

For a moment, Cregan couldn’t move. The words washed over him, sinking in slowly. A son. His son. He felt as though the ground beneath him shifted, like his world had just expanded in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“A son,” he repeated, his voice almost reverent. He had dreamed of this moment—had imagined it a hundred times—but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

The midwife nodded. “Your wife wishes to see you. She’s tired, but well.”

Cregan didn’t wait for more. He strode through the door into the chamber, his heart still hammering in his chest. The room smelled of blood and sweat, but it was warm, almost stifling, and lit by the soft glow of candles. His eyes immediately found her—his wife—reclining in the bed, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat, but her face flushed with triumph. In her arms, bundled in soft furs, was their child.

She looked up as he entered, and the faintest smile touched her lips, though exhaustion lined her face. “Cregan,” she breathed, her voice soft but steady. “Come meet your son.”

He moved toward her slowly, as if in a dream, his eyes fixed on the small bundle in her arms. As he reached the bedside, she shifted slightly, lifting the child toward him.

Cregan gazed down at the infant—his son. The child’s skin was soft and pale, his tiny fists clenched tightly as he wailed, his little face scrunched in displeasure at being so new to the world. But what struck Cregan most was the shock of silver-gold hair atop the boy’s head, unmistakable, just like his mother’s.

“He’s perfect,” Cregan whispered, his voice thick with awe. He reached down, hesitantly at first, then more surely as he took his son in his arms. The weight of the child felt impossibly light, yet it was as though Cregan’s heart had just doubled in size.

His wife watched him, her violet eyes gleaming with warmth. “He has your hands,” she said softly, her voice touched with amusement. “Strong, like a Stark.”

Cregan chuckled, though his throat was tight. “And his mother’s hair. He’ll stand out here in the North.”

She smiled faintly. “Let them stare. He is both wolf and dragon. They’ll come to respect him for it.”

Cregan looked down at the boy again, his son, his heir. The child’s cries had quieted now, and he blinked up at his father with curious, unfocused eyes. Cregan could see it already—the strength, the fire that would burn within this boy. He was a Stark, but he was also more than that. He was part of a legacy that would shape the future of the North and beyond.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan murmured, the weight of everything hitting him at once. The responsibility, the joy, the pride—it was overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

“He will be great,” his wife said quietly, her voice soft but filled with certainty. “I can feel it.”

Cregan nodded, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, his gratitude for her—for everything—too deep for words. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She smiled, though her eyelids were drooping with exhaustion. “We did this together.”

He stayed by her side as she drifted off to sleep, their son still cradled in his arms. As the night deepened outside Winterfell’s thick walls, Cregan knew that the world had indeed changed forever. The child in his arms was not just his son—he was the future of House Stark and House Targaryen, the bridge between ice and fire.

And as Cregan looked down at the tiny face peeking from the furs, he smiled—a smile that his bannermen had not seen since the wedding, a smile that would be remembered in the histories of the North, alongside this day, as the day the first dragon-blooded Stark was born.

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange glow turning the snow into a strange mix of fire and ice. Cregan Stark, now a bit grayer around the edges but still every bit the Lord of Winterfell, stood near the training yard watching his men practice their swordplay. His face, as usual, was etched in concentration, though every so often, his gaze flickered toward the godswood where his daughter had spent most of the afternoon.

He knew her well enough to sense when mischief was brewing, and today, there was something in the air that told him she was up to something. He just hadn’t quite put his finger on what.

It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. His daughter, all of ten years old but with the same silver-gold hair and fiery spirit as her mother, came bursting through the courtyard gates with something bundled in her arms. Cregan immediately recognized the familiar look of determination in her eyes—he’d seen that look before, mostly when his wife had her mind set on something impossible, like teaching him how to fly on a dragon without looking like he was going to throw up.

“Papa!” she called, her voice a mix of excitement and urgency as she half-skipped, half-ran toward him. “Papa, look what I found!”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, though a part of him braced for whatever his daughter had gotten herself into this time. He folded his arms over his chest, his deep voice calm as he spoke. “What have you brought me this time, little one? A dragon egg, perhaps? Another wild idea about climbing the walls of Winterfell?”

She shook her head, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Better,” she declared, and with that, she opened her cloak to reveal a small, squirming ball of fur.

It took Cregan a moment to register what he was seeing. A direwolf pup—tiny, scruffy, and with impossibly large paws for its body—peered up at him from the folds of her cloak. Its wide, blue eyes blinked curiously, and its little tail wagged as though it had already made up its mind that this was where it belonged.

Cregan let out a deep sigh, the kind that comes from years of parenting and knowing exactly what was coming next. “Where did you find that?”

“In the woods by the godswood,” she answered cheerfully, holding the pup up as if presenting him with the greatest treasure the North had ever seen. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

The pup let out a small yip, clearly eager to be part of the conversation. Cregan eyed the creature with a mix of fondness and exasperation. The wolf looked like it had been born to cause chaos, and somehow, his daughter had already taken a shine to it. He could almost hear the arguments forming in her head.

“And what exactly do you expect to do with this… wolf?” he asked, trying to sound stern, though his resolve was already weakening at the sight of her beaming face.

“I want to keep him,” she said, her tone so matter-of-fact it was as if she had already made the decision for him. “He’s too little to survive on his own. And I’ve always wanted a wolf, Papa. You have one! Why can’t I?”

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the smile that was threatening to break through. “I have a wolf because I’m the Lord of Winterfell, not because I found one wandering around the woods and decided to bring it home like a stray dog.”

His daughter’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, giving him that look—one that made him feel as though he were about to be outwitted by a ten-year-old. “But you are the Lord of Winterfell, and that means you get to decide things like this, doesn’t it? You could say yes, right now.”

He sighed again. “That’s not exactly how—”

“Please, Papa?” she interrupted, stepping closer and cradling the pup against her chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of him, I promise. I’ll feed him, and train him, and everything.”

Cregan glanced down at the pup, who seemed entirely unfazed by the conversation, content to nestle into his daughter’s arms. The little wolf let out another soft yip, as if to back up her case.

“Do you even know how to train a wolf?” Cregan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll learn!” she insisted, her excitement growing. “He’s smart, I can tell. And I’m smart too. We’ll figure it out together.”

Cregan stared at her, knowing full well that he had lost this battle before it even began. She had that same stubborn streak as her mother, that fire that wouldn’t be extinguished no matter how hard he tried to reason with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of her having a wolf. A direwolf was part of the Stark legacy, after all. And though it was a bit earlier than he had planned, this felt… right.

He took a deep breath, looking from his daughter’s hopeful face to the pup in her arms. “Fine,” he said at last, his tone resigned but soft. “You can keep him.”

Her face lit up, and before he knew what was happening, she had thrown herself at him, wrapping her free arm around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you!”

Cregan chuckled, placing a hand on her head. “But you’ll be responsible for him, understand? That means feeding him, training him, and making sure he doesn’t tear through Winterfell like a wild beast.”

“I will, I promise!” she said, pulling back to beam at him, her eyes bright with joy.

The pup let out a soft whine and squirmed in her arms, wiggling until his head poked out from her cloak again. He gave Cregan a long, inquisitive look, his tiny tail wagging with uncontainable energy.

“I suppose we need to give him a name,” Cregan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What will you call him?”

His daughter thought for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with a grin, she said, “How about… Storm? Because I found him after that big storm last night.”

Cregan nodded, glancing down at the pup who was now chewing on the edge of his daughter’s cloak. “Storm it is, then. A fitting name for a troublemaker.”

As they turned to head back inside, the newly named Storm trotting happily at their heels, Cregan couldn’t help but smile. His daughter had her wolf, just as he had his. The pack was growing, and despite his earlier reluctance, he felt a deep sense of pride swell in his chest.

He leaned down to ruffle his daughter’s hair, his voice warm with affection. “You’ll do well with him, little one. Just don’t let him eat all my boots.”

She giggled, glancing down at Storm, who was already sniffing the ground with intense curiosity. “I’ll try, Papa. But no promises.”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

The years had settled quietly over Winterfell, and though the seasons had come and gone, bringing with them both harsh winters and gentle springs, the castle remained the sturdy heart of the North. Cregan Stark, now older, with silver threading through his once dark hair and lines etched into his strong features, stood at the window of their chambers, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. The sky was a soft grey, typical for this time of year, but the wind had stilled, leaving the world in a peaceful, almost serene silence.

Behind him, the familiar crackle of the hearthfire filled the room, its warmth seeping into the stone walls, casting a golden glow that softened the edges of everything. He could hear the gentle rustle of fabric as his wife moved about, though they no longer rushed through life the way they once had. These days, time was kinder, moving slower, allowing them to savor the quiet moments.

Cregan turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. She was seated in the large, cushioned chair by the fire, her silver-gold hair, now streaked with strands of white, falling loosely over her shoulders. Her beauty, undiminished by age, was not the fiery, untamed force it had been in their youth, but rather something more enduring, more graceful—a calm, steady flame that had warmed him for decades.

She looked up as she felt his eyes on her, her violet gaze meeting his, and a soft smile touched her lips. “What are you staring at, my wolf?” she asked, her voice still carrying that playful lilt, though it was quieter now, softened by the years they had shared.

Cregan smiled, crossing the room to her side. “Just thinking,” he replied, lowering himself into the chair beside her with a soft grunt. His joints weren’t quite what they used to be, but he still moved with the strength of a man who had led Winterfell for decades.

She raised an eyebrow, setting aside the book she had been reading. “You’ve always been a man of few words, but thinking? That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Dangerous for some, maybe. For me, it’s just remembering.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “And what are you remembering, Cregan Stark?”

He reached over, taking her hand in his. Her fingers, though not as nimble as they once were, still fit perfectly in his. He traced the lines of her palm, thinking of all the years they had spent together—of the battles fought, the children raised, the moments of laughter and sorrow that had woven their lives into something greater than either of them could have imagined.

“I was thinking of the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice quiet. “When you rode into Winterfell on Vaetrix. I had never seen anything like you, and I was certain, in that moment, that my life was about to change.”

Her laugh was soft, more of a breath than a sound, but it filled the room. “I remember that day. You looked like you were trying very hard not to run for the hills.”

Cregan shook his head, grinning. “I wasn’t about to run. I was too busy trying to keep my mouth from falling open. You were this fiery, untouchable force, and I was just a man standing in your shadow.”

She squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “You were never just a man, Cregan. Not to me.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them. Cregan let his gaze wander around the room, settling on the small tokens of their life together—the furs draped over the bed, the carvings of direwolves that adorned the wooden posts, a tapestry that depicted both the wolf and the dragon entwined, a gift from one of their children.

“I never thought we’d come this far,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “Through everything. Wars, winters… raising our children.”

She laughed again, this time with more warmth. “Oh, the children. They were more of a challenge than any war we faced, weren’t they?”

Cregan smiled, thinking of their brood—strong, stubborn, each with their own fire. Their son had grown into a man of great strength, a natural leader who now stood as Lord of Winterfell. Their daughter, with her direwolf by her side, had become a force in her own right, a woman who carried both the blood of wolves and dragons with equal pride.

“They were. But we managed.” He looked at her, his gaze softening. “We did well, didn’t we?”

She tilted her head, studying him with that knowing look she had always given him, the one that told him she saw right through him—through his walls, his defenses, straight to the heart of him. “We did better than well, my love,” she said softly. “We built something that will last long after we’re gone.”

He nodded, feeling a deep sense of contentment settle over him. She was right. The legacy they had created together, the family they had raised, would endure. House Stark and the blood of dragons would continue to thrive, long after their bones had returned to the cold ground of the North.

Cregan lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m glad it was with you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by my side.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I know, Cregan,” she whispered back, her breath warm against his skin. “It’s always been us.”

They sat like that for a long while, the fire crackling softly beside them, the weight of the years they had shared resting lightly on their shoulders. They didn’t need to speak—everything that mattered had already been said.

Outside, the night deepened, the stars beginning to peek through the grey skies, but inside Winterfell, there was warmth, and love, and the quiet peace that only came with a life well-lived.

And in that moment, as they sat together, hand in hand, Cregan Stark knew that he had found everything he had ever needed—here, in the heart of Winterfell, with the woman who had brought fire to his life and warmth to his winter.

[joemama-2]

a dead end | chap. 1

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

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

༺♰༻ wc: 9.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t bring the scandal up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See?! See! Right there! That one!”

A sigh in response. “Takuma…”

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

“Don’t start, Satoru.”

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

“Who?” Satoru casually asks. 

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

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

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

“Didn’t she homewreck a fam—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Easier said than done,” Takuma grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only twenty-eight…”

“Semantics, semantics.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll fix this all, I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Akira can’t look at it the same way anymore. The numbers might be right, but the faces of the test subjects in the other room—pupils dilated, shaking violently, uncontrollable aggression—linger in his mind like ghosts. He swallows hard. “I don’t know, Suguru. I can’t ignore the risks anymore.”

Suguru stands taller against the older man, his eyes burning with determination. “Then we move forward. We test on more subjects. We refine it, together. The world needs this.”

The tension in the room deepens, thick like a storm on the horizon. Suguru’s voice fills with a quiet intensity as he lowers his gaze to the vials again, almost hypnotized by their glow.

“Think of it, Akira. A world where depression is eradicated. Where no one has to suffer like she did. We can fix this.”

Akira hesitates, his mind torn between the growing sense of doubt and the promise of Suguru’s unwavering conviction. His eyes flicker back to the glowing vials, the temptation pulling at him, but something deep within him whispers that this isn’t the cure he thought it was.

But Suguru is already moving, already deciding. “Prepare the next round of trials,” Suguru commands, the finality in his voice settling like concrete. “We can’t afford to back down now.”

The words are no longer just a command, but a warning. He’s learned from his last mistake not to go against Suguru. Still, the memory from the last time causes his mind to plague with doubt and worry for what could sprout from this. The way the sedatives just barely flamed Subject 14, the utter strength that man had, and a junior scientist almost losing her life. 

He never signed up for this when he decided to help Suguru that one day three years ago. But now, he’s stuck. Completely stuck. 

The night patrol is easy, as some would say. The lab floor is quiet, save for the soft whirring of machinery and the distant flicker of security monitors. Two guards sit at the main security desk, their uniforms slightly wrinkled, their posture relaxed. They’re not scientists, and the weight of the research happening beyond the reinforced doors means little to them.

And in one of the dimly lit holding areas, Subject 37 sits in his reinforced cell, his body slack against the wall. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his pale skin, his breathing uneven, almost labored. The once-promising patient now looks more like a feral animal: his eyes bloodshot, his muscles twitching involuntarily, and his nails clawing at the concrete floor. The cameras in the corner of the room track his every movement, though tonight, the guards monitoring them are far from vigilant.

Where they sit is also adjacent to the holding cells, their post illuminated by the strong glow of multiple screens. The sound of static fills the air as one guard—Tanaka, a lanky man in his late thirties—scrolls through his phone, his feet propped on the desk. Beside him, the younger guard, Matsuda, barely pays attention, lazily flipping through a magazine.

The repetitiveness of it all is another tier of boring. It makes the guards themselves wish they could trade places with the subjects just for a little more spark in their everyday shifts. 

“This is the easiest gig I’ve ever had,” Tanaka mutters, glancing up briefly at the monitors before returning to his phone. “Just sit here, make sure nobody freaks out too much, and we’re golden.”

Matsuda snickers. “Yeah, because these lab rats are so terrifying.” He leans back in his chair, flipping a page. “You ever wonder what they’re actually testing on them?”

“Don’t care,” Tanaka replies, kicking his feet higher. “As long as the paycheck clears. Besides, it’s some top secret bullshit only they know about.”

“Maybe it’s a secret weapon for an upcoming war.” 

The two chuckle to themselves. On the monitor, Subject 37 suddenly jerks upright, his movements sharp and unnatural. He tilts his head, as though listening to something only he can hear. His breathing grows rapid, erratic. His hands clench into fists, and he begins to bang them against the walls of his cell, the dull thuds growing louder with each strike.

The guards glance up at the sound, faintly audible through the thick walls.

“Looks like 37’s having one of his tantrums again,” Matsuda says with a smirk. “Probably needs another sedative.”

Tanaka yawns, waving a dismissive hand. “Let him tire himself out. The reinforced glass can handle it.”

Subject 37 continues his assault on the cell walls, his fists leaving faint cracks in the reinforced concrete. The sound grows louder, reverberating through the otherwise silent lab floor. On the monitors, his movements become more erratic, his body contorting unnaturally as though something inside him is trying to claw its way out.

Matsuda frowns, lowering his magazine. “He’s really going at it tonight. You sure that glass can hold?”

Tanaka waves him off again, his gaze glued to his phone. “Relax. We’ve seen worse. The glass is four inches, these cells are built for freaks like him.”

But Matsuda’s unease doesn’t fade. His eyes remain fixed on the screen as Subject 37 suddenly stops, his body freezing mid-motion. His head tilts toward the camera, and for the first time, Matsuda feels like the subject is staring directly at him. It’s an unnerving sight—those bloodshot eyes filled with something primal, something unnatural.

“Uh, Tanaka?” Matsuda’s voice trembles slightly. “He’s looking right at us.”

Tanaka glances up, sighing. “So? Creepy stares don’t mean shit. The guy’s fried—probably doesn’t even know where he is.”

Before Matsuda can respond, the lights in the lab flicker for a second, before the entire block plunges into darkness. The sudden shift jolts Matsuda upright. Tanaka sighs and locks his phone, standing up, adjusting his gearbelt around his waist. .

“What the hell was that?” Matsuda asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Probably just a power surge,” Tanaka mutters, though the annoyed edge in his tone betrays his attempt at calmness. He grabs the radio on his belt and presses the button. “Control, this is Lab Security. We just had an outage down here—everything okay on your end? Are the backups now working?”

Static greets him on the other end. He frowns, pressing the button again. “Control, do you copy?”

Still nothing.

“Great,” Tanaka grumbles, setting the radio down. “Looks like the comms are fried too.”

On the monitor, Subject 37 begins moving again. This time, his motions are slow and deliberate, his head tilting side to side as if testing the limits of his body. His breathing grows heavier, audible now even through the thick walls. The cracks in the concrete behind him spread wider with each exhale.

Matsuda swallows hard. “We should call someone. A supervisor or—”

“We’re not calling anyone,” Tanaka snaps, though his eyes remain locked on the screen. “This is probably just another glitch. They’ll chew us out if we overreact.”

But Matsuda doesn’t share his confidence. His gaze darts between the screen and the reinforced door leading to the holding cells. A deep, guttural growl echoes through the lab, sending a chill down his spine.

Tanaka, gritting his teeth and grabbing his flashing along with a taser, heads over to the cell that houses the subject. “Fuckin’ freak.” He huffs, hand reaching out to unlock the cell. 

However, Matsuda stops him before he can do so. “W-what the hell are you doing?”

“Shuttin’ him up for now.”

“Tana—”

“Move,” the younger man is shoved out the way as Tanaka enters the cell with a wave of authority. Clicking the flashlight on, surveying the room. “Alright, freak. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

The cell feels colder than it should. The fluorescent light flickers weakly, casting long shadows across the stark walls. Subject 37 is nowhere to be seen at first glance, the reinforced glass door sliding shut behind Tanaka with an ominous hiss. 

“Real brave, aren’t you?” Tanaka mutters, his voice bouncing off the walls. He adjusts his grip on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the dimness. “C’mon, don’t make this harder than it has to be. We both know how this ends.”

Matsuda stands frozen just outside the cell, heart pounding in his chest, biting his lip anxiously.  The sound of his breathing feels too loud, competing with the quiet hum of machinery and the faint, unsettling growl that seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Tanaka,” Matsuda calls out, his muffled voice cracking slightly. “Don’t be stupid. Just get out of there.”

But Tanaka doesn’t answer. His attention is drawn to the far corner of the cell, where faint scratches mar the pristine walls. He steps closer, his flashlight illuminating deep gouges carved into the concrete. They form no discernible pattern, just chaotic, violent marks that make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Cheap walls,” he mutters, though the tremor in his voice betrays his unease. 

Suddenly, the growl grows louder, almost vibrating through the air. Tanaka spins around, flashlight beam whipping across the room. His taser hums to life in his other hand, the crackle of electricity a sharp contrast to the oppressive silence that follows.

“Alright, freak!” Tanaka yells, trying to mask his growing panic. “I’m done playing games.”

A shadow shifts in the corner, just outside the flashlight’s reach. Tanaka squints and whirls around to see better. Leaning forward slightly, and the growl morphs into a low, guttural chuckle. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the realm of the living, a sound that makes Matsuda take a step back even behind the door. “Tanaka, get out of there!” Matsuda shouts now, his voice trembling. 

But it’s too late. Subject 37 lunges from the shadows with unnatural speed, his twisted form illuminated for a split second as he crashes into Tanaka. The flashlight clatters to the ground, its beam spinning wildly across the walls, casting brief glimpses of the chaos.

Tanaka screams, a raw, visceral sound as Subject 37’s claw-like hands dig into him. The reinforced glass shakes as Matsuda’s eyes grow wide like saucers. “Tanaka! TANAKA!”

Inside the cell, the flashlight finally comes to a stop, its beam resting on Subject 37’s face. His bloodshot eyes gleam with a horrifying mix of rage and something almost... gleeful. His mouth, stretched into a feral snarl, drips with blood as he turns his gaze toward Matsuda.  

Matsuda gulps harshly, his hands trembling as he fumbles with his walkie-talkie. His breath comes in short, uneven gasps, the faint static of the device the only sound in the suffocating darkness. “Control,” he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is Matsuda. Emergency in the holding area—Subject 37 has breached containment! Repeat, Subject 37 is loose!”

Nothing but static answers him. His hands tremble more violently as he presses the button again, his voice cracking. “Control, do you copy?!”

The distant sound of something heavy dragging across the floor makes his blood run cold. Matsuda freezes, his eyes darting around the pitch-black lab. The reinforced glass of the cell door is now a dark void, hiding whatever is happening within. A wet, deep crunch echoes from the cell, followed by a sound that Matsuda can only describe as chewing. His stomach churns as bile rises in his throat, his knees threatening to give out. His lip curls, sweat dripping down his cheeks.  

“No, no, no,” he mutters under his breath, backing away from the door. His mind races, the primal instinct to run warring with his fear of what might happen if he turns his back.

Then, the chewing stops.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the faint buzz of the broken walkie-talkie. Matsuda’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest he’s sure it will give him away. He takes another step back, his eyes locked on the cell door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment.

A single tap comes from the glass.

Matsuda’s breath hitches. Another tap follows, louder this time, deliberate. His flashlight shakes in his hand as he grabs it— raising it toward the glass, the beam cutting through the darkness to reveal… nothing.

The cell is empty.

“Shit,” he whispers, his voice cracking. He takes another shaky step back, his body screaming at him to run, but his legs feel like lead. He attempts to reach for his pistol. 

But before anything else, the reinforced glass splinters in an explosion of force, shards flying in all directions. Matsuda raises his arms to shield his face, the flashlight clattering to the ground and spinning wildly. “Gah!”

When he lowers his arms, Subject 37 stands before him, blood dripping from his teeth, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim emergency lighting. 

“…pots…t’nac…t’nac I .em pleh.…esaelP,” the creature growls, its voice distorted, guttural, and impossibly human. However, it sounds like there’s the smallest hint of remorse in the subject’s voice. 

There’s a suffocating second of stillness, Matsuda staring at what once Subject 37 in utter horror. Limbs shaking, stumbling back until he falls on his ass.  Matsuda doesn’t think. He stands up in a rush—turns and bolts, his scream echoing through the lab as Subject 37 lunges after him. 

Gunshots are followed by a resounding squishy noise. 

a/n: very introductory ik. next chap is when it gets goooood

taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @boothillglazer

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr

[rafecameronsversion]

bright beverly hills || r.c

summary : kooks bully you at a party, and rafe reassures you.

warnings : bullying, discrimination, cursing, use of y/n, feminine descriptions.

i'm unsure if this is any good 🥸 i feel like i rushed it a lot. but hope u likey

rafe and i were two sides of the same coin, opposite but inseparable. he grew up in a silver spoon gated community, everything was served to him in a silver platter. a bubble-wrapped future, footsteps for him ready to follow.

while i was having candle-lit dinners at the cut, he had them in fancy michelin star restaurants. rafe had a cold exterior when it came to other people; to protect himself. however, when it came to me, he was the most caring boy.

clandestine meetings at the age of 12, his father would berate him for hanging out with a "pogue" like me, but he couldn't let him take away the one thing that brought him peace. we were best friends, eventually becoming more with lingering touches and longing glances.

he became a honorable part of my humble family, sometimes being invited over to our most simple of dinners, dancing in the living room late night swims in the beach.

it was friday night in outer banks, a party in full swing. this house belonged to topper. i was clinging to rafe's arm, feeling out of place. the tension in the air was palpable. i had debated that i didn't want to go here, knowing i would feel singled out and small.

this place yelled every single thing that was different between us two. the glistening chandeliers, polished floors, and snobby laughs coming from kooks who have never worked a day in their lives.

rafe smiles, looking at me. "i'll grab us some drinks real quick, alright baby?" he spoke, a gentle tone in his voice that was reserved only for me. i hesitated, not wanting to be left alone in this damned place. but i nodded, i couldn't be the one to hold him back, especially in his world. glamorous, shining, bright beverly hills.

he turned around, getting lost in the crowd of super rich kids. i stood in a less crowded corner, trying to attract the least attention, and it seemed to have worked.

three girls nearby were whispering among the other, yet they were louder than they realized.

"could you believe rafe cameron brought that girl here?" the blonde one scoffed, jealously reeked out of her mouth. the other two agreed, chiming in.

"must be hard living on the cut, always desperate to climb their way out." another one insinuated. i couldn't help but scoff at the idea, my heart was heavy and i couldn't bare being here. the bimbo chimed in, a confused look on her face.

"you really think she slept her way to be his girlfriend? i don't think even cameron would allow that..." she spoke, eyes wide. the blone one rolled her eyes. "well, even the richest men can still think with their dicks, jessica." she was an absolute mean girl, and her tone displayed it perfectly.

i felt like the walls were moving in on me, it was all too much. this place was too much. i quietly turned away, going outside by the porch where no one seemed to stay. i breathed in the fresh air, fidgeting.

soon after, rafe had found where i was. he looked at me fondly, a soft smile on his face. "hey... there you are. i thought i lost you in there." he said, rubbing his hand over my shoulder. i exhaled sharply.

"why am i here, rafe?" i questioned, my voice was low as i stood against the railing of the front porch of toppers' home, that was as big as the living room of my family's house. rafe looked at me confused.

"what do you mean, baby?" he asked, a soft and confused look in his eyes.

i laughed out a scoff, a bitter tone. "i don't belong here, rafe. your world... this mansion, these people." i paused, unsure how to continue. "i grew up on the cut, these people do nothing but look down at us. i can't be here rafe, i can't be in this world."

rafe's jaw tightened, looking away for a second before looking back at me. "you know that's not fair" he spoke, his voice on the edge.

"what's not fair is you pushing to bring me here! i don't have any of the things the girls here have. you'd be better off with someone from your world..." i spoke, my voice breaking a little from frustration.

rafe's eyes softened, he moved closer toward me. "baby..."

"don't you see how different we are? your world is all polished floors and bright chandeliers. mine is messy and chaotic." i spoke softly, afraid my voice will betray me.

he reached out, grabbing both hands and bringing them closer to him. "listen, i didn't bring you here to make you feel small. i don't want these girls, they can all go fuck themselves! i love you, and i love that we're different." he spoke softly, kissing the knuckles of my hands.

"none of this matters to me, baby. it doesn't mean anything if i don't have you." rafe spoke, his blue eyes warm.

i searched his face, looking into his eyes. i want to believe him yet doubt lingered in the back of my head. "you say that now..."

"but what happens when your friends remind you of who i am? when your dad tells you i'm not good enough." my voice was below a whisper, afraid of the possibilities of this relationship we had.

rafe held me by my shoulders, "i don't care. i'm done caring what they think. i want you, and the messy and chaotic world you've shown me." he said, leaning in and kissing my forehead.

"i don't need this world. i want the one where you showed me it's okay to be real, that it's okay to feel." he says softly, looking deeply into my eyes.

the way he looked at me so gently, so genuine. i felt as if i could cry. i attacked him in a hug, my arms wrapped around his torso.

"its just... those girls get under my skin. kept talking about how i slept my way out of the cut." i admitted quietly, my head still against his chest.

rafe shakes his head, hugging me back. "never ever let them get to you. they're just pissed." he pulled back to look at me, smiling. he pressed his lips onto mine, for a short and delicate kiss. "how about we just get out of here?" he said, a cheeky smile on his face.

i laughed, nodding my head yes. "i'd like that so much. please." he grinned, putting my hand in his as he guided us out of this place.

[aettuddae]

business matter — chapter 131.

a christmas special.

↳ synopsis: two of the most important kpop companies covet a partnership with a huge global brand, only to be surprised when the deal is extended to both labels. fearing potential sabotage and cynical strategies to secure exclusivity for just one of them, both CEOs resort to desperate measures. in a bid to maintain trust and prevent betrayal before the signing, they come up with a pact: forcing a fake relationship between the leaders of their star girlgroups. if one side attempted to fail the other, they threaten to expose it all to the conservative south korea.

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[written chapter]

december 25, christmas had arrived.

for many ordinary families it was a special holiday spent together, where they ate delicious things and showered each other with attention and gifts, for other ordinary families it was perhaps a day like any other. but if there was one certainty it was that if your job is to be an idol and during the year you released even minimally relevant music, then december 25 was just another workday, and a very exhaustive one at that.

all the groups that played on the radios during the year today were at the sbs stations recording the christmas special. a compilation of pre-recorded performances of the same songs they had sung over and over again the past twelve months, and some special ones among the most relevant celebrities.

karina had arrived earlier than the rest of the members that day as she had a collaboration with other groups to film, and then wandered around the station waiting for her bandmates and her turn to take the stage as a group. every year she would have liked to spend that date with her family, but instead she had to be cooped up for hours in that building surrounded by people she hardly knew who were in her same situation, bored and uncomfortable with her wardrobe, waiting for the time when everyone would come out on stage at the end of the event to greet their fans.

after trying to kill time walking around the venue interacting with her industry friends, making content together, playing games on her phone and anything else interesting she could find, it was finally time to go up to say goodbye and she headed her members excited as it meant she would soon be going home. so quickly she reached to the entrance to the set that aespa ended up among the first in line, ahead of everyone, and while waiting to be signaled to enter, the girl got distracted looking around the room they were in.

she was confronted with many familiar faces, even making eye contact with some and having to greet them, while many others she didn't recognize from anywhere. as she moved her eyes through the crowd, she ended up bumping into a figure she identified.

trying to keep herself entertained and with all the work she had to do, she had forgotten that HeAVEN would also be showing up there.

she met chaeyoung's back and couldn't help but stare as if the girl, who clearly couldn't stand her, was going to feel her attention on her and turn around to greet her. but it wasn't the taller one she wanted, it was the presence of the group that captivated her because it made serim, even though she wasn't there because of her hiatus, feel closer.

ningning followed her gaze back to what had her so transfixed, meeting the people with whom she had already formed a bond of friendship and raised her hand to greet minnie who was the only one standing there facing her side. the older one noticed the movement on the girl's part and when she realized it was yizhuo, she returned the greeting cheerfully, tapping yves' shoulder, giving her a strange look and causing her to wave back too, though more shyly. yujin and chaeyoung joined in last as they saw their companions, turning to see who they had met to also say hello. out of nowhere, chaeyoung, just looking at ningning, pointed to the side, telling her to look, and both she and jimin, who was witnessing the entire interaction, turned their heads in that direction, finding serim leaning against a wall with her manager, eyes lost in the screen of her phone.

the girl was so bored that she had gone to support her teammates to at least spend christmas with them instead of at home alone with her porcupine, and now she had to wait for the others to come back from the closing.

when jimin saw her, she became anxious. they had been talking through chat these days, but as it happened lately, they didn't have time to meet because of the younger girl's busy schedule. serim was surprisingly more friendly and that made jimin not hesitate to interact with her. when she knew they were in the same place, she wanted to run out to be with her, but as she started moving people out of her way to get to her, yizhuo stopped her.

"they are about to tell us to come up." she warned her.

"but namu..." a small pout formed on her lips, she really wanted to go talk to her.

"namu will still be there when we go down." she reaffirmed.

and as if they had heard her, a group of staff appeared to order them, putting the groups in line and making them pass slowly in an organized way. aespa passed among the first ones, staying in the front row.

other than posing for the fans' cameras and waiting for the conductors in charge to say the last words, there wasn't much more to that part of the show. they would also receive christmas, although it really only consisted of a confetti explosion and, actually, the day was almost over. it was all performative, but for a part, if anything, they had something special to do during the holidays and they could spend time with their fans.

one of the mcs started to speak, reading his letters full of formal words and superficial questions to ask some of the guest acts, while the idols greeted the audience as they had been trained to do. but karina's head wasn't there, as much as she loved interacting with her fandom and wanted to show respect for the hard work of the narrators, her mind kept going back to the backstage.

she was trying to be patient, but it seemed like every word they said came out slower. she just wanted to go be with her who was sure lonely and bored on christmas eve. just wanted to spend all the christmases that followed with her.

her senses came back to work when she noticed that they were saying the final words, the last words of the speech they had prepared, welcoming christmas and allowing all the groups to start wandering around the stage for a while before letting them go.

but jimin wouldn't stay for that,

jimin wanted to spend christmas with serim.

at least she could say she thought twice about it and both times thought it was a great idea to run off the stage, passing through a bunch of colleagues who, if they didn't clear a path for her, tried to hold her back to ask if she was okay.

and she was fine, almost, just losing her head a little over a woman.

when she got to the stairs leading to the staff area, her own team rushed towards her to help her with whatever she needed, but jimin pushed them away, passing them and running to where the aisles were, reading the names on all the doors looking for the one that read HeAVEN.

hell, there were an eternity of groups present.

she walked past so many doors, bumping into a world of people, her managers chasing her with intentions of finding a reason for all the chaos as she frantically ran the sbs dressing rooms. until she found it, she found herself face to face with the sign indicating what she was looking for and knocked desperately on the door, but didn't wait for anyone to open it, she opened it herself, almost falling inside where serim, sitting on a chair, looked at her dumbfounded, as well as the whole team of the group who didn't expect a member of aespa to throw herself towards the leader of the group they managed, landing on her lap, taking her face in her hands and pulling her to look her in the eyes.

"merry christmas." spoke jimin while from the monitor showing the transmission the exact same words could be heard from the conductor. "merry christmas, my namu." she repeated, leaning over her, who was now holding her waist to help her keep her balance. "i love you."

she dared to admit it and also to kiss her. drawing her face up to hers, shortening the distance, joining in a desperate, but somewhat shy kiss charged with tenderness and need. it had been so long since they kissed that it was like rediscovering something you knew you were addicted to, falling back into the vice. they were looking for more closeness, contact, for their bodies to intertwine like roots of a tree that grow without direction and belong to the same system. karina's arms clung to the older girl's neck, while she stood up, pushing the chair a little out of the way, so she could occupy the space her legs took up with the girl's presence, without letting her lips come loose even by accident.

"are you sure?" serim broke contact for a moment, opening her eyes to show desperation and illusion in these. "do you love me?"

"i love you." she left a short kiss on her lips. "i love you, i love you." she gave a peck each time she said it. "i love you." the girl kissed again. "and i'm sorry for not saying it sooner." she leaned her forehead against hers. "but after your birthday and seeing you sick, thinking about the possibility of something happening to you and the need i had to be me and no one else to take care of you..." the sentences came like waterfalls from her mouth, intraquilly trying to express her emotions. "i was afraid of being wrong, but nothing was ever so certain in my life."

serim wrapped her arms around karina's torso. "do you love me?" she asked once again.

"i love you." she confirmed, a flirtatious smile on her face.

the older one lifted her into the air taking advantage of the hold she had established on her, causing her to bend her knees, lifting her legs, and hold tighter to her. "i love you too!" she reciprocated in an exclamation, making them spin, looking genuinely joyful for the first time in months. "and merry christmas." she set her down again, accompanied with a chaste brush of their lips. "please, don't ruin this." she pleaded, a little jokingly, but you could see the sincerity in her eyes.

"i'll be good." she caressed her cheeks. "we'll be fine." she assured.

"oh my god, how beautiful." a gangly voice filled the room making everyone turn to look at aespa's manager who was choking back tears admiring the whole scene as he futilely wiped his tears with a handkerchief.

"slut!" appeared chaeyoung from the hallway.

"my manhwa lives!" celebrated ryujin with her head poking out from the door frame.

ningning was also among the accumulation of people, at the front of it all, next to the members of the staff who had tried to stop jimin, leaning against the doorframe, she said nothing, but gave them a genuine smile.

(!)

— taglist [CLOSED]: @yoontoonwhs @cwpiqwon @aliceiwk @xen248 @gtfoiydlyj @rinapomu @aeriuchinarga @multiliker @somedaydream @impossiblesharkcashrebel @yjiminswallet @nwjnsloona @yerimbrit @73vyn @dni-unavailable @yizhuobberi @sewiouslyz @yeetaberry127 @masuowo @yallatalla @aerithykly @chaenniefirst @minfolio @starrynini05 @hotluvlet @wmnrhot @mineige @lisaswifey @brocoliisscared @fae-the-wanderer

[paigebueckersloverr]

Paige Bueckers HEADCANONS:

Anniversary Ver.

Hello, so I know I've been pretty MIA, and I'm sorry. But life isn't gonna stop for anyone, especially not me. But im back, so that's what matters. im gonna go ahead and answer a few questions.

Yes. Three's A Crowd. Is returning for the final installment. Aka the smut, so many people have mesaged me for.

No. I don't write for Emily, I thought about it, and then she signed with an Israeli team. So that's a firm NO.

Yes. This is very corny, and I projected just a little. With a sprinkle of all over the place but with the drama arising in the paige Hashtags. I thought we could use a cleanse and something light-hearted.

1. Surprise Anniversary Trip ♡

Paige would spend weeks planning a surprise weekend getaway to a cozy cabin in the mountains. She would make sure to secretly pack your favorite clothes, snacks, and a few sentimental items. As you guys drove along the scenic route, Paige would keep the destination a secret, enjoying the look of curiosity and excitement on your face. When you guys finally arrived, the cabin was perfect—nestled among tall trees with a breathtaking view of the valley below. Paige would arrange for a private chef to prepare a romantic dinner for you on the first night, complete with candles, soft music, and a crackling fireplace.

2. Custom Jewelry ♡

On the morning of your anniversary, Paige would present you with a small, beautifully wrapped box. Inside would be a delicate silver bracelet with your anniversary date engraved on the inside. The bracelet would also feature a small charm shaped like a basketball, symbolizing the sport that she loves and a small lockette as a symbol of you guys being together forever. Paige would spend hours choosing the design, wanting it to be something you could wear every day, close to your heart.

3. Personalized Love Letters ♡

Paige handed you a beautifully wrapped box tied with a satin ribbon. Inside were twelve letters, one for each month you guys had been together. Each envelope was decorated with little doodles and stickers, and the letters themselves were filled with Paige’s heartfelt thoughts and memories. She recounted you guy's first date, the moment she realized she was in love, and all the little moments that made their relationship special. Reading through the letters showed a beautiful testament to you guys' love and admiration for each other.

4. Home-Cooked Dinner ♡

Despite her busy schedule, Paige took a day off to prepare a gourmet dinner for your anniversary. She spent the entire day shopping for ingredients, following recipes, and setting up the dining area. She decorated the table with candles, flowers, and their best dinnerware. When you finally arrived, you were greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of your favorite dishes. Paige served a three-course meal, finishing with a simple but delicious dessert she had made from scratch. You both spent the evening talking, laughing, and reminiscing about your years together and the ones to come.

5. Memory Scrapbook ♡

Paige created a scrapbook filled with photos, mementos, and little notes from you guys first year together. She included ticket stubs from concerts and movies, pressed flowers from dates, and candid snapshots of spontaneous moments. Each page was carefully crafted, with handwritten notes detailing the memories behind each item. The scrapbook was a journey through your relationship, and a tangible reminder of all the love and joy the both of you shared.

6. Midnight Stargazing ♡

After the romantic dinner, Paige drove you both to a quiet spot away from the city lights. She set up a cozy spot in the back of her car with blankets and pillows, creating a little nest where they could lie down and stargaze. Both of you spent hours under the stars, sharing your dreams and hopes for the future. Paige pointed out constellations and told stories about them,*with you constantly reminding her she googled them* making you feel special and cherished. The night was filled with soft whispers and gentle kisses, a perfect end to your anniversary.

7. Special Song ♡

Paige had secretly learned to play a special song on the guitar, one that held significance for your relationship. After dinner, she brought out the guitar and, with a shy smile, began to play. You recognized the song immediately, your eyes filling with tears as Paige’s beautiful but nervous voice filled the room. It is a beautiful, intimate moment showcasing Paige’s love and effort to make the night memorable.

8. Custom Illustration ♡

Knowing your artistic side, Paige commissioned a custom illustration of both of you together. The artwork depicted a scene from your favorite date—sitting together on a park bench, holding hands and watching the sunset. The artist had captured everything perfectly, and the colors were vibrant and full of life. Paige had the illustration framed and presented it as a gift, a beautiful token of the relationship that would hang in your apartment.

9. Midnight Dance ♡

After dinner, Paige took you to a secluded garden or a rooftop overlooking the city. She had brought a portable speaker and played your "couples" song on her phone. Under the moonlight, you guys danced together, lost in each other’s arms. The world seemed to fade away as you both swayed to the music, your love palpable in every touch and glance. It was a perfect, magical moment, one that Paige and you would both remember for years to come.

If you made it this far, thank you! If you have any critiques or requests. My inbox and ask are very open, so feel free. 🤍

[celestemona]

WHERE YOU’RE HIS BELOVED S/O

but you keep more than a card up your sleeve

pairing: lyney x fem witch! reader

reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡

if you ask Lynette who fell in love first and who fell harder between you and Lyney, she wouldn't even hesitate to point to her twin as the answer to both questions.

the first time you and Lyney met was during one of his public performances where after you caught his eye, he asked you to be his special guest during the show.

truth to be told, he had noticed you even before you approached the crowd surrounding him, and how could he not? you weren't just a pretty new face roaming around the hydro capital, but it was your charming aura that made all heads turn towards you that aroused his curiosity.

from Lyney's point of view, you were fascinating.

and that's why, taking the opportunity to approach and perhaps get to know you better, the magician shamelessly chose you among the dozens of people as an excuse to put his plans into practice.

the chosen act couldn’t be as simple as a deck of cards trick could be. you were instructed by the young magician to choose a card among the dozens offered, memorize it and put it back in the deck.

“this time, however, i propose that we do something different”, suggested the young man. Lynette eyed him suspiciously.

“oh yes?”, you smiled sweetly and Lyney almost found himself losing his composure, “what do you propose, monsieur?”

Lyney coughed, “the person in charge of shuffling the deck won't be me but my lovely assistant, Lynette!”

the younger twin sighed. although as his assistant the girl didn't mind being in the spotlight as long as her brother was the star of the show, Lynette didn't like the spontaneous acts her brother suggested especially knowing that it was merely to impress someone — a girl. you.

even so, she agreed and approached you, the audience only growing and the euphoria of each spectator vibrating with an energy of anticipation and expectation.

“besides, i’m somewhat confident that i’ll have your card. as a reward for my success i humbly propose a dinner for two, belle. on me, of course”. the crowd whistled and you stared at him with a twinkle in your eye.

“do your best then, darling”

Lyney, blinking excitedly and determinedly in your direction, offered the deck to his sister and walked away.

it only took a few seconds for the anemo girl to shuffle the fifty-two cards and another few seconds for you to choose yours.

Lynette not only return to shuffled the cards again as quickly as the eye could follow, but in the middle of the process she played a brief solo by throwing them in the air in which the entire deck turned to white petals, leaving only one card behind which Lyney deftly caught between his index and middle fingers. it was an exciting act and the crowd roared with excitement.

“very well, belle. i have your card in my domain. i hope you are as excited for our dinner as i am,” the magician declared revealing its front.

you watched him silently for a few seconds before smiling.

“oh my dear, it was an amazing performance i must admit. but… that's not my card”, you laughed mockingly.

Lyney stared at you confused, “impossible. i know you chose the seven of clubs.”

raising an eyebrow you said, “do you really think so? see it for yourself.”

and Lyney did, only to stare dumbfounded the queen of hearts who stared back at him.

to say you took everyone there by surprise would be an understatement. even Lynette herself who was known for rarely expressing her emotions couldn't hide the gleam of shock, and perhaps even a hint of humor, in her purple eyes. it was the first time anyone had managed to cheat the famous prince of cheats and it was uncertain for the twins to say what they felt about it.

after that, the show ended as no one understood how the professional magician had his trick broken and not even Lyney had the heart to continue the show.

one by one left until only the three of you stand there.

“well… that was unexpected i must say,” the young man nervously scratched his tear-marked cheek, “this has never happened before so i’m surprised.”

“you did well”, you praised.

“thank you belle, your words comfort me. however, i believe i need to practice again,” Lyney declared with a defeated sigh. Lynette looked at him sympathetically.

even if his statement was true, the magician still wondered what the chances were that he was mistaken during the performance. after all, he couldn't say he was rusty either when he's done the act more times than he could remember, therefore the muscular and psychological movements were as automatic to him as breathing.

moreover, he felt ashamed that not only had he been mistaken in front of so many people, but also for the “invitation” that he had done to you.

“i also apologize if i ever made you uncomfortable”, he smiled shyly “i don't think that dinner will happen anyways.”

after long minutes in silence you faked a melancholy sigh.

“that’s pity. i really was looking forward to sharing a glass of champagne with you,” you said.

“yes, a pity- wait, what... really? like really really?”

you laughed and this time the sound of your laughter was so melodious that the magician didn't even hold back the flush that rose hot from his neck to his cheeks.

“why, of course. there are few men or women who have managed to approach me so confidently and then ask me out without further ado,” you winked at him, “however, to our chagrin, i’m a woman of words. you missed the proposal so you missed our little date,” you smirked, Lyney swallowed hard.

“fair enough.”

“i hope i get to see more of your shows though, darling,” you say as you approach him, “i’m looking forward to finding out what else you hide up your sleeve. if you know what i wanna mean."

and with a bittersweet farewell, you disappeared among the Fontanian citizens, leaving a pair of twins behind with the eldest of them too confused to even think of anything to say.

“apparently you didn't fail at all this time,” Lynette commented, “what does she mean by finding out what you hide up your sleeve?”

“i have no idea, dear sister. the only thing i can tell you right now is that i am deeply in love,” the magician declared with a dreamy look on his face as his sister stared at him blankly. Lynette, having no desire to deal with her older brother's ramblings, walked away to start cleaning up the place.

it was only minutes later when Lyney had already joined his sister that the boy felt a slight discomfort in his covered right arm, as if an unknown object scratch the skin there every time he moved.

curiosity and annoyance caused him to roll up his sleeve only to be replaced by shock, confusion and a faint hint of anticipation.

there in his hand, a seven of clubs was mockingly displayed, but what really got the magician's heart racing was the message stamped in black and the imprint of the bright red lipstick you wore.

“you had my card, you just didn't know where to look for.

p.s. i'll be waiting for you tomorrow’s evening next to Hotel Debord. dinner is on me.”

needless to say that after that trick of yours Lyney just fell more in love with you.

the date couldn't have been more than perfect either, even if during all hours you were together, the magician found himself cornered by your charm and stuttering when you dazzled that cheeky smile that seemed to be characteristic of you. it was rewarding for him to finally have your name even though you refused to give him more information like “what trick did you use to have the card suddenly appear up his sleeve”.

“you have your secrets and i have mine, darling,” you replied.

after that, Lyney gave up on it and didn't ask about the subject anymore, preferring to spend the seconds he had left enjoying your presence and eliciting harmonious laughter from your lips at the expense of his nervousness.

and thanks to the gigantic compatibility between the two of you, there was a second, third and even a fourth date.

however, it wasn't until one of the dozens of nights you spent together that you finally revealed your abilities with spells and arithmancy through witchcraft — making Lyney finally understanding the reason why you seemed to know more than you let on, or how all his tricks seemed like just child’s pranks.

although he superficially understood the concept of it, the magician only grew more and more fascinated by you, his own heart warming as you lovingly explained the function of your abilities.

“chérie, you are without a doubt the most amazing woman i’ve ever been lucky enough to meet,” Lyney remarked after watching you create a small blue flame from water droplets in the air, “i seem to have gotten lucky in my numerology. without it i wouldn’t have the happiness of meeting the most beautiful, intelligent and talented woman in all of Teyvat.”

you blushed slightly.

“don't be fooled, Lyney. you are as amazing as i am.”

Lyney narrowed his eyes cheekily and glared at you, “oh yeah, belle? tell me why then, because only one of us here has the power to conjure up fascinating things just by reciting a few words.”

you smiled genuinely and looked him deep in his eyes. it wasn't even a surprise for you to find yourself thinking about the magician more times than you could count and looking forward to your dates. Lyney was nothing but one of the most genuine, charming and passionate person you’ve ever met. you loved every second in his presence and weren't ashamed to admit that you were counting down the seconds to go to the next step between you and him.

“well, only those who understand and respect human nature and everything around us can perform magic, dear. be it a spell or just an illusionary trick,” you explained, “and you perform your magic so well merely for the purpose of bringing happiness and smiles to your spectators. to me, there is nothing as noble as that.”

you took his hand in your and intertwined your fingers.

“i— um… damn, (Y/N). you never fail to leave me speechless, do you?” Lyney stuttered while stared at your hands together.

“only doing my job which is to exalt the work of the guy i like.”

Lyney stared at you wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his heart pounding so loud it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. if he had been standing up, he would surely have passed out by now on the lawn.

“i like you too. a lot,” he finally confessed and you smiled happily.

leaning slowly towards him you placed a peck on his lips only making Lyney's blush redder than it had been seconds before.

“i know, my love. you're not very subtle about it, which i think is incredibly cute.”

and it was that night, under the gaze of the moon and stars, between kisses and caresses, that you made your relationship official.

now, if you ask Lynette if anything has changed since your first meeting to the current state of your relationship with her brother, the girl would deny it. so far you were a unique yet happy and healthy couple, and even if she didn't show it, she was happy that her twin brother had finally found someone who could fit him as much as she once did.

even if Lyney became an unbearably passionate and romantic fool in your presence, she couldn't have been lucky enough to have a better sister-in-law than you.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: PAST SUICIDAL IDEATION, attempts of physical abuse (throwing objects), basically reader's mother being a really horrible narcissistic abusive person.

[Please read while listening to this.]

Listen to that. The opening strains of that old Elvis classic began to swell; a hush fell over the assembled guests. All eyes were drawn to the dance floor where Sabrina now stood, radiant in her lovely gown, and Andrew looked at her with such veneration, as if she had hung the very moon in the sky. In the arms of her now-husband for their first dance as a married couple, the newlyweds shone brighter than the stars outside the manor.

Sabrina’s cheeks flushed rosier than any wine—joy, adoration, and yes, a little champagne too—had left her glowing in a way you’d never seen before this man came into her life, and your heart swelled with happiness for her.

When at last the song ended and they shared a lingering kiss, you joined the room in applause. Someone handed them a mic, and the two tried to pass the mic to each other until Sabrina was the first to give a speech. Andrew squeezed her hand, gave her an encouraging smile, and nodded.

Clearing her throat, Sabrina spoke into the mic. “Hi, everyone,” she began, voice ringing out sweet and clear through the speakers. “I just want to say thank you all for being here on this special day. Sharing it with my family and friends who mean so much to me has made it truly magical.” Another applause returned her gratitude before receding again when she was about to continue.

With misty eyes, Sabrina then turned to her step-father. “I want to thank Jim, for raising me as your own since I was little. You’ve always been the best dad a girl could ask for.”

Then, you watched her smile at her mother. “And Mom, where do I even begin? You've been my rock since day one. From keeping me sane while wedding planning to celebrating with me every step, you know I wouldn't be here without you. I wouldn't be the strong, independent woman I am today without you and Jim. I love you both so much.”

When Sabrina's parents—Jim and Joyce—approached her and gave the couple a big hug, another round of applause arose from the guests. But as Joyce placed a final kiss on Sabrina's cheek before stepping back, the world seemed to dim around you.

Suddenly, everything is so foreign—the image in front of you was never presented to you. Aunt Joyce looks genuinely happy for her daughter, and Sabrina hugs her like she cannot imagine life without her mother—which, at some point in your life, you did believe too. Mother’s words, “You won’t survive without me,” ring like angry bees.

Yet now, the thought of sharing a roof with her again feels unbearable.

Joyce and Sabrina look... uncomplicated, despite your mother's statements about how your aunt wasn't prepared for motherhood. And suddenly, everything feels numb, and you're disconnected.

In your reverie, you missed some of the speeches, only blinking back to reality when Sabrina and Andrew’s enthusiastic cheers echoed through the room. The crowd roared as the romantic notes of the new music played, “Until I Found You” inviting guests to join in the dancing.

As you do at the few parties you’ve been invited to in your entire life, you stay away from the dance floor and become a loyal wallflower. However, this time, with a companion—a better people-watcher than you, Simon. The man sweeps his brown irises around, examining people before one makes him chuckle under his mask.

“Look at that old man, still got it in ‘im, eh?” He commented, his tone tinged with amusement.

Your gaze trails Simon's. Among the dancing couples were your other uncle and aunt, their smiles highlighting the lines on their seventy-something faces, clearly having more life in them than many of the younger ones. You chuckled to yourself.

“Actually, that’s Uncle Mick and Aunt Sarah,” you reply, watching the old couple share a laugh amidst the music. “They’ve been married longer than I’ve been alive. Slow dancing is kind of their forte.”

More people-watching, but you fail to notice how often Simon steals glances at you between his own. And by the luminosity of your eyes, he is drawn like an insect in a blazing fire. His slow, "near-dying" heart has yet to realize the change in him. Simon plays on the edges of the rotting wood.

Straightening his gaze, he strikes up a question: “If that old bugger can still cut a rug, why ain’t the famous ballerina ‘avin’ a spin, eh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Simon’s gruff invitation, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest with a foreign carefree ring that you didn’t recognize. Meeting his eyes, you saw amusement there but also something that told you he was serious. Heart tiptoeing at the edges of your ribs, your fingers busying themselves with their own bustle.

Biting your lip, you gazed up at him through your lashes, feeling a smile curling the corners of your mouth. "I don't know," you shrugged your shoulders. “I might suck at slow dancing.”

Simon scoffed. “Absolute bollocks.”

At his disapproval, your smile widened, teeth peeking out from behind those pretty lips. You gazed up at him, searching for something intently.

Somehow in that moment, the noisy celebration around you seemed to fade into a blur, narrowing your world until it was just Simon standing before you. Your chest warmed, as if caressed by the sun on a lush spring day. Capillaries rushed, painting your bones pink. Pink.

Gathering your courage, you mimicked Simon's invitation. “Unless... you're willing to be the judge of that yourself?”

The question came out just above a whisper, heavy with promise. With your heart dangling at the tip of your throat, anticipation mixed with anxiety gnawed at you faster than any termite. Simon gave a subtle nod towards the dance floor with his chin.

“Come on then,” he rumbled.

As Simon led you, you couldn’t help but feel like Cinderella herself; this room made a fairytale for you. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you close so your bodies swayed as one. You shyly wrapped your free hands around his neck.

The romantic music continues to flow, caressing your ears with the singer's warm voice, Stephen Sanchez, if your memory serves you right. The merciless thumping in your ribcage persists, and you wonder if Simon feels it, if he has his own version resonating in the hollow of his chest. Settling into a slow sway, you feel his shoulders relax.

“You’re not gonna turn into a swan on me now, are ya? Would be a right shame to ruin such a lovely dance.” Simon asked, tone lighthearted. After mentioning your upcoming ballet performance, he doesn’t slow down his series of jokes about it.

You threw your head back in laughter. “You know that’s not how the story goes.”

Simon's grin grew wide beneath his mask. Cocking a brow, he said, “Oh yeah? Enlighten me then, love.” He challenged.

Taking a deep breath that lifted the smile still on your face, you began the long story of Swan Lake—about what happened to Odette and her flock by the sparkling lake and mostly things you had memorized many times. "So when Siegfried finally learns the truth, it’s too late—Odette ends her life by jumping from a cliff.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he reacts, and you let out a girlish laugh. “That’s tragic.”

You shrug. “I always thought it was kind of romantic.” You giggle again—God, the way this man can make you giggle like a silly schoolgirl—when you see the reaction reflected in his eyes.

“You’re a right bloody psycho, you know that?”

You deadpanned. “I’m not a psycho.” Your tone was flat, trying to be serious but the stubborn grin that followed ruined it.

“She should’ve just gone for another bloke.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, she can’t. She’s been cursed to be a swan forever.”

“Then she should’ve just lived out ‘er days as a swan then,” he said with pragmatism, very much lacking the charm of a fairy tale with all those logics. “Should’ve chased that arse’ole prince all over kingdom for revenge instead. Give ‘im a good peckin’.”

You exhaled in exasperation, but your lips held back a smile. “Please just stop talking.”

Simon chuckled, and fortunately, for his own good, he did. The music was nearing its end, but you were still swaying. Something caught his gaze over your shoulder. He looked back at you, raising a brow to make a suggestion.

“Should we do a spin?” he asked.

“What?”

He nods his chin behind you, and you follow suit—a young couple laughing as they twirl. “Should we give it a go?”

It's somewhat whimsical, somewhat absurd, that not only is this hulking man dancing with you, but he also wished to twirl you like you were partners in some grand ballroom. Yet, as you stare into his smiling eyes, you swear there’s a hint of excitement in them. And what good is a ballerina without a performative twirl?

“Okay,” you accepted his offer.

You placed your hand in his, feeling the rough calluses of his fingers but somehow right against your skin. At your subtle cue, Simon raised your joined palms, spinning you outward in elegance and then back into the solid wall of his chest.

“One more time.” You said, and he did as you asked.

You cup his mask-hidden jaw, feeling for each woven polypropylene against your fingers. The plum of your smiling lips swells with desire, and without thinking, you press your lips to his cheek. Your heart skips a beat, gripped by a jolt of trepidation, fear, and regret that perhaps you have crossed a line, that you might drive him away.

But Simon doesn't.

Instead, he seized your waist and drew you close, eliminating any distance between you. The air was snatched from your lungs in a stolen gasp with the force of his possessive move. Like a lover accompanied by passion as he reaps longing.

(I swell with hope, in the sweet desire of a girl seeking love.)

“I’m dyin’ for a smoke.” He confessed.

You glanced around at the lively party still swirling around you. Turning back to him, you suggested, “Should we slip out the back then?”

“Sure.”

Smiling up at him, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze before untangling them from your waist. “You go on ahead—I just need to swap to flats real quick.” You gestured to the high heels that had been enveloping your throbbing toes for hours.

As Simon nodded and turned to go, you hurried off the floor, limping just slightly. The celebratory noise faded as you stepped to the left side of the manor, where the hallway to your room stretched in silence. You turned the doorknob, and the old wood swung with a low creak.

Walking to your suitcase, you flipped it open, took out your Mary Janes, and replaced your high heels with them with a sigh of relief.

Just as you moved to stand, you heard footsteps approaching, then a shadow fell across the open door. Too small to be Simon. Looking up with a start, your heart nearly dropped when you found your mother standing there, arms crossed in a frown full of distaste.

“I've been watching you all night with that… man. You're getting far too comfortable, are you?”

That tone—that same tone that you had heard countless times growing up, signaling the beginnings of an argument. Your shoulders tensed. The pulse inside you quickened as your defenses began to rise, readying themselves in anticipation of the barrage of barbed words that might come next.

The oceans dividing San Francisco and London were supposed to end whatever connection existed between you both—to pretend that it didn’t exist. It should have been a clean finale, allowing you to simply live as a normal girl with normal reactions to everything, as if nothing bad had ever happened to you.

Yet, look, your traitor body is gearing up for battle just the same. Your mind may lie, you may lie, but the wound bearer presents the results of years of being forged beneath her. 5,351 miles stretched, but you are still the same sixteen-year-old girl who bit her tongue, holding her words like a criminal about to be executed on the spot.

What a mother-daughter relationship you have.

You watch warily as Mother begins circling the room, her high heels clicking ominously, slightly showing the red soles beneath them. Louboutins, you remember. You also remember all too well how much those had cost—the very shoes you had “helped” fund years ago when you foolishly still let her access your bank account, even after you turned nineteen.

“Do you know why he’s here?” Mother tries the first question, testing the waters.

Like a frightened little girl—that same little girl from that sunny day so many years ago—you deflect the real question, “Because I invited him.”

Mother, unimpressed, casts you a sharp look, as if daring you to dare her. “You know what I mean. Do you know why he’s here?”

You bit your lip, grasping at straws. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

Mother scoffed mockingly. She turned to you, face contorted in amusement as if you had just told the funniest joke. “Boyfriend? Please. Is that what you think?”

You flinched back as Mother suddenly whirled to face you, her sculpted features twisting into a reflection of pure, unbridled rage. The similar pair of eyes glared at you wide. She buried her nails deep into your epidermis, and you gasped from the sting.

“The only reason a man would want you is between your legs. You think you found love, but really he's with you only because you're easy. You’re just a cheap fuck to him, (Y/N).”

The hot, stinging droplets gathered and spilled over without your permission. You hated yourself for fueling her twisted satisfaction. Hating that she still knew exactly where to aim her barbs to find their mark after all these years.

But nothing compares to the fact that she is your mother. She is your mother, and yet, how could those words come out of her mouth so easily? As if her criticisms had festered within her mind and she was finally allowing them to escape. There's a small, broken part of you that can't help but wonder—and why do you even wonder? You know yourself better than she does, surely.

Or do you?

Or is it true that there really is nothing to take beyond your body like the unloveable, worthless child she always says you are?

You felt a spark of anger flare. “How could you say that to me?” you choked out, baring your wounded heart. Wrong move—you know this, proved many times that showing emotion had never gotten anywhere with Mother before.

But the younger, wounded teenager in you would always crave some kind of validation, some sign she truly cared. Perhaps hidden beneath the person she's become, she still holds a flicker of the warmth she once felt for you. You’re her daughter, and she’s your mother—shouldn’t that be enough for her to finally treat you like one?

“I’m only telling you the truth so you won’t be naive. Do you think he’ll love you when there are so many girls out there who are much prettier than you?”

At times, the wiser you knew not to take Mother’s words to heart—your survival instincts, born of too many experiences, told you not to let her poison seep into your skin. But more often than not, you didn’t know better. Right now, you don’t know better.

(Prying my mouth open, she dripped her bitter blood until we were indistinguishable.)

Clenching your fist, you say through gritted teeth, “You don’t know him.”

Mother’s features bent in hate at your rebellion. The young daughter no more, grown into someone who dared to talk back rather than just gulping down her every word raw.

“And you do?” she spat. “How long have you known this man? Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s none of your business,” you retorted, but not convinced enough for her to see the gap in your expression.

“Not my business? Of course it’s my business – I’m your mother!”

Summoning the last of your courage, you mumbled, “You’re not… my mother.”

Her neat eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What did you just say to me?”

It was a second chance, one she rarely gave. For a moment, you considered taking it back—rewording your reply to something less confrontational, something safer. But you were sick of it—years of carrying her wounds you hadn’t even caused, weighing your body down and sinking them deeper into pitless hell. Of always looking past her anger and ego, finding justifications and reasons to tolerate her. Of being under her control when the young girl inside you needed her anger represented.

And you repeated it without rewording: “You’re not my mother. Not anymore.”

As it left your lips, you saw a flicker of change in Mother’s expression—was that hurt in her eyes? So foreign was her expression that you almost doubted yourself. Regret seized you along with the guilt and self-loathing that gripped your heart.

Then, the hurt blinked away as if it was never there. “Look at you,” she hissed, “throwing away your mother, the woman who birthed and raised you with great difficulty, all for some worthless man. I'm not even surprised if you end up pregnant in a few months, or maybe you already are. Don't say I didn't warn you when he leaves you with a bastard child.”

And they were right when they said that anger is the most effective key.

Moments ago, you can still find the shadow of that sixteen-year-old girl remains within, with pieces of her innocence—a bit of a child’s grin. Her body is still in fear, yet her eyes are always yearning for praise from her mother’s voice.

However, as the grown woman you are ignites in a seething cauldron of fury—disagreement with Mother’s treatment—the little girl begins to fade, reduced to ashes amidst the fire. The “why” question echoes loudly with demands. I'm your baby—you made me; why do you hurt me?

“Why? Why are you so sure only bad things will happen? Why can’t you believe I can find happiness?” Warm tears welled up, tasting salty on your lips as you asked.

Mother raised a warning finger. “Don’t use that tone with me.”

But you’ve passed the point of backing down. “Why? Why are you so convinced I’ll always be unhappy? WHY?!”

(As if it had been written long before my creation.)

Taking a sharp, short breath, you feel self-control slipping away. Your lungs hitched with condemnation, constricting you, trying to escape the hell Mother handmade just for you. You’re crossing the line; something scolds (the same voice your mother planted early on) inside your head, but you refuse to give in.

The dim red light between the cracks in your skull grows brighter, and the next thing you say are the words you've been holding back for so long:

“I’m not you! And what happened with Dad was not my fault!”

And finally, silence fills the small space between you, followed by the faint echo of your voice. As the last syllable faded, the words that had been spoken left you feeling conflicted. That little girl would consider this disobedience—the result of the doctrine your mother spat at her every day—but all you know now is the strange lightness in your heart, as if shedding a massive burden that you didn’t realize you had been carrying your whole life.

Mother took a sharp, hissing breath, and you saw the subtle quiver in her clenched jaw. “You're out of line,” she said.

“I'm out of line?! You were the first one to cross that line, over and over, hurting me for years, but now that I finally do it to you, now I'm the one who's out of line?!” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a rush, all the pain and anger that you had piled up erupting to the surface. “You've always hurt me, said awful things, made me feel like nothing! But the second I did it to you, suddenly I'm the bad one? That's not fair!"

In the blink of an eye, she extends her perfectly manicured hand to grasp the first object within her reach—a heavy crystal paperweight on the table. Your eyes are glued to it, feet ready to flee when she hurls it at you.

“You fucking ungrateful bitch!” she screamed.

Some distant, rational part of you knows you should dodge. But a darker impulse held you frozen, as if welcoming the blunt object to damage your epidermis and even more so to become evidence of her abuse. And perhaps, once the crimson drips from your split temple, it will be enough to reveal the true identity she has been hiding—to destroy the loving mother image she has carefully built for years.

You will make a spectacle of the wound, perhaps even exaggerating it a bit like Mother always did.

It came so close when it landed on the floor next to you. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Mother’s face flushed like the devil as she shouted, “I should never have given birth to you!”

Strange, that relief is what washes over you when her words land in your ears. Because for the first time, the two of you agreed on something – she wished you had never been born, just as you had so often wished the same.

Those “precious” teenage years were filled with alternating fantasies—some days hoping she might die, others wishing it was you instead. But you were never able to go through with killing her, or yourself. Because being without Mother meant being utterly lost and alone, and you were too cowardly to cut your wrist open. More days though, you regretted it—how it might have all ended sooner if only you had been braver.

You wonder who's to blame to just make sense of it—perhaps Mother's mother had been cruel, and she thought she had broken the cycle. Perhaps Joyce, for always being the golden child despite everything. Perhaps Dad. Perhaps you.

All those long, drawn-out years, you stayed, you suffered for her. Because the little girl in the bright pink shoes—the color that matched Mother's favorite dress before she threw it away—loved her mother so much. Always making excuses for her. Maybe she didn't know how to love me, or I didn't understand her way of loving me. Maybe somewhere in her anger were kisses in her own language.

You stood frozen as hollowness spread through your chest, as if the eruption had cleansed you until nothing but an empty clarity remained. Even when Simon entered the room, you didn't notice his presence until he spoke.

“Fuck’s all this?” His question didn’t really wait for an answer as he rushed to your side.

Mother smoothed her hair imperiously, then said: “We were just having a talk.”

Simon’s brown eyes scan the scene: the shattered paperweight, Mother’s suspicious fist. He then turns to examine you carefully, searching for any injuries and only letting out a slight sigh when he finds none.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll sort our things.” Simon orders, and without argument, you nod, walking out of the bedroom.

The room felt heavier with tension after you departed, leaving Simon alone with your seething mother. He moved with purpose, in a quick and efficient mind, as he gathered your things—a toothbrush and hairbrush from the bathroom, dresses from the closet, pulling out drawers for any other items. After throwing them into your suitcase, he tidied up his own things with even more haste and less care.

As he picked up his abandoned tie, Mother cleared her throat. “You don’t need to do this, you know. I know my daughter better than anyone, and she’s not what you really need.”

For a moment, Simon paused, jaw working as he reined his temper. Mother thought she had his attention—finally getting him to listen to her. But soon enough, he resumed his task as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

Undeterred, she pressed on. “There are prettier, worthier girls than her. Ones who won’t cause you so much trouble.”

Simon’s hands stilled at that, Mother thought she had succeeded in making him consider. Slowly, he turned to face the older woman. But what she read in his eyes was not a realization or even a spark of curiosity. No, it was a look that suggested he knew a lot about people like her, had seen a lot despite him being a decade her junior.

“That what you tell ‘er then?” He began, hate raining down like hail in his voice. “That she ain’t good enough, or pretty enough? That she’s nothin’ but trouble?”

The woman met his gaze, and Simon noticed how her eyes were shaped like yours, except colder, full of twisted conviction whenever she talked about you. “I only speak the truth, for her own good. Someone has to keep that headstrong girl in line before she comes to ruin.”

At that, he let out an impolite scoff, but Simon gave zero fucks. “Yeah? Cause all I see is you tryin’ to keep ‘er under yer thumb.”

Simon watched as the woman's face contorted into an ugly frown of dislike; her mask had been abandoned somewhere. He wondered how you survived all those years at home, how you could still say you “love her to bits” on your first meeting.

But he supposes that’s how children are. Misplaced unconditional love for their lifegivers. Sometimes, his critical mind thinks it’s a shame for the Man in the Sky to give little humans to people who don’t deserve them—to abusers, addicts, snakes like this one right here. But then again, Simon had no right to complain when he stopped believing in any of all that years ago—after he lost everyone that mattered.

"I'm her mother." She repeated.

“And she’s yer daughter. Not yer pet or yer little dog to order about.”

As Simon returned to tending to the bags, the woman took a slow, deep breath. "I know men like you," she replied. “You think you're protecting her—you think you're saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once you've grown bored.”

Simon’s tedious task came to a halt, the zipper of the bag half-open. He furrowed his blond brows, brown eyes focused on nothing. Before long, he gathered the bags and shouldered them, his free hand dragging the suitcase as he walked through the gaping door. That woman spoke again, but he turned a deaf ear to her venomous spit.

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[elliesfavbae]

Summer camps and dead mouses, Part 3 series

Summer camp with enemy to lovers Ellie Williams.

part 1, part 2, part 4

synopsis: You went to a summer camp for the first time. Among many people, you've met someone who seems to hate you - her name is Ellie Williams. Suddenly, she starts to avoid you completely. What happened?

pairing: mean!Ellie Williams x reader

warnings: use of y/n, Ellie is a bitch, swearing

note: sorry it took me so long to post this! I didn’t have my laptop with me while I was away and returned literally yesterday

wc:3500

About fifteen people are gathered in a circle with a bottle in the middle. You look up; the dark sky peeks through the gaps in the trees. It’s a cloudless night, with stars twinkling brilliantly above. Since you’re deep in the woods, far from any cities, the sky is a stunning tapestry of stars. It’s so different from the view you have back at home in the city.

Your reflections are interrupted by a deep voice. “Quiet, everyone! Let’s start the game.”

The person who just spoke is the first to spin the bottle. He’s a boy around your age, wearing a simple beige t-shirt and light jeans that are pretty worn out and dirty at the bottom. He reaches out to touch the bottle and spins it. The glass revolves for a few seconds before it lands on a girl. You try to make out her features in the dim light of a few flashlights, but it’s hard to tell if you know her. You don’t think you’ve met her before. Does it even matter?

Since it’s the first round, the pair is quite shy about making the first move, but the girl’s friends push her toward the boy, and they finally muster enough courage to connect their lips. It’s a simple kiss, a peck even, but that’s enough to make the crowd cheer.

You cringe at the thought that every round of this game might be like this. Half of us are probably adults already or at least 17. You start to regret playing this childish game.

You scan the faces around you, trying to read their expressions, when your eyes land on Ellie. The second you look at her, she quickly turns her head in the opposite direction. Was she looking at you? You quickly push the thought away. No, why would she? Especially after claiming many times that she hates you. She was probably looking at someone next to you, or something.

The girl on whom the bottle landed spins it again. It lands on another boy, whom you recognize from archery yesterday. The boy spins the bottle once more, and it lands on a different boy, one you don’t know.

“Wait, what?” You whisper to Olivia next to you. You don’t understand what just happened. What are the rules?

“You’ve never played before? One of the people who just kissed spins the bottle. Once it stops, the person for the next round is picked. Then, that person spins the bottle to find a pair for themselves,” she explains quietly. “Get it now?”

To be honest, you’re not entirely sure you understand, but you’ll catch on. You nod.

You miss the moment when the previously picked people kiss. One of them spins the bottle, and it lands on a blonde, muscular girl. Wait, you know her—it’s Abby. She’s wearing the same braid she had before.

“Alright.” Abby reaches out to spin the glass bottle. The material catches the light, casting shimmering reflections around it. It spins for a while before it begins to slow down. You’re sure it’s going to land on your friend on your left, but it turns a little more and lands on you.

“Y/n,” Abby says with the same friendly smile she gave you while rock climbing. ‘So she remembers me,’ you think.

You shift closer to her, feeling everyone’s gaze fixed on the both of you. You try to return the smile she’s offering as you both lean in. You close your eyes when you’re close enough, and she’s the first to press her lips to yours.

Her lips are surprisingly smooth and soft. You feel her kiss your upper lip, so you mirror the motion with her lower one. You catch a hint of vanilla in her scent. The moment is brief, though. She pulls away quickly, and you follow suit. You try to sneak glances at the people around you to gauge their reactions. Some cheer, some laugh—not in a mean way. One reaction stands out, though. It’s Ellie, her face filled with… anger? Her face muscles are tense, her jaw clenched, and she’s definitely looking directly at you. You don’t have much time to analyze as a voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Y/n, spin the bottle.” You reach for the cold glass. You spin it, but you no longer care where it lands.

Your mind returns to Ellie. What was that about? You definitely didn’t just imagine her anger. Maybe she was jealous of Abby?

“Damn.” Olivia laughs quietly.

“Did you see how Ellie looked at me?” you whisper back.

“That’s what I meant—she looked furious.”

“Yeah, I’ve got no idea why, though.”

“What? You just kissed her ex.” You look at her in disbelief.

“Abby was dating Ellie?” You widen your eyes, and she nods.

“A few years ago, yeah.”

That makes sense. Ellie is still jealous of her ex, and a girl she despises just kissed her. You feel a strange sense of victory—you managed to annoy her without even trying.

You refocus on the game. Abby is once again in the middle, leaning in to kiss another girl. When did this happen? It doesn’t matter. You glance at Ellie, searching for any sign of anger on her face. This time, aside from her usual scowl, she seems completely unbothered. It doesn’t make sense; Abby is kissing someone else again, but there’s no trace of anger from Ellie. You’re utterly confused.

The game continues as if nothing happened until you feel a pressure in your bladder. You look to your right at Olivia, but she’s deeply engrossed in a conversation with a pretty girl by her side. You decide not to interrupt and simply just let her know where you’re going. She nods in understanding.

You get up and head into the dark woods with only a flashlight in hand. Once you can’t hear the chatter, you figure you’re far enough. Unbuckling your pants, you hope not to encounter any animals, let alone people.

You wipe your hands with a wet wipe after you finish, walking back toward your friends. Oddly, you can’t hear anyone anymore, even as you get closer. You’re sure you took the right path. When you reach the circle, everyone has disappeared. It’s clearly the same spot, evidenced by the worn circle on the ground. You flash your light around, searching for anyone. You come closer and nearly jump out of your skin—a figure is lying on the ground. You squint and, to your horror, it’s Ellie.

“Get this shit off my face!” she screams, squinting her eyes. You turn off the flashlight.

“Where is everyone?”

“They went back to the camp.” Even in the darkness, you can sense her disdain. “Why do you care?”

“And why are you still here?”

“And why should I explain myself to you? It’s none of your business.” Her frustration is palpable. She’s so infuriating.

You decide to head back to camp, but you realize you don’t know the way. You stand there, pondering what to do.

“Why are you still here?” Ellie asks again.

“I don’t know how to get back to the camp,” you admit, and you hear Ellie groan.

You hear a quiet “fuck me” before she stands up. You turn your flashlight back on. It seems she’ll accompany you back to camp. She’s holding something in her hand—a sketchbook. You try to look closer and make out a few blurry sketches of a person and a drawing of a night sky.

“Do you draw?” you ask without thinking. Ellie quickly hides the journal behind her back.

“No, I don’t.” She’s clearly lying.

Okay, whatever. It’s a shame, you think. If she weren’t such a bitch for no reason, she could be a pretty cool person. She dresses nicely, you hate to admit it, but she’s actually attractive and seems to have some interesting hobbies.

You walk in silence, just holding your flashlights. You look up at the night sky. The sky remains cloudless, with stars shining brightly. Some are larger, brighter than others. Some are blinking, as if they might extinguish and never be seen again.

The silence between you and Ellie is suffocating. You take a deep breath before speaking. “Look, that red shining dot is Mars. My dad used to teach me some astronomy stuff.”

Ellie actually looks up. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s Antares, not Mars. Mars isn’t even visible in this part of the sky right now. Guess your dad is an amateur.” She says it so nonchalantly, as if she didn’t have to think before speaking.

Mars, Antares, whatever. At least she didn’t tell you to ‘shut the fuck up and never speak to her again’ like she usually does. You decide to pursue the topic. Maybe this conversation could be more than just a few minutes of insults, and besides, you can’t stand the silence.

You didn’t lie—your dad did try to teach you about astronomy, but it was so long ago, you barely remember anything. You try to recall anything he told you about it and speak up again. “Whatever. At least you can see the North Star and the Little Dipper. It’s my favorite star. It’s fascinating that the North Star always stays in the same spot. Did you know it’s one of the brightest stars in the northern sky?” You point to a bright star, pretty sure it’s Polaris. Well, you can’t really see the Little Dipper, but it’s probably somewhere nearby.

“Polaris isn’t in this part of the sky either.” Ellie chuckles, clearly proud of herself. “It’s Spica. Pretty basic stuff. I thought everybody knew that. At least you got the facts right, but if you want to show off, make sure the whole thing is true.”

Her ego is inflated even more than usual. You wish you’d never brought up the topic. What’s worse—and you hate to admit it—is that she seems to know quite a bit about astronomy. Suddenly, Ellie speaks up. She sounds more… lost in her thoughts? 

“My favorite star is Tabby’s star. It’s a big mystery for astronomers. You can’t see it now, but it’s blueish. Some scientists think it might be used by aliens as a source of energy because of its unusual energy drops,” she clears her throat, “I mean, whatever, it’s not like I care about stars.” However, her tone betrays a genuine interest.

And that’s the first time she’s spoken to you for so long without offending you. Wow.

You notice you’re close to the camp gate. You feel relieved—you won’t have to endure Ellie’s presence and self-aggrandizement any longer.

You split up without saying another word.

Finally, you find your roommates, and you don’t bother hiding your annoyance. “Why did you leave me in the woods?!”

“Y/n? Sorry, we thought you’d already left with someone or something,” Leah, a girl from your room, apologizes. 

Right, you didn’t inform the girls from your room about leaving, just Olivia.

“And where’s Olivia?”

“Oh, she’s a little busy with that girl at the moment…” Emma looks suggestively to your left, and as you follow her gaze, you see Olivia clearly flirting with the same girl from earlier. You’ll have to talk to her once she’s done.

“But you’re back in one piece, after all,” Leah says again.

“Yeah, but at what cost?” You dramatically roll your eyes. “Ellie had to walk with me because I didn’t know the way.”

“That’s pretty nice of her, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean yes, but she was being a bitch, as always.”

“Oh, I know. I saw the way she looked at you when you kissed Abby!” So not only you and Olivia noticed!

“I mean, I probably wouldn’t be too thrilled if someone kissed my ex…”

“Abby and Ellie were a couple?” Leah asks, shocked.

“Yeah, why do you think Ellie is acting like such an ass around the main counselor?” Emma continues. “A few years ago, Ellie broke up with Abby. It was a big deal at the camp. Rumor has it Abby cheated on Ellie with a guy—Owen, I think.”

It all makes sense now. You swear the click in your head was so loud it could’ve been heard by everyone. Ellie broke up with Abby, so she wants to get back at her. That’s pretty petty.

“Why does she keep coming back here if that’s what happened?”

“She still has friends here and knows everyone. But honestly, I don’t know either.”

Well, she shouldn’t concern you. You push her out of your mind and try not to think about her again.

You can hear the counselor blowing whistles from afar, and after a few minutes, the camp director announces, “The Treasure Hunt is over,” right, you forgot about the Treasure Hunt, “and the winners are Ryan and Max from the third group. Good job!” The crowd cheers.

You sigh and look around as the counselors line everyone up and start counting heads. A few people are missing, but after a minute or two, they all return from the dark woods accompanied by counselors. Your friends were right—everyone made it back safely. That’s quite impressive.

You walk back to your cabin with your roommates and some other campers, gossiping about everything that happened tonight. When you arrive at your room, everyone is so tired they immediately head to bed, forgetting any pre-sleep chatter.

***

It’s the next morning. When you open your eyes, you remember everything from the night before—Abby, Spin the Bottle, Ellie… You can’t quite explain it, but when Ellie talked about the stars last night, she seemed… different? It’s strange to say, considering she only said a few sentences and managed to offend you in half of them. But it’s like she revealed another side of her to you. She doesn’t seem like the type to discuss nerdy interests, at least not until yesterday.

The day passes like usual. You’ve already been to archery, basketball, and now it’s time for biking. You would never have guessed that biking would be your choice among all the available activities, but Olivia’s convincing made it sound promising. Apparently, if you’re nice enough to the counselor, they might take you to a shop outside of the camp, in the nearest village. Sure, there’s a store on the camp, but its prices are outrageous, and their selection is limited to sugar-free imitations of real food.

You arrive at the bike shed with Olivia. You’re not really focused on your surroundings, too absorbed in laughing at Olivia’s story, until you reach one of the bikes. Just as you’re about to take it, you notice someone else’s hands on it. You look up and, of course, they’re Ellie Williams’. Her auburn hair is tied in a bun, spilling out of her helmet and covering her freckled face.

You brace yourself for another round of insults, but to your surprise, she drops her gaze when your eyes meet, removes her hands from the bike, turns around, and walks away to find another vehicle. The odds of a meteor striking the camp right now seem more likely than this.

For the next minute, you expect her to return and scold you for taking her bike, but nothing happens.

The rest of the activity is uneventful. Instead of visiting the shop, you go to a different spot by the waterfall and take a twenty-minute break to play cards with other campers. Ellie doesn’t join you; she spends the time talking to her friend. She doesn’t even look at you the whole time.

Tonight’s evening activity is team challenges. You’re divided into groups of twelve and compete in various games. You’re lucky to be in a group with some of your friends. Ellie is there too. It’s as if fate insists on you two crossing paths. Except this time, Ellie seems determined to avoid you. She stays out of your way—sitting out the Capture the Flag challenge and Tug-of-War, and then disappearing when she swaps groups with another girl.

You discuss it with Olivia later. “It’s just weird how she went from being a total asshole to suddenly avoiding me!”

“I mean, I’d be happy if I were you. She finally stopped bothering you. Maybe she just got bored of being a bitch?”

That does sound rational. You’re not even sure why you care so much.

“You’re right. I should be glad she finally let it go. But she even hid from me during the challenges today. I mean, she seems to love competing and gloating after winning…”

“Y/n, I don’t want to sound rude, but have you considered that maybe it isn’t about you? Maybe she’s having a bad day, or she’s upset about something else,” Olivia says suddenly. You think about it and feel a little embarrassed. She’s right—the world doesn’t revolve around you. Ellie’s behavior could be due to anything. Maybe that counselor she was flirting with earlier? Or Abby? “You seem like you can’t get her out of your head, though.” Olivia giggles.

“What? No, I totally hate her.” You roll your eyes and join her giggles.

After that, Olivia excuses herself and disappears to meet with that girl from yesterday. Seems like they're practically inseparable since the Treasure Hunt.

You go back to the cabin on your own, where you meet your other friends.

***

Another day passes by. Everything seems normal, Ellie doesn’t bother you anymore. From the meanest bitch you’ve met, she turned into someone who seems afraid to even talk to you. At first, you wonder if anything has happened. No one changes so drastically without a reason. You even ask a person or two if they know what happened, when you realize it’s not your problem. You’re overreacting, she might be just in a bad mood, it’s only been a couple of days.

It's evening already. After a day full of activities, you have hungrily thrown yourself at the pancake plate. You and your roommates are excited for tonight’s evening activity, it’s a bonfire; you can’t wait for the s’mores, singing and gossiping by the bonfire.

You’re leaving the dining hall, when someone runs up to you and pats you on the shoulder.

You turn around and see it’s Abby, smiling as always. You smile when you see her, too.

“Hey y/n, how you doing?” She starts walking next to you, you can feel a faint scent trailing behind her. It’s like a mix of fresh forest air and vanilla, probably it’s her shower gel.

“I can’t wait for the campfire tonight,” you admit.

“Right… That Treasure Hunt night was fun, wasn’t it?” Memories of that night flood your mind again. Looking at Abby, you remember Spin the bottle game, your kiss.

“Yeah, except the fact I had to walk back to the camp with Ellie by my side.” You sigh and look at Abby, her brows furrow a little. Right, you probably shouldn’t have mentioned Ellie to Abby. “God, sorry, I probably shouldn’t be talking about her…”

“What?” Abby seems genuinely confused.

“I mean, you guys seem to still have some unresolved stuff going on…”

“What? No, we’re totally cool now.” Abby laughs it off. Her face is relaxed, she seems to be telling the truth. “Want to sit down?” Abby points in a direction and your gaze follows her finger. She’s pointing at just some overgrown bushes.

“In the bushes?” You don’t understand.

“No, there’s a bench inside,” Abby chuckles. Right, you remember now - it’s the spot Olivia showed you earlier.

“Oooh, right. Sure…” As you walk closer with Abby by your side, you remember the things your friend told you about this spot. Like a romantic hideout or something?

You start wondering if Abby took you here purposely, knowing about this place’s reputation. It’s not like you don’t like Abby… Sure, she’s attractive, kind and stuff, you’re just not interested in her in that way… Maybe she got the wrong idea of you two after the kiss? You probably should tell her what you feel.

You fight your way through the thorny plants and both sit down on the wooden bench.

“So, as I said, me and Ellie are fully over.” When you’re just about to pick up the feelings topic, Abby starts talking. Guess you will have to try another time.

“Are you sure? Because I thought that when we kissed that night, Ellie got, like, super pissed off,”

“Really? I mean, it wasn’t about me, for sure.” Abby shakes her head. Well, if it wasn’t about Abby, then about what? You realize you’re sitting pretty close to Abby. Did she move closer to you? Abby puts her hand up and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Your hair is so pretty,”

When you’re just about to respond, someone comes up to you, their steps are heavy.

“Abby? Y/n?” A familiar voice reaches your ears. Not in a calm tone, though. You quickly jump away from Abby and look up. At first you think it might be Olivia, but it’s someone much more unexpected. It’s Ellie.

TAGLIST: @lI17284839 it wont let me tag u:(

@littlelittlebear

@diddiqueen

@kl1q

@abslvr111

@slut4els

thank u for all the support pookies!!!

[alittlegiraffe]

Based on this request from @tomdayaloveforever:

Simply amazing 🤩 I have one more request: In the 90s/2000s, married to a supermodel (people speculate because they got married quickly and Eminem is Eminem). During a Victoria Secrets fashion show, a singer who attacked their relationship was going to perform and when Marshall's wife was going to enter, the singer's sound was cut to a diss song by Marshall playing while his wife parades with a chain with his name/initials around her neck.

Title: Runway of Defiance

The air was electric in the bustling backstage of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Supermodels flitted between stylists, makeup artists, and wardrobe assistants, each one a vision of glamour. You stood among them, the newest face in the lineup, and the wife of none other than Eminem.

Their marriage had been a whirlwind—a lightning-fast romance that captivated the tabloids and sent gossip columns into overdrive. Many doubted the union, speculating it wouldn’t last. Others criticized you for tying the knot with the controversial rapper, while some outright dismissed your love as a publicity stunt. None of it mattered to you though. You knew the truth of your connection, and so did Marshall.

Tonight was your night. Your debut on the Victoria’s Secret runway was a dream come true, but the whispers backstage were hard to ignore. Scheduled to perform was pop singer Roxy, who had made her disdain for you and Eminem’s relationship publicly known. The feud between Eminem and Roxy had only fueled the media firestorm, and tonight promised to be another chapter in their ongoing saga.

As you slipped into your final outfit, a stunning ensemble of shimmering silver, a stylist handed her one last accessory: a delicate yet bold chain with the initials "M.M." embedded in diamonds. She smiled, feeling a surge of confidence as she fastened it around her neck. This wasn’t just a piece of jewelry—it was a statement.

Out on the runway, Roxy’s set began. The crowd cheered, oblivious to the tension brewing behind the scenes. You waited for your cue, the familiar nerves tingling through you as you took a deep breath.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Just as Roxy launched into the chorus of her hit song—one infamous for its not-so-subtle digs at you and Marshall—the music abruptly cut out. The speakers crackled, and the room held its breath. Then, a familiar beat dropped.

Marshall's voice boomed through the venue, the diss track he’d recorded in response to Roxy’s jabs playing loud and clear. The crowd gasped, the atmosphere thick with shock and anticipation.

You stepped onto the runway, your head held high. You moved with grace, your every step exuding confidence. The chain around your neck caught the light, the "M.M." glinting with each stride. The audience’s eyes were glued to you, captivated by the audacity and brilliance of the moment.

Marshall had orchestrated this. His way of standing by your side, even when he wasn’t physically there. It was bold, defiant, and so very him.

As the diss track continued to play, you finished your walk, pausing at the end of the runway to flash a knowing smile. The crowd erupted into applause, the energy in the room electric.

Backstage, the producers scrambled, Roxy fuming as she stormed off. But you didn’t care. You had made your statement, and it was clear: you were a team, and no one would tear you apart, especially not pop stars and media outlets.

As you exited the stage, your phone buzzed in your dressing room. A text from Marshall.

"You killed it out there. Proud of you. Love you."

You smiled, and your heart swelled with love. You had faced the world’s judgment, but with Marshall by your side, you felt unstoppable. Together, you were a force to be reckoned with—a love story that no one could rewrite.

---------------------------------------------------

The aftermath of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show was a whirlwind. Social media exploded with reactions, from adoration to outrage. Headlines screamed about the unexpected diss track, labeling it everything from a power move to an outright scandal. Yet, amidst the chaos, you and Marshall had found solace in each other.

Back at your home in Detroit, you sat on your couch, scrolling through the flood of news and comments online. Marshall, his signature smirk playing on his lips, glanced over at you. "Looks like we broke the internet."

You chuckled, resting her head on his shoulder. "Was that the plan? Become the first couple to cross the tabloid rumors and make it online?"

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. "The plan was to show them we don’t back down. No matter what they say."

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. "You didn’t have to do that, you know. I could’ve handled it."

"I know you could’ve," he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I wanted to. No one messes with my wife and gets away with it."

His words sent a warmth through you, the kind that only he could ignite. Despite his tough exterior and sharp tongue, Marshall had always been fiercely protective of you, your love a sanctuary from the relentless scrutiny of the outside world.

As the days passed, the buzz around the fashion show didn’t die down. Invitations for interviews and talk shows poured in, each one eager to get their perspective on the night’s events. But you and Marshall remained silent, choosing instead to let your actions speak for themselves.

One evening, as you sat in your living room, you were scrolling through fan reactions on a chat board, you paused on a particular post. It was a fan art of your runway walk, the chain around her neck prominently displayed, with the caption: A queen standing by her king.

You showed it to Marshall, who grinned. "Looks like they get it."

You nodded, your heart swelling with pride. "Yeah, they do."

Still, not everyone was pleased. Roxy’s camp had issued a statement, calling the incident "unprofessional" and "disrespectful." Rumors swirled of a potential lawsuit, but you weren’t worried. You knew Marshall had dealt with worse before, and together, you could handle anything.

One afternoon, as you enjoyed a rare moment of peace in your backyard with the girls, Marshall’s phone buzzed. It was Paul, his manager, with news that Roxy had indeed filed a lawsuit for defamation and breach of contract.

Marshall sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Looks like it’s time to lawyer up."

You placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "We’ll get through it. Like we always do."

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering resolve. "Yeah, we will."

As the legal battle loomed, you decided to take control of the narrative. You agreed to an exclusive interview with a respected magazine, one that had always treated you with fairness. The feature would focus on your journey from a small-town girl to a supermodel, touching on your marriage with Marshall, but with an emphasis on her resilience and strength.

The interview was a hit, painting you not as a mere extension of your famous husband, but as a force in your own right. It resonated with fans and critics alike, shifting the public perception in your favor.

When it became apparent that Roxy had lost the fight in the press, the lawsuit was eventually dropped. So you and Marshall celebrated quietly, toasting to your victory with glasses of champagne in their living room.

As you clinked your glasses, Marshall leaned in, his voice low and filled with affection. "No matter what comes our way, we’ve got each other. That’s all that matters."

You smiled, your heart full. "Always."

Your bond, forged in the fire of public scrutiny and hardened by your unwavering love, remained unbreakable. Together, you stood as a testament to the power of unity, proving that no amount of criticism or controversy could shake the foundation you had built.

In a world that constantly tried to tear you down, you and Marshall rose above, stronger than ever, your love a beacon of defiance and strength.

[lustkillers]

okok hear me out: rough sex in a loud party where any character you want is pounding into reader, forcing them to be quiet until he cums all over her and forces her back into the party, putting her on display for everyone. just a thought, love you're writing !!

LOOSEN UP THEIR FROWN, MAKE 'EM FEEL ALIVE!

⊹₊ ⋆ summary. - you're only his.

┃ tags/warnings. ࿐ ❪ nsfw freak shit here! hard dom!euro, sub!reader unprotected sex, rough sex, impact play, public sex/exhibitionism?? , voyeurism?, slight asphyxiation, degradation, spit, jealous!euro, toxic (?) couple tbh, FACIALLLL!!! ❫

⊹₊ ⋆ pairing - euronymous x fem!reader ❪ not the actual euronymous, only rory’s portrayal. ❫

⊹₊ ⋆ note - IM BACKKK from my dreadful writers block!! i'm also bombarded with school work, i'm so sorry for being inactive on terms of writing!! thank u for the request & hopefully i did this request justice... i'm literally sick as shit and seeing stars!! as always, not proofread! requests are open!!

HOW did you end up here? Standing in the middle of a house party, your face covered in his cum. Others knew, some didn't. But you knew... You knew it all too well.

Øystein had been pissing you off recently, so you decided to take a night out on the town with your friends to blow off some steam. Plus, you knew Øystein would be busy and wouldn't bother you tonight, as he had other plans.

He'd always be deep into his music, making him insufferable sometimes. You wanted a night without his judgment, so you went to the house party, not telling him that you were leaving. 'It's not like he cares...' You thought.

The party was raging with people inside, strobe lights scattered along the house and the intense thumping of bass. You felt your body come alive with every beat, and soon you were dancing among everyone else.

Your friends had left you to talk to other guys, get drinks, and possibly fuck. That alone made you want to leave, but something about this party didn't allow you to. Everything around you was a blur, and other men had hands on your waist... But they weren't him.

Suddenly, you felt a new pair of hands around your waist. You looked back and saw Øystein standing there, his eyes smoldering with desire… But also anger and passion. He looked at you with an intensity that made your body tremble.

Your stomach bubbled with many emotions, and your head was like a wheel; spinning with what you should say to him at this moment.

“What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay away from parties like this, but now here you are!” Øystein said incredulously.

You wanted to say something along the lines of how it wasn't his decision to make, but you couldn't take your eyes off him; he was still holding you close. Something in your head felt unscrewed, not responding well to his response. You should've been defending yourself... Not standing there with your eyes searching his.

“I-I…” You stuttered, unable to put together any sort of coherent response.

He only grabbed you, leading you away from the suffocating crowd you didn't even know was bothering you until this point. He kept a tight grip on you as he dragged you upstairs.

As soon as you reached the top, there was a hallway with 3 doors; 2 adjacent to each other, and one parallel to the 2 doors. He opened the door parallel to the 2, loud moans ringing through both of your ears, the sight of your friend riding some random guy she just met.

A yelp emits from your mouth, your hand instantly closing the door. A deep sigh leaves Øystein's mouth, a chuckle soon to follow.

"This is why I told you to stay away from parties like this," he said shaking his head as he released you from his ironclad grip. You were about to speak up again, but the words caught in your throat when he grabbed your face and inched closer, a smirk slowly making its way across his face.

The couple hastily moved away from each other, a stern look suddenly present in Øystein's face. He motioned you to come inside the room while they quickly ran out of it, leaving you two alone.

The atmosphere was tense as Øystein pointed his finger at you, the silence filling the room. He finally opened his mouth to speak. "You were about to do something stupid," He said accusingly, his intense gaze never leaving your face.

You gulped, suddenly intimidated by him. "I-I was just curious," you stuttered. You instantly regretted your words.

He clenched his jaw, looking at you with disdain before letting out a deep breath and relaxing his stance a bit.

"Curiosity is not always your friend," he tilted his head, his gaze still boring into yours as he grabbed your hands in his own. "I think… You’re just acting like a slut to get my attention."

You felt your heart racing as you stared back at him, unable to find words. Øystein smiled devilishly before swooping in for a kiss without warning, spinning you around and pushing you against the wall. He then kissed every inch of your body until his lips were back on yours. You could feel electricity coursing through both of your bodies and it felt amazing. You knew then that you were in way too deep.

His grip on you was tight, almost bruising your waist. As you both kissed, his body collided with yours, and soon you found yourself laid on the bed with him on top of you.

Your pussy pooled with wetness, his veiny, pale hands traveling to your core. He started to move his fingers inside you, pushing and pulling in a deep rhythm. His subtle and gentle movements were filling your body up with pleasure like nothing else before. With each thrust of his hand, you felt yourself coming closer and closer to the brink of orgasm.

Before you even came, his hands retracted from your core and his lips trailed down your neck. He worked his way to your nipples, pulling up your top, and teasing them with his tongue as he moved further down past the small of your back, kissing each inch of skin as if it were precious.

However the passion ended there. Øystein suddenly flipped you over on all fours, his hand colliding with your ass; a stinging sensation traveling through you.

A moan escaped your lips, as you felt empty without him inside. In order to fill that void, your fingers found its way to your clit, rubbing it as strained whimpers escaped your mouth.

He smacked your hand away, placing his hand in front of your mouth. "Spit." He demanded.

A pool of your saliva bubbled on his hand, as he retracted it and rubbed it on his aching cock.

And before you knew it, he was spearing into you. His thrusts hurried and intense, as if it were his last time, each increasing in pressure until he was shaking with the feeling of pure pleasure.

"S-Slow down, Øystein... Fuck!" You cried out, sobs bubbling out of your mouth, and as soon as you know it, tears spilled out from pleasure.

Your moans rung in his ears as he noticed the music downstairs died down a bit, but he didn't care. He was too focused on the blissful pleasure that your body gave him, as your muscles clenched onto his cock with each thrust, sending spasms of ecstasy through his body.

His hand grabbed a handful of your hair, roughly stuffing your face into the pillows, suppressing your moans.

"Be fucking quiet, whore." He seethed, as his thrusts quickened and the air filled with your muffled moans.

It was hard to breathe with your face in the pillows, and the fact that he kept smacking your ass didn't help much. You felt your insides warming up as he hit just the right spot, and it wasn't long before a wave of heat spread over your body.

Just before you knew it, you came on his hard cock, moaning into the pillow as your wet pussy clenched tightly onto his cock. Your fluids seeped down your thighs, as your body shook in recovering pleasure.

Øystein was about to fall apart, his thrusts going erratic. His hands grabbed your shoulders and he started pounding into you wildly. It wasn't long before he let out a deep guttural grunt, "Let me paint that pretty face of yours." He pulled your head out the pillows, whispering in your ear.

The searing pain of the grip on his hair flowed through you, but you were still at a high.

He made you drop to your knees, pumping his cock right in front of your face. You opened your mouth, closing your eyes and letting Øystein shoot his cum over your tongue and face.

It was then that you felt the last contractions of his orgasm, and Øystein finally released his grip from your hair. You stayed on your knees for a moment, taking in everything that just happened.

As you looked up to him with glazed eyes, his smile devilishly looking down upon you. "Let's go," His voice raspy.

You stood up, nodding, and your knees slightly went weak. "Let me just wipe my face–"

"No." Øystein's voice was stern. "Leave it." He said with a smirk.

As you both descended down the stairs, the party still going on as a few eyes stared at you. Silence was shared between them, while others raised an eyebrow.

Shit, some of them even had a hard-on.

Øystein didn't care though,

he wanted everyone to know you were his.

[ataraxiaspainting]

Chrollo Lucilfer Yandere Analysis.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, not SFW (both non-con and dub-con), the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectfully, forced tattooing, Chrollo having a god complex but that's nothing new lol, Stockholm Syndrome, stalking, parallels to religion (mainly Judeo-Christianity), implied body transformation (using Chrollo’s book), masturbation, manipulation, and violence/gore.

Word Count: 13k.

credits to @ddarker-dreams for the yandere MBTI and like everything she writes for this creepy greaseball (check her out if you haven’t already!!) <33333

another thanks to @depravitycentral for the inspiration! check them out too!!!! their general profile and nsfw profile for mr. chrollo specifically BUT everything they write is pretty good! <33333

one last thanks to @phasmophobia-territory for the ultimate yandere types list and @blughxreader for the yandere personality meme. both have inspired the unique qualities part of this analysis, so please be sure to check them out! <333

also, for quotes i tried to do something like genshin impact/honkai: star rail voicelines so i apologize if they aren’t good (ﾒ﹏ﾒ)

*~*~*~*

I look forward to living life with you from here on out. However, just know that there will be many different roads we will walk together on. Their lengths will depend on you, for better or for worse. As time goes on, however, I know that they will all end eventually.

→ Introduction.

The very definition of an empty shell, Chrollo has had his humanity stripped of him from a very young age. The only people who have ever made him feel something are all members of the Troupe or are buried underground, burning in hell or soaring above the clouds as angels, either one a much better existence than the life they all spent in Meteor City. So, when he sees you, someone who has been able to make him feel something without interacting with him at all, without the use of Nen, without even brushing your shoulder against him while running to your train in a hurry, he does not know what to do.

He feels like he is back to being a small child, roaming the streets and looking through dumpsters for anything of value trying to ignore the pain of the cuts and infections all over his body. You bring up a feeling he has not felt in years; fear. Despite this situation being far, far different from those times, his brain thinks otherwise. It sends him a fight or flight response every time he sees you, as much as he hides it, much like he hides himself among the crowds and crowds of people as he follows you home. You have resurrected a beast thought to be long dead, something innate, animal, almost carnal, without even lifting a finger.

Is this who he is, he wonders? He finally feels something, for once, a sense of belonging and identity and… humanity.

It fills him with a sense of euphoria, while you view it with dread every time his Zetsu slips for just a moment. You always look over your shoulder during those times and start walking faster, but definitely not enough to deter him, and it will never be enough.

→ Darling Character Analysis.

Creative.

Chrollo has a deep curiosity about the world and appreciates a darling who shares this thirst for knowledge and intellectual growth. The form of expression doesn't matter to him, whether it's through writing, music, or eloquent speech. What truly matters to Chrollo is that his darling can communicate uniquely and authentically.

In a concerning manner, Chrollo imitates his darling’s behaviors to an extreme degree, devouring everything they do with an insatiable appetite. It doesn't matter how his darling presents their interests to him, whether it's straightforward or not. For instance, if his darling mentions their love for playing the violin after spending days alone with only Chrollo for company, the next day a brand new violin will mysteriously appear on the table beside their side of the bed. Chrollo will secretly learn to play the violin himself, the one he purchased as well as the one he gifted to his darling, practicing when they are not paying attention or are fast asleep.

As a result, his darling may find themselves obligated to reciprocate this behavior by learning Chrollo's favorite musical pieces.

He will experience immense joy, perhaps so much that he will hold them down on the bed and shower their face with kisses while they squirm and kick. Even when they eventually stop, he will continue, disregarding their pleas for him to stop.

As always, his strength is overpowering, leaving you with no action to do other than to say no.

At least there is some form of care after it is all over and done with, although it always somehow involves blending with whatever activity preceded it. For instance, if it was playing the violin, he would play you with both your favorite pieces on the gramophone he put near the bathtub while giving you a massage and preparing a relaxing bath for both of you.

It is painful, more so than the usual ache between your legs, because he pays attention to your desires and exploits them, even when he appears to be gentle. The pain lingers, no matter how hard you try to disconnect from everything happening around you.

He gives you everything you want, and it hurts because you always know why.

Bold.

A darling who never hides their intentions and just goes for it would spark some sort of admiration in Chrollo, especially if they use their boldness on him as a manipulation tactic.

He finds it entertaining most of all, but also there is a small part of him that is grateful for it because it makes his darling seem more human to him and not just something to own.

Boldness is quite a human trait, one that he so adores, especially with those he holds close like fellow members of the Troupe. It is also quite a trait that can easily be manipulated.

If you attempt to flirt to lower his guard, he will flirt back twice as hard. 

When everything is over and done with, he will admit he knows exactly what you are doing as he kisses you again, you not kissing him back this time, as good as your acting was, much to your horror.

Resourceful.

Chrollo sees himself above the rest of man, a God in his way, so a darling who is quite similar to him he would adore.

That is not to say he could not fall for someone the complete opposite of him, someone who is impulsive and wears their heart on their sleeve and everything else he does not and cannot do, but the probability is low compared to a darling that plans everything and keeps their cards close, much as he does.

That makes escape attempts though, quite common, considering how resourceful his darling can be, like using a file to saw the metal in one of his safes or the iron on their leg keeping them in his penthouse. But he loves it, it is one of his favorite things about them.

It is endless entertainment to him, a sort of fight against himself, albeit he is much, much stronger when it comes to wits most likely. You can think on your feet as much as you want, but so will he.

He will mirror their actions until the end.

Independent.

Much like his beloved's cleverness, he derives amusement from their self-reliance. He takes pleasure in dismantling their barriers bit by bit until they have no choice but to rely on him completely.

Indeed, Chrollo views his beloved as simultaneously superior and inferior to him.

There is no equality between them, only a shifting power dynamic that his beloved will soon discover. They will never be certain if his actions, like retrieving their favorite snack from the top shelf of the pantry, are expressions of love or gestures of mockery.

At times, it may be both. At times, it may be neither.

His thoughts remain inscrutable, and he revels in it.

Cunning.

Chrollo loves it when your eyebrows furrow, when you’re deep in focus, especially when you are trying to come up with an escape plan and not noticing him right behind you, because of that expression on your face.

It’s unholy, the way he worships you with sacrifices both living and not. He wants to ruin you, yet keep you as you are. So, after a long time of pondering, he concludes. He will remake your shape, not enough to completely alter it, but just enough for your walls to tumble down and let him in. That is why while he will let you try and try again to escape, he will still attempt to get into your head. He is like a poison, a parasite, imprisoning you in your fears, insecurities, and plans that are doomed to fail sooner or later. It is what he wants to be, but he also wants to be more. 

More and more he will be, and more and more he will take from you. It is only natural to want more than what is given, correct? 

It is how Chrollo and the other Troupe members survived so long in Meteor City. They take and take, not caring who they hurt because it is human instinct to want and seize. He will argue as such whenever you try to guilt him because you will soon know that he holds no shame in whatever he does. He is selfish, and he wants to stay that way. He wants you to do the same, so he loves it when you fight him or try to run away because he knows it is only nature. Nature will run its course regardless of who wants it to not. Nature does not care, so why should he? Why should you?

But he also wants you to not be as selfish as him, despite him knowing that it most likely will not be unless you are broken down enough. But that is fine, Chrollo tells himself because that time will eventually arise.

Mature.

Maturity is an elusive quality that characterizes Chrollo, yet eludes him as well. It ebbs and flows like a breeze, carrying seeds to unknown destinations, beyond the perception of onlookers. Unfortunately, you, the observer, are an unwilling participant in the multitude of games he plays and the various disguises he dons. Occasionally, Chrollo can act impulsively, adopting yet another facade acquired from others in the interludes of his life. However, there are moments when he patiently waits for the opportune time to strike, akin to a cunning serpent. But this outcome relies on your level of vigilance or innocence. Perhaps, one day, you'll find it best to surrender to his will. Chrollo eagerly anticipates that day.

Hardworking.

Chrollo feels a mix of jealousy and a desire for control when he sees someone truly dedicated to their pursuits. He wants to replicate their passion and adopt a similar persona. At the same time, he is intrigued by their determination and ambition, as he wants to understand every aspect of their character. This admiration creates a thrilling challenge for him, as he seeks to imitate their drive while also appreciating it. He wants to both admire and exploit this trait to engage in a game of cat and mouse until they submit. Perhaps it would be good to do just that, to prevent yourself from getting hurt again.

Observant.

Chrollo finds great pleasure in the thrill of the hunt, especially when his keen-eyed darling begins to notice subtle indications of being watched. These signs, carefully planted by Chrollo himself, make his darling increasingly cautious. For Chrollo, taking risks brings great rewards. Although these signs are intentional, they still hold, don't they? A lingering footstep behind them. A faint smile on a stranger's face, an unfamiliar figure lurking in an alley near his companion's residence. These signals confirm that they are being stalked, and Chrollo is entertained by the fact that their sharp instincts assure them that this is no mere coincidence or misunderstanding.

Logical.

Chrollo's beloved should possess some semblance of logic, even if it deviates from conventional understanding. The key lies in their thought process, rather than adherence to reason. This cognitive approach, be it driven by emotions or rationality, captivates Chrollo. They meticulously evaluate facts, evidence, and outcomes, exercising caution in moments of perceived advantage, as well as during bouts of insecurity and danger, where they must think quickly on their feet. This mental calculus can either serve them well or inadvertently lead to their downfall. They carefully weigh the pros and cons, thus fueling Chrollo's insatiable desire for the fun of the chase, which hinges upon ultimately catching his beloved in the act.

A Leader.

If you hold a position of leadership, whether at work or among friends, this situation will be even more perplexing and distressing for you. In an instant, you were no longer in charge, forcibly removed from your familiar surroundings and confined. Your authority, influence, and status, which held great significance, have been stripped away. You may experience a profound sense of helplessness and powerlessness as if all your hard work has been unjustly taken from you. Chrollo, as your captor, will seek to exert even more control over you if you possess the characteristic of leadership. He finds it ironic that you are now compelled to follow him, forever robbed of the opportunity to lead while you remain in captivity.

Confident Outside, Insecure Inside.

Chrollo takes great pleasure in this particular attribute, as a mere few words, be they soothing or otherwise, have the power to manipulate you effortlessly.

You find yourself compelled to dance and sing, controlled by invisible strings or some intangible force, as there seems to be no other recourse in this predicament. After enduring prolonged isolation, you will unquestioningly revere Chrollo's words, no matter how distorted they may be, treating them as a testament to be praised. And Chrollo eagerly anticipates the arrival of that day.

It instills fear in you, as both of you are aware that such a day will inevitably arrive.

With a few choice words, Chrollo can elicit tears or smiles from you, a feat that few others have managed to accomplish.

You despise it, while Chrollo utterly loves it. Intelligent.

Intelligence encompasses a wide range of abilities, making it possible for Chrollo to be drawn to various types. However, what truly captivates him is a darling who possesses either linguistic or interpersonal intelligence, or even better, both. He desires someone who can effortlessly decipher people's intentions, using words that ignite a fire within him, even if those words are aimed at him or others.

The type or types of intelligence his darling possesses greatly influences their relationship. How he presents himself in public, whether as a kind gentleman or someone who keeps his distance, depends on their emotional intelligence and intuition. Additionally, Chrollo finds it incredibly appealing when his darling shares a specific interest that is completely new to him. This not only allows him to learn something new but also adds another mask to his ever-expanding collection.

Someone who is emotionally intelligent, like his beloved, would pose a challenge for him to manipulate. They possess the ability to understand him better than most, making it all the more satisfying for Chrollo when they succumb to his desires. After all, as Chrollo often says, the greater the risk, the greater the reward.

→ Yandere MBTI: CAMS. (Cruel, Aware, Manipulative, Strict)

Chrollo possesses great skill in dismantling individuals but lacks the necessary expertise to reconstruct them according to his vision. Unfortunately, you have become an unwilling participant in his experiments. Share with him your deepest anguish and vulnerabilities. Chrollo also portrays himself as a universal remedy, claiming that he holds the power to alleviate all your suffering and resolve your troubles, provided you heed his advice.

However, he waits until he has captured you, and your defenses have crumbled. In that moment of vulnerability, when you are cut off from the world, consumed by sorrow, unable to eat or speak, he reveals himself as a deity. He extends his hand to you, leading you along a path he meticulously constructed. This path is filled with suffering, a never-ending cycle of waiting for both of you. But at the end of this dark tunnel lies Chrollo's ultimate desire: your affection.

What is your ultimate pain, what is your ultimate wish? I can provide anything and everything for you, beloved if you do not stray away from the light.

If you happen to encounter him in public before he abducts you, it is because he willingly allows you to do so, aiming to create a favorable impression that will prevent you from suspecting his true intentions. However, if you do find yourself growing suspicious, it is not without justification. Nevertheless, he will persist in attempting to dispel your doubts by showering you with more gifts and displaying gentlemanly behavior such as pulling out your chair and kissing your hand or inner wrist. Yet, everything appears excessively flawless, to the extent of inducing nausea. Everything is so… flawless all of the time, but only when you are around him and him alone. Ironically, despite Chrollo's desire to dissuade your wariness towards him, his tender and kind gestures only evoke fear.

Chrollo effortlessly switches between portraying himself as a divine figure and a malevolent force, adapting to the circumstances at hand. On one hand, he displays an uncanny perfection, never making a mistake and seemingly possessing an understanding of your thoughts and emotions even before you do. On the other hand, he reveals his true nature as pure evil by casually initiating a bet to see who can consume the most alcohol, leaving you as an unwilling participant in this game of his. As soon as you become intoxicated, he unveils himself as the embodiment of wickedness, groaning as your clothes rip off and you cry his mouth is on yours and he keeps murmuring things into your ear that are so much more terrifying than sweet and-

Panaceas are eternal, refusing to fade away, regardless of your preferences. And so is this situation with me, my dearest.

Chrollo often repeats the phrase that he would sacrifice his life for you. However, there is doubt as to whether he truly means it. His actions, whether they be subtle or overt, inflict daily harm upon you, both mentally and physically. He disguises his hurtful behavior as casual conversation, a serious one, and everything in between. Chrollo's self-centered nature raises the question of why he would make such a claim.

You remain unaware of his true intentions, as Chrollo holds the knowledge of what is genuine and what is fabricated close to his chest. He perpetuates this ambiguity, ensuring that you will never uncover the truth. Once again, Chrollo finds himself in a position of guilt, but the specific charges remain unknown. As an impartial judge, you can't discern between deceit and honesty when you have never been taught the difference. Chrollo, determined to maintain this state of uncertainty, ensures that the truth remains elusive, no matter what lengths he has to go to to make sure it stays that way.

Chrollo possesses the ability to assume various roles. He can portray himself as a reliable partner rather than a deceitful captor, a compassionate individual rather than a mass murderer, a savior rather than someone in need of rescue... The possibilities are endless. This charade is not merely a game to him, but a necessity to maintain his façade. Even if he desired to, he could never remove these disguises, as he is oblivious to his true identity, because who is he without his lies? Nothing? It is a sorrowful predicament for both me and him, you will think someday, one that may prompt you to ponder whether it is Stockholm Syndrome or your inherent empathy for others.

At some point, you will allow him to take what he desires, whether it be when he reaches a breaking point and loses control, or when you become desperate for any form of human interaction.

Whenever you are in need, call out my name. I will be there to provide whatever cure you desire for the ailment at hand.

→ Unique Qualities.

Yandere Type: 

Possessive.

Chrollo in one word would be selfish, and he himself would not deny that it suits him quite well.

Whatever he touches turns to gold in the most metaphorical sense. Whenever he sees something he wants, he will take it. Everything Chrollo takes either has rhyme and reason to it or none at all. He turns them into gold as a sign of who owns them. Even if you have fallen or will eventually fall prey to this touch. The golden touch immobilizes you so you never ever leave him. 

Like King Midas, he is selfish, and he takes pride in it. He is never humble in anything he does. That much is certain. He holds you in his arms at night like he knows your weight in gold, that he could never lose you as he lost himself all those years ago. His kisses are gentle when he wants them to be, or they can be as aggressive as he wants them to be. You’ll come to learn that it does not matter what you want, what matters is what Chrollo wants. Does not having a say in your hell hurt? Or does not having a choice help you justify to yourself that you must escape this?

Monitoring. (Watches From Afar / Direct Contact)

Really, it is Shalnark that does most of the work here, but it is still worth mentioning, especially since what Chrollo cannot get through traditional stalking alone, he asks a very teasing Shalnark to get for him. Though, if Shalnark fails, Feitan is put to the task, much to Feitan’s quite less than subtle annoyance, not that he would ever voice it. Through this trio, the work is separated into three strategies.

Chrollo’s way of finding information is as classic as it comes. Either he is observing you go about your usual day, to that coffee shop you visit before going to work, to the library you frequent on the weekends, to a park you like walking in to see the birds and to get a change of scenery while you read, or he is inside your home, looking through drawers, sampling some leftovers even from your fridge, and making a literal list of things to buy you either later or in the present moment and things to take with him when he inevitably steals you away. Shalnark’s way comes through the internet, through placing cameras in your home and showing Chrollo the footage day in and day out, and perhaps even making an online friend of you if you are that social with other people. To him, it’s all child’s play, especially with finding family members and friends of yours for later, to perhaps ask them questions under the guise of a fellow friend of yours even. But the information that neither Shalnark nor Chrollo can get from stalking alone relies on Feitan, which is where all the finding people you know and love trickle down and puddle at the bottom of this sort of vial of differing plans. This is a last resort, sort of, because there are better things that Feitan can be doing, really, but he is nothing less than loyal to Chrollo and the other Spiders, so he’ll find people who may know the answers his boss was looking for.

He does not blame Chrollo, because if the information was something even Shalnark could not find, it is something so secretive that it could metaphorically be so beneath the waves that it is on the bottom of the ocean floor.

Feitan takes on the role of the more experienced diver because he wants to make Chrollo happy.

Thankfully for most of those you know, only a maximum of perhaps five people are flicked off before you are brought to whatever penthouse Chrollo has bought for the next month or so. The rest can continue with their lives as it was, not that Feitan cares or Shalnark cares or Chrollo cares, except for poor, poor you.

Removing Nuisances. (Murder Likelihood: 8/10)

Similarly to gathering information about you, dealing with rivals follows a similar sort of hierarchy. Chrollo follows them, albeit with far less care and perhaps even stealing a few things along the way, if the rivals are rich enough, though that is quite rare to happen. Instead, he would try to threaten them through anonymous emails or letters, perhaps even with a photo of them sleeping thrown into the mix. But if that does not work, Shalnark is up next, digging up past searches and buyings that the rival perhaps regrets or wants to remain hidden. It could be anything, really, and soon this information will start to spread like a flame until the rival’s reputation is utterly ruined. If the rival is still stubborn about wanting to be romantically involved with you, Feitan is last, burying a corpse underground that looks far from the human it once was by the end of it all, and Feitan, unsurprisingly, likes this sort of business rather than simply lying in wait for a friend of yours to unfortunately cross his path.

Perhaps even Chrollo will join Feitan in this session or sessions. It sometimes happens, when Chrollo is too pent up or feeling especially angry, although he hides it well with a smile that is a bit too wide, at this rival in particular. By the end of it, when both he and Feitan look like they took a bath in blood with their clothes on, Chrollo laughs, and Feitan snickers. He feels good, both of them do. Maybe this is why Chrollo is so taken with you, Feitan wonders. The power and control that comes with you… it’s utterly addicting, isn’t it?

Adam and Eve. (Absolute Isolation) (Kidnapping Likelihood: 10/10)

Before he takes you away, Chrollo makes sure that whatever he cannot replace he takes with him. This includes memorabilia, photos, family heirlooms if you have any, and even annotated novels you have on your bookshelf with notes sticking out of them like sore thumbs. He manages to take it all away easily, just like he does with you. Chrollo, despite how selfish he is, still wants in some capacity to make you happy. In your “adapting stage”, you may be able to hide away from him in the bathroom and lock the door, but at least you will have the choice to continue whatever hobbies you had before that Chrollo allows you to do while you are self-isolating. 

He sees this small reason for you not to hate him entirely as a win. A triumph followed by many others to come.

Collector’s Habit. (Comfortable Imprisonment / Chains + Cages)

Chrollo’s penthouse is lined with things both of significance to him and you. Almost all of it is stuff that he has stolen, however, not that he cares. The paintings lined up in the dining room, the many pretty dresses put in your closet and you are forced to wear, the jewelry that he clasps onto your neck and fingers and wrists like chains, all of them are stolen in some capacity or another. 

The things that he had stolen from your home all look like they belong there, almost. Your favorite pink beret placed next to a porcelain plate of macaroons and fruit a note telling you to get ready for a date later in the evening, an old photo of you placed in a frame that ought to be at least three hours worth of your salary, your most cherished books all lined up next to Chrollo’s own, all the covers and sizes somewhat similar to one another that it almost drives you mad. It brings Chrollo comfort, while it brings you ire. 

Possibly, you’ll read one of his Dostoevsky pieces when you think he is gone, or you’ll try on one of his many fur coats when it gets too chilly or when you are curious. But curiosity always finds a way to kill the cat, because when you think you are not going to be caught, Chrollo finds a way to sneak up behind you and simply observe, smirking, even when you see him.

Attention-Seeking.

Chrollo has always been one to utterly enjoy being in the limelight. He loves acting parts, playing parts as classy as a Prince Charming to a part as scheming as a villain that has locked the princess in a tower. You get both, the unlucky person you are. He gives you roses and proclaims poems and confessions of absolute love and undying loyalty, but you then remember that he is the one that trapped you here, to begin with.

This life that was forced upon you is a fairytale very close to cracking and falling apart, but never does.

You are forced to be a helpless maiden waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue her, but unfortunately for you, that knight is also the very evildoer in this story. So, you try to be your own knight, your own prince, but it will never be as close or as real as an actual hero. So, your attempts fail, regardless of how long they were in the making. You are not strong enough, not fast enough, and you simply cannot write your own ending in this whimsical tale if Chrollo is always aware of them.

But you come up with a plan that takes weeks upon weeks and months upon months for it to bear fruit. 

You'll comply with his desires and make your getaway when he least anticipates it. Thus, you're compelled to dance with Chrollo, flawlessly and without objection, to safeguard your plan. However, with each movement, it feels as though nails are penetrating your foot, for you're uncertain if Chrollo is aware of your actions, and it fills you with immense fear.

But it is too late to back out of this, so you keep on doing this waltz.

Eliminating Rivals. 

The basement, as always, is filled with dust and dirt with insects both alive and dead scattered on the floor next to Feitan’s equipment. Chrollo does not mind it, though, despite him still wearing the suit he wore when he was following you to the train station, the route you usually took to get back from your best friend’s house to your place. He does not like her, but he decides to let her still do whatever with her life as she pleases, unlike the person currently zip-tied to one of the rusty chairs with broken legs. As long as she does not try to seek to be more than friends with you, she’ll be safe from harm. Even though Chrollo’s gut is telling him that she will try, that she will kiss you, say “I love you” to you and maybe go on top of you in bed and-

He tries not to think about it, he is already behind schedule enough as it is, though he could just make Feitan do the work by himself. He tries not to think about it because he has to start preparing his penthouse for your arrival soon to come. He has already purchased some new comforter sets for the bedroom, along with some of the skincare products he knows you use in the bathroom. He’s busy, too busy to involve himself with something other than torturing this man and getting back on track. He focuses on the scene ahead, trying not to think about that friend of yours or the barista who always looks at you for a tad bit too long. If he let his emotions and not logic control him, he would have murdered half this town already and left love notes on their headstones.

He looks at the man, covered in his own blood, his own vomit, his own feces from being confined there for days before Chrollo arrived, deathly thin from starvation and dehydration. From what Feitan told him, Feitan gouged out one eye one day and the other eye the next day, leaving him blind and weeping, his vocal cords far-reaching past their limit, crying out gibberish like some sort of animal, something not too conscious enough of its surroundings to be anything considered even near human.

“Fei, do you hear that?”

“...I do.”

Sexual Drive: 5/10.

Chrollo knows most of what there is to know about sex, but not for his own pleasure. He uses this knowledge mainly in intelligence gathering, when Shalnark, Feitan, and even Pakunoda are not able to get the information the Troupe needs for their next heist. He holds sex with little to no emotional value because of this, since his love for the other Troupe members is high above what little admiration he could possibly hold for those people that he subtly interrogates while fucking them as gently or as hard as they want him to, whispering in their ear when they are feeling their most euphoric, asking them what dons are trading with each other and with what, asking them how the president of this company makes so much when the value of their imports and exports don’t exactly match up, asking them how exactly many secret passageways this mansion has… it’s endless, really, how much information he can get out of them. The human body is so vulnerable, especially when pain mixes with pleasure or pleasure mixes with pain or pain is alone or please is alone. Chrollo is grateful for it.

But when it comes to sex with you, Chrollo then finally sees the emotional side of this spectrum. Your bodies bond and become one, melting into one another as you both moan out each other’s name, lovingly yours and lovingly his.

This development does not surprise him because he does want an emotional bond with you in some sense of the word, he wants you to worship him just as much as he does with you.

Let us go, shall we? Before you could answer, his hand grabs your wrist, his grip making it impossible for someone like you to break away. We… have plenty to talk about and do, correct?

Violence Towards Darling: 3/10.

Don’t take this as a sign that he will not use violence on you at all. Believing that Chrollo's violent tendencies towards you are limited to slapping or ignoring you is a naive assumption. You soon realize that attempting to strike him is futile due to his lightning-fast reflexes. Fighting back against Chrollo will not resolve anything. Instead, you come to understand that he wants you to be like a pet, constantly performing tricks and obediently following his commands.

You wonder if he would also display you like a trophy. Uncertain, you contemplate whether or not you want to find out. Eventually, a few nights later, you dream of a life without Chrollo's constant control, where he does not touch you possessively and parade you around expensive events. You recognize that you are nothing more than his lapdog, his pet, his trophy.

However, Chrollo claims to see something more in you. Is he being genuine in his belief? Do you really desire to uncover the truth?

Violence Towards Others: 8/10.

In his search for you, he maintains his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes reveal his inner turmoil. Anger fills his vision, overshadowing any light. Surely, you couldn't have gone too far. He frantically scans the penthouse until he finds you on the balcony... in the company of someone else.

“Feeling intrusive, are we?”

He pays no mind to the identity of this person, although it's likely they are a former lover or at the very least, a love interest. Your declarations of love and reciprocated kisses leave no room for doubt. How they managed to reach this height is irrelevant to him.

Without uttering a single word, he opens his book, channeling an unseen force from his hands to your ill-fated companion, causing them to plummet to the ground amidst screams from both of you.

After a few moments of tears, mumbled apologies, and the utterance of their name, he informs you that a serious discussion will take place later. With that, you silently follow him back inside. He will contact Shizuku to handle the cleanup of the body in due time.

Vanilla / Kinky

Favorite Kinks:

Begging.

Both inside and outside the bedroom, Chrollo likes having you beg, from you begging him to let you orgasm to you begging him to get you that new book in that series you were quite interested in before you got stolen away. It’s a power dynamic no doubt, it makes him feel wanted by you, needed by you, loved by you. That’s all he wants, really, your love and devotion and for you to promise to be his sun and moon and stars, for you to say he is bigger and more important to me than the sky, for you to hold him, for him to hold you.

No matter how much time passes, how many different places you both stay in and leave, how many countries you visit for leisure or for Chrollo's next big scheme, he refuses to break this unhealthy pattern, even for your sake. He enjoys this routine, so why would he alter it? He will occasionally tease you for being rather selfish, even as you both grow older and wiser and your hairs both white and your skin wrinkly. He will even say it to you when your corpse is resting peacefully in its coffin, as he sheds tears for the first time in many years.

Every time please, Chrollo, please, I… comes out of your mouth, it sounds like to him, the most beautiful martial vow. 

He locks each and every one into the deepest crevices of his heart like unwilling prisoners, despite how small and cold and dead his said heart is, at least to you. They don’t want to stay, but they have to because I want them there in remembrance. Just like you. Poetic, is it not?

Voyeurism. 

The screen in front of him showed you coming out of the shower, your body dripping with soapy water with a towel on your body that barely covered anything and a smaller towel covering your hair that was put up in a clip. Shalnark placing cameras all around your place made things much easier to know things about you that he could not find out through traditional stalking alone. He is grateful for him.

Slowly, as he smiled, one of his hands went into his pants, then his boxers as he caressed the half-hard thing beneath them both. He kept groaning as it got harder and harder, his breathing getting faster and faster. He is not sure how much time had gone by, but he knows that there was now liquid, slow and warm, running down his legs and is all over his hand, and as always, you were none the wiser.

Oral. (Receiving)

Your knees are on the floor, having been there so long it hurts. Your neck is curved backward and your mouth is in pain from his large manhood in there like an unwanted intruder, as you desperately gag and choke and cry. The only reason you have not successfully gotten away is because one of his hands is grabbing the back of your head and pulling you every time you pull, hopelessly still trying to fight.

Your hands are tied behind your back with silk to not damage the skin of your wrists, while you desperately try to claw your way out of them.

You’re in the clothing that he wants you to wear, as usual, though calling it clothing would be an overstatement as it hardly covers anything. A black thong with a short skirt, along with a low-cut bralette. As always, you have no say in the matter, and even though you are unable to utter a word, he showers you with affectionate words, as fake as they seem.

Favorite Parts:

Your Thighs.

It is more of a comfort thing than anything else, really. The way that it is one of the softest parts of you, one of the meatiest parts of you, and, most of all, the easiest parts of you to grab and hold and kiss and press hickeys into and fuck.

It’s only natural for a thief to want to keep their prized possessions close to them, is it not, my darling? 

While Chrollo still places you all of his mementos and diamonds and paintings among the many, many other things he has hidden away in his current penthouse, seeing you as better than all of those things combined, he still sees you, in some ways, as something to be sanctioned, whether it be for your own safety or just his pure, unadulterated selfishness, or perhaps both.

So, he holds onto your thighs at all times pretty much, squeezing the flesh for either attention or just because he needs some security that you are still there with him, no matter how close you physically are to him.

He will occasionally rest his head on your lap, reciting his book aloud while you are obliged to listen. He never dozes off because he is too cautious for that, although he yearns for it. His desire to lie down and have you run your fingers through his hair as he gradually drifts to sleep almost surpasses all his other needs. It may sound like a fantasy for him, no pun intended.

However, it would be a nightmare for you, whether he falls asleep or not. But as always, Chrollo hardly cares. If you dare to object, your longer skirts, shorts, and one pair of sweatpants will vanish for approximately a month, only to be replaced by outrageously short clothes that barely qualify as attire.

They’re soft, just like your lips, your voice, just everything else about you, you, you. It’s the parts that most perfectly describe you, he’ll say, forcing you to tolerate all his touches because his hand is not going anywhere, just like the rest of me, sweetling.

Just stay still and let me see how plush you are just for me, alright?

If he ignores all the goosebumps and the shivers, he can assume that this is what heaven feels like. It must be, right, dearest?

Your Collarbone.

Despite everything else about him, Chrollo can be a sort of traditionalist when he wants to be. This applies quite rarely though, only really affecting the relationship he has with you, both inside and outside of the bedroom.

He likes how the bones stick out, the crevices just so perfect for him to slide the tip of his fingers across, just so perfect for him to kiss and bite, just so perfect to hang necklaces from so they are on a sort of diagonal and reflect the light, making them shine and making them highlight the hickeys that have been pressed into them, right below them, and right above them…

He forces you to wear all kinds of accessories and low-cut shirts that he can find, not caring how much money it would cost, just to see some diamond-encrusted choker on your neck. He says in the calmest voice he can muster that it is no big deal, darling, just trust me and I got this for you and you alone, now why don’t you be a sweetheart and put it on? You might think that a choker and a collar are essentially the same, as they both tightly grip the neck like a suffocating hold. However, Chrollo pays no mind to this, as owners don't concern themselves with their pets realizing they're wearing such a sign of possession.

Your Feet.

Chrollo appreciates art in his own unique way, specifically when it comes to sculpting and realism. He finds your feet to be truly exquisite, along with the rest of you. Despite your attempts to ignore it or cover them up, he has a clear fondness for your feet. Your toes are round, your heels are perfectly shaped, and your soles fit perfectly in his hands when he places heeled shoes on them. In secret, he also enjoys the scent of your feet, although he would never admit it. He would rather die than confess. 

Your feet are cute and can become sweaty and sticky, making them easy to hold onto, just like your thighs. 

Those traits really remind him after you orgasm, with you of course begging repeatedly for it a few moments before he lets you.

It's a hidden pleasure for him, even if you were to discover it, he would keep it to himself. You won't be able to get any information from him. If you do happen to find out, don't be surprised when a substantial portion of your jewelry drawer is filled with anklets.

His Fingers.

Chrollo admires his hands more than most other parts of his body. He trims his fingernails every two weeks, putting hand cream every time he steps out of the bath, never skipping this routine of his. The reason he admires his hands so much is that despite all the bloodshed and other dirty acts he does with them, they remain on the outside clean. It boosts his ego, in a way.

There are just so many uses for them, he loves flipping the pages of his favorite novels with them, he loves cutting food for both you and himself with them, he loves squeezing your thigh as either a warning or a sign of love… there are just endless possibilities, at least from his perspective.

But his new favorite thing is to fuck your clit with them, and yours alone.

Is it a privilege, then, that only yours can bring him such joy? Whether you believe it to be so or not, it holds no significance, for Chrollo finds pleasure in this, and only his satisfaction matters, given that he is the one who has taken you captive.

Please, Chrollo, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, I can’t take this anymore I-

His movements are flawlessly executed, almost unfairly so. They are deliberate yet unhurried, demanding your submission. However, he will only grant you this pleasure if you plead for it. The act of begging will consume several minutes, perhaps even a minimum of two, leaving you in a state of desperation. Meanwhile, he will revel in your discomfort, relishing the power he holds over you. This perverse satisfaction is what he adores the most.

As you wish.

Inevitably, you will find yourself succumbing to your desires, unable to resist the overwhelming pleasure he provides. Despite your stubbornness, your willpower will eventually crumble under the weight of his expertise.

He derives immense pleasure from knowing that he alone possesses the ability to bring you such ecstasy. This knowledge fuels his ego, heightening his sense of self-importance.

His Words.

Chrollo has an insatiable thirst for knowledge, but he also derives great pleasure from imparting knowledge and amusingly embarrassing others. And when it comes to you, he takes it to another level.

He constantly showers you with compliments, comparing you to famous heroines like Juliet and Ophelia from classic literature. He insists that you possess the same beauty as any damsel in distress from those timeless tales. To prove his point, he even offers to acquire paintings of these fictional princesses and damsels for you to admire and compare yourself to.

Wanting a break from his constant attention, you agree to his proposal. Besides, you get the bonus of owning some exquisite artwork. What could go wrong, right?

Well, it turns out to be a colossal mistake.

Upon waking up, you find yourself surrounded by what feels like an entire museum filled with paintings of fictional damsels, duchesses, princesses, and queens. The overwhelming presence of these artworks threatens to suffocate you. And to make matters worse, Chrollo insists on meticulously going through each painting one by one, forcing you to endure this ordeal that could very well last for days.

Your legs resemble hers, your lips resemble hers, your feet resemble hers... every aspect of your physique and the muse's physique that he remarks upon, leaves you feeling incredibly exposed, more so than ever before.

The duration of this process is absolutely exasperating. It leaves you feeling as defenseless as a lamb anticipating its fate in the hands of a butcher.

His Knowledge.

Chrollo truly treasures his knowledge, viewing it as divine nectar from the heavens, if indeed it exists. This belief is so strong that he occasionally overestimates it, taking every opportunity to display it in a way that impresses you more than anything else he does, both inside and outside of the bedroom. Whether intentionally or not, he will state the obvious, like pointing out that the creature you're observing in the rose garden during your “date” is not a slug, but a snail. 

It frustrates you, but you acknowledge that it could be worse–he could forbid you from venturing outdoors altogether. 

Surely, that counts for something, doesn't it? 

…Doesn’t it?

Fantasies. (Consent / Non-Con) (Coercion / Brute Force)

If one were to make a comparison, they would compare you to a piece of art so beautiful, that it is instinct to witness, praise, and worship until their bodies all turn to mere dust, in which they will be swept away by those alive who do not want your refinement to be stained by those who have passed on. For what is a beauty without a beholder? Chrollo will gladly take up that role, as he is the only one worthy of seeing such a piece. You, leaning on the pillows, legs crossed, hair put up in a neat bun, wearing makeup that he has said he likes on you before, looking up at him like he has come to bless you with a mere glimpse of the divine power he holds, wearing the black lingerie he chose for you to wear this evening, made of lace with patterns of roses scattered about.

This is his welcome home gift, from both himself and you. He may have requested that you could partake in this, but since you are doing it without any complaint but instead loving doing the task at hand, he could consider him soon becoming one with your body for the evening to be an award from you for all the work he has done for the Troupe these past few days.

If such a prize is laid before him, ripe for the taking, why wouldn’t he? So, without so much as uttering another word, he starts to undress as you watch, a mix of genuine joy and interest laid out on your face. He hasn’t even touched you yet, and with this simple act, you are bound to him with the invisible thread of lust.

When his boxers are all the way down, he approaches, and you don’t blink, wanting to take it all in. Shall the fun start? When your lips meet, all reservations that you once had dissolve, as few as they are now.

(But don’t think Chrollo respects your boundaries completely when it comes to sex; if you deny him enough, over the course of months and months, he will break his composure and show you where you belong; underneath him.)

→ Strengths.

Realities. (Your Own, His Avow) (Patient / Impatient)

The being that is above you in this bed is unlike any human you have ever met before. His looks and personality are all artificially crafted, like some automaton made to resemble actual living things, but do not stray far from their roots, what they were made for, and what they were made of. I’m real, you think, I’m real. Chrollo is not.

He’s aware of everything you do. Every step you take. Every word you say.

He is aware. He possesses knowledge of all things, much like the god he feigns to be. His understanding of emotions is as keen as his logical reasoning, resulting in a situation of dread that pertains solely to you.

It instills fear within you because he holds the key to all knowledge, while you remain in not-so-blissful ignorance.

→ Weaknesses.

Lotus Eater. (Dreamy Idleness)

Chrollo, despite his attempts to appear superior to others, is not without his flaws. If those around him stroke his ego, he becomes overly confident. Yet, if one were to try the opposite approach, it would have the same effect as boosting his ego. He is cursed with arrogance, always believing he is superior to others, even some members of the Troupe. Perhaps you can use this knowledge to your advantage. Faking affection could lower his guard and further inflate his narcissism. It is a strategic move, preferable to engaging in a physical fight that you cannot possibly win. 

Therefore, when you believe you have the opportunity to escape when his guard seems lowered enough that he won't immediately pursue you, you run. At that moment, his facade will crack, his eyes will grow emptier, and the hollow husk chasing after you will not resemble the Chrollo you once knew.

→ Daily Life.

Welcome. (Day One)

Chrollo remains a mystery begging to be left unsolved.

He rises at his usual hour each morning, and it's a rarity to witness him actually sleeping. His breakfast consistently consists of sausage and eggs, seasoned solely with salt and pepper, as he avoids other spices. He purchases fresh bread from whichever local bakery happens to be closest for the week or a few days ahead. Occasionally, if you're fortunate, he may bring back something sweet while out and about, such as a chocolate-filled croissant or a cherry jam-filled danish. However, trust, whether in platonic or romantic relationships, is something that must be earned.

Interestingly, it appears that regardless of the circumstances, Chrollo seems to possess a certain level of trust that you won't make any foolish choices. On your initial day in this penthouse, he simply greeted you, patiently waiting until the effects of the drugs wore off, allowing you to cry on the bed until your tears ran dry. He comforted you, softly shushing you and gently caressing your cheeks with his thumb.

Yet, he never becomes too intimate.

Was that his motive? Is that why he opted to masquerade as a compassionate gentleman rather than a captor? Instead of asserting his authority, he chose to console you, demonstrating that such solace could be snatched away in an instant. You were oblivious to his true intentions. On that initial day, you wept more than any other day, the taste of mint on Chrollo's breath and the aroma of coffee still etched in your memory. He would inflict further harm, and for the sake of your sanity, you believe it is preferable for him to remain an enigma, shielding you from the repulsive monster lurking beneath his attractive facade.

What Could Be. (And What Is)

Strangely enough, there are still parts of your life after Chrollo has captured you that would still sort of count as normal enough that you could turn the other way and ignore all other cosmic horrors that are happening in the general vicinity. You could still decide what you want to eat and drink that day, what to watch, what to read, what time to wake up and what time to go to bed, what to write in your diary (that not-so-strangely has its lock missing now), listen to the morning birds or to the music that Chrollo allows you to listen to (which is most of it, shockingly)... the list really is endless, really, aside from a few things that you forget sometimes, much to future you’s horror.

But sometimes you forget on purpose, to divulge in the fantasy Chrollo has carefully crafted for both of you, either to fool him or your walls really are as broken down as he wants them to be.

He finds it nice when you ask him questions about whatever place he has rented for the two of you for the time being, the location at hand most likely being related to the Troupe’s plans to steal whatever is of value. He likes to show off, and to listen to him talk for hours requires the patience of a saint.

→ Punishments. (No Punishments / Tortuous Punishments)

Welcome Again. (Failed Departure)

The penthouse looked to be the same after you ran out the entrance door that you lockpicked. The fireplace was still lit. There was still a smell of peppermint in the air along with some scent of coffee, lattes maybe. Everything looks the same, just as it always has. It nearly scares you more, how calm and warm this place is, than the hand that has a grip on your wrist so tight that you feel like he will dislocate it in the very least.

But he does not look angry, but that smile is not good at all either.

He does not say anything as he closes the door behind him, turning the lock on the door so it will remain that way. He does not say anything as he continues to drag you, albeit a bit more tight in his grip now that you are within his grasp once again. Whatever you say goes in one ear and out the other, and you know better than to struggle and scream, because you do not want this day to result in yet another bloodbath, and it would be useless anyway, even if someone came to rescue you. That is why, like the sort of pet you were trained to be, you bite your tongue and obey. He seems to not be angry now, but who knows what awaits you once you are in the bedroom, where most talks and actions are the consequences of your supposed crimes. You can’t really breathe, but that is alright. Chrollo will help you every step of the way after all, as the dutiful owner he has come to be.

Perhaps a pet is all you will be.

He wants you to look up at him like some god, some deity that you worship with all your being. But you can’t, not yet, and Chrollo knows that. Perhaps some methods unknown to you but known to him can help, can’t it?

He hopes so for your sake, but what do you hope for, wish for? You don’t know, and maybe never will.

Venus Fly Trap. (Temptations of a Liar)

Chrollo is well aware of the diverse array of predatory flowers, each manifesting in its own unique way. Perhaps you too possess such characteristics, with your alluring fragrance and honeyed speech, deceiving him into a false sense of security before stripping it all away. However, there is one crucial detail you seem to have overlooked. What transpires when a venus fly trap ensnares a prey that surpasses its own size and devours its own kind and others, rather than the typical fly it ensnares?

Undoubtedly, they suffer. Yet it appears that this lesson has eluded you thus far, hasn't it?

You have displayed kindness, sweetness, and a willingness to comply, within certain limits. Undoubtedly, you possess some degree of skill, though not enough to deceive him, the enigmatic masked orchestrator of this theatrical production.

Therefore, it is without much remorse that he renders you motionless with delicate silk and persuasive words that possess the potential to sting, should you ever dare to push him too far.

However, deep down you are aware of the truth, just as he is aware too. If he doesn't take a firm stance, what other undesirable situations will you find yourself in? With a single hand, he flips open the book, while using the other to shush you.

“A shame,” He says, turning the pages. “A crying shame, really. The sky is so lovely tonight… Who knows when we will get this scenery again, hmm?”

You don’t know what he will do to you. 

…Does he?

→ Quotes.

Hello.

Greetings. It is truly an honor to meet you face to face like this at long last, [First]. There is no need to introduce yourself to me as I already know who you are. That, and… hmm. That, and I think you are not all there right now. Please, I recommend relaxing and listening to what I have to say. But just to make sure, try to speak to me… as expected.

Chat: Ballet.

All dancers must put themselves fully into whatever moves they do. I suppose that can be the same thing for you and me.

Chat: Athenaeum.

Libraries and archives are some of the places I enjoy going to the most. Maybe if you continue behaving, I’ll take you to one nearby.

Chat: Reimbursement. 

Quid pro quo, darling; I assume you know the best ways to compensate me for the broken locks?

When It Rains.

The rain is perfect for a day of staying inside. Though, hehe… you’ll be indoors no matter what, right? Good thing you have me as company today. …What do you mean? I leave sometimes, mainly to get you things might I add. I suggest being more grateful if you don’t want that koala plush to disappear.

After It Rains.

Sigh… the smell of morning dew and the sounds of birds chirping… simply marvelous. Let’s go dance on the balcony, but be sure not to get your new shoes wet and slip. I would hate to have to bring Machi again.

When Thunder Strikes.

Aw, are you going to cling to me so cutely whenever there is a storm? I wouldn’t mind that, I’ll even give you more blankets to hide in if you wish. …Wait, dearest, come back… sigh… of course she hid under the bed again.

When It Snows.

So cold out there, isn’t it? If you ask nicely, I’ll give you back your socks and slippers. Go on.

When the Sun Is Out.

Let’s go on a walk tonight when it’s not so hot out. The sunset’s beauty will only be second to your own.

Good Morning.

Good morning, love, I made coffee. Feel free to use one of the creamers I got you, and there is oat milk near them somewhere in the fridge… Hm? I have never really been a fan of sweet drinks, so black coffee tastes good to someone like me. 

Good Afternoon.

Sure, you can cook lunch. But allow me to cut the ingredients and heat sources. We know how you used them last time.

Good Evening.

It’s so quiet you can only hear the crickets chirping. It’s quite a romantic atmosphere, isn't it?

Good Night.

Ah ah ah. No bed for you yet. Give me a goodnight kiss first. No, you can’t sleep on the couch either. Or the floor. If you keep refusing, I’m going to ask you more questions than yesterday. …That’s better.

About Chrollo: Tattoos.

There is something comforting about them, I think. No matter what the person does to reject it, it will stay. The permanence of such an act should also be what you should be. Now, bite me again and you will sooner than later find yourself in a tattoo parlor. Am I understood?

About Chrollo: Lies.

Don’t say that, my love. I’m not lying to you, I’m just picking what parts of the truth to show and hide. There is no harm in that, I think. 

About Us: Home.

This place is much more human with you in it. Do with that as you wish.

About Us: Cull.

Life and death have a sort of agreement. A contract if you will. The more lives taken by your hands, the more your own life is put at risk. Quite poetic. Like everything else in life, there must be balance.

About Us: Matrimony.

Being bound by just a few words… The very idea is beautiful in my opinion. If you want, we can get married. It is not like anyone else is going to put that pretty ring finger of yours to good use, anyway.

About Us: Panoply.

Anything you want you shall receive. Just say the word. Unless it is already here, which is a possibility.

About You: Humanity.

The human psyche is truly fascinating, don’t you agree? All it takes is a few words or a few actions and it all comes crumbling down. Like you.

About You: Epiphany. 

Not a man, not ten men, not a hundred men can ever provide me with the same joy you give me. You’re special, you know? You make me feel… alive.

Something to Share.

“Be glad as children, as birds in the sky.” A quote from Fyodor Dostoevsky. But… birds are constantly migrating to better places, so really, are they grateful and glad for the gift of life?

Interesting Things.

I see you are doing experiments with pH again. Just be sure to not use all of the vinegar, please. And no, vinegar cannot melt a door, for the final time. 

About Nobunaga.

He thinks more with his heart than his head. But he means well for the Troupe. Or himself when he makes someone call to order takeout for him. 

About Feitan.

I learned a lot of torture methods from him. He truly is the best at what he does. As for social skills… not so much. But everyone has their ups and downs, and that is Fei’s.

About Machi.

One of the most loyal people I have ever met. Also one of the most in tune with their wants and needs. If she thinks of something to say, she’ll say it without a doubt. She is very transparent when it comes to that kind of thing.

About Hisoka.

Hisoka… he is very… out there, isn’t he? But he is valuable to me, so I give him free rein to do whatever he wishes.

About Phinks.

One of the physically strongest. Though also one of the only ones to ever get a laugh out of me. Shizuku once asked him why he did not have any eyebrows, and the way he stopped talking and stared at the ceiling caused us all to snicker. Feitan did earn a blow to the head by the end of it because Phinks does not hit women… He is much more gentlemanly than he appears.

About Shalnark.

When it comes to computers and such, Shalnark is the person to do it. He was the one to convince me to get a newer phone model and taught me how it worked. He kept chuckling as he did, and every question I had asked earned a wide smile in response but no actual answer. He says I am an… “old man at heart…?”

About Franklin.

He is not the most talkative one out there, but if ever comes to games to decide matters, he is the one for the job. Once, Uvogin betted fifty thousand Jenny if he ever beat me in chess. Franklin managed to almost win in the end, but he gave up at the last moment. He said he couldn’t bear to do that to me.

About Shizuku.

At long last, she at least remembers my name. She is quite charming in her own way… I see why Franklin took on a sort of caretaker role for her.

About Pakunoda.

Paku… Paku is one of the sweetest people I know. Whenever I didn’t feel well, she was the first one to come and help me feel better. She even fed me her rations, regardless of the tough times we were put through. I should ask her to make me soup again, I have missed the taste of it…

About Bonolenov.

When he trusts you enough, he has quite a humorous and proud side. He is very proud of his culture, and as someone who did not have one as a child, I find it very admirable.

About Uvogin.

I swear he could drink enough beer to kill a whale and still not be satisfied. The same goes for fights. Any challenge goes, whether that is an eating or video game contest.

About Kortopi.

His copying ability is quite useful, and Nobunaga wanted to give him a haircut using his sword. He declined of course, much to Nobunaga’s disappointment. …Hm? A copy of you? No, you are priceless, and nothing can ever compare, even a version of you that does everything I ask. There is a charm to your disobedience. That, and Kortopi cannot make living copies.

More About Chrollo: I.

Come. I got you some books for us to read together. But before you touch them, I must tell you that you can only read them while on my lap. Isn’t that such a great deal, dearest?

More About Chrollo: II.

“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven…” Yes, I can see the parallels between this line and myself. Is that why you decided to show me this? …Oh, you just wanted an excuse to call me Lucifer again. Do what you wish, I suppose. But please put that book back on the shelf where it came from when you are done. You know I hate it when you mess up the categories. …Hm? Don’t do that, or I won’t get you any more mochi. …You know my threats aren’t empty, my dear.

More About Chrollo: III.

…Do you need something from me, dearest? No? …Why am I asking? So you just happen to be pressing your chest against my arm for no apparent reason? …I see. Well, if you want my attention so badly, who am I to refuse?

More About Chrollo: IV.

Yes, that note is from me. That gift is also from me. Open it, please. …You should try wearing that set next time. Your thighs will stand out better. You were the one that was asking last night, not me. Ah, you are feeling rather adventurous these past few weeks, aren’t you? …Looking for something? Is this it? You know, I’m disappointed in you, to put it frankly. I thought you were coming around. You know what happens now, don’t you?

More About Chrollo: V.

Time has certainly sped by, hasn’t it? Let me give you a word of advice. No matter what happens, always remember those who have gotten you to where you are now. As a result, your situation can prove to be much less isolating that way. …Yes, that includes me. For when you are alone, my dear, your mind always finds a way to eat you whole.

Chrollo’s Hobbies.

Leading an orchestra and executing a grand theft operation share fundamental principles. It is imperative to maintain a commanding presence, ensuring that others adhere to your lead. Collaboration becomes the pivotal factor in achieving triumph during such endeavors.

Chrollo’s Troubles.

I find it perplexing how some individuals effortlessly navigate life with a serene demeanor, rooted in their unwavering sense of self. Maybe it stems from a twinge of envy, or perhaps there's another elusive element at play. But being envious is part of being human, is it not?

Favorite Food: Black Squid Ink Carbonara.

It is briny, and salty, like the sea. Quite refreshing as well, especially paired with homemade pasta. Only the best quality is allowed. …I am not being too picky. Do you know how many children in Meteor City have grown up never eating from a fast food place, much less a local restaurant? I simply am greedy because I can now. I couldn’t before, and that is why I do so as an adult.

Favorite Food: Opulence. 

As an adult, my current ability to indulge in greed is a newfound privilege that I couldn't have experienced previously. Hence, I find it impossible to resist the temptation of adding an extra serving of truffle or caviar to my plate.

Least Favorite Food: Canned Cabbage.

One of the very few foods I refused to eat unless absolutely necessary was canned cabbage. It was slimy and always came in watery vinegar with mostly moldy parts… I was desperate, but not desperate enough to eat that. Machi, Nobunaga, and Phinks all agreed. Feitan didn’t, much to everyone’s annoyance.

Least Favorite Food: Waste.

Paku, Machi, and Feitan had a sort of pact that they forced on the rest of us to never throw away things that were still edible. According to Shalnark and Uvogin, moldy food is still edible. Phinks and I disagreed but… we got outvoted. 

Receiving a Gift: I.

Indulging in scrumptious meals truly possesses the power to alleviate all worries. So, how can I express my gratitude?

Receiving a Gift: II.

Oh? Thank you, dearest. …For your own good, you better not have put salt instead of sugar this time.

Receiving a Gift: III.

Ah... considering you seem to have a moment to spare, would you be interested in sitting down and enjoying a shared reading session? The choice of material is entirely up to you, of course.

Chrollo’s Birthday.

You are such a prize, you know? You’re in an outfit worth its weight in gold, actually, now that I think about it, diamonds. Autumn has set in, the weather gets colder, and the food gets warmer. Perfect time for spending quality time with someone, wouldn’t you say so? Please, allow me to do this with you, [First]. I have never really cared for this day if I am being honest, but… now that you are here, I feel like new opportunities are around every corner.

Birthday.

Happy birthday, [First]. Within reason, I would like to treat you to whatever your heart desires. Food, art, wine; anything, just tell me, alright? I will see to it. …Heh. I’m afraid a fall from this penthouse will not be enough to kill me. …No, I am not going to put it to the test, since I am certain about it. Please think of something else. The world is your oyster, dearest. But… remember that I can always close it before you can get to the pearl.

Feelings About You: Ethereal.

This feeling… I haven’t felt something like this since… Hmm? Am I? Quite the observation.

Feelings About You: Euphonious. 

…I miss your voice, you know. I always like it when you get caught up in a topic that interests you, no matter what it is. …But last time I took the gag off and took you out, you behaved quite terribly… Here, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take the gag off, and I’ll get you something related to your interests, and then we can talk about it. Does that sound good to you?

Feelings About You: Eternity.

We shall be together forever, bonded at the hip if we must be. I promise you. Do not worry about the details. It does not matter if you like it or not, because I will take care of whatever obstacles get in our way. Whether that obstacle is you or any… outsiders.

Feelings About You: Elision.

Do know that I do mean it when I say that I do want to make you happy. Yes, our relationship is less than ideal, but in the end, just know my feelings for you are indeed sincere. …I’m not exactly willing to take criticism, but I could try, perhaps. If you like to do so, I am willing to compromise, though.

→ Conclusion.

You never hear Chrollo in his movements, but you do in his actions when he wants you to.

He puts far more effort into the little things, the details than outright saying his feelings for you, or just telling you his threats. That mysterious gift that appeared on your bed while you were away at work, that just so happens to contain some of your favorite sweets? 

The bouquet on your kitchen table that was placed while you were asleep? The box of dozens if not at least a hundred pictures of you by your mailbox when you tried to file a police report? 

Chrollo is patient to a fault. You will never know what is happening, at its fullest, until it is far too late.

You can put as much blame on yourself as you want, and hate yourself as much as you want, for not realizing how dangerous this entire situation is. But this position under Chrollo’s thumb is so much more horrifying than you could ever imagine, so do not blame yourself for not noticing everything at once.

That is not to say Chrollo won’t try to degrade you into thinking this is all your fault.

Your walls will be as good as broken and crumbled down sooner than you think.

[soylikethedrink]

Forbidden By Nature

A bird and dog shouldn't be together. You knew that. But you found it hard to resist against the handsome drinksmith at the bar. If people were to know about your secret relationship with him, it wouldn't look too good for you, a Halovian from the Oak Family. And it wouldn't be too good of news to your two siblings, Robin and especially Sunday, who strongly detested the 'despicable and wicked' dog.

⚠️ Tags & Warnings: GN Reader, Infidelity, Major and Minor Character Deaths.

⚠️ Note: Major spoilers from the 2.1 patch. This was also written before the release of 2.2 patch. I'm 100% cooked if Gallagher is actually a nice guy.

Sunday prided himself in his leadership. One could not deny that he was a man of many fortes. His great wit, and his erudition, and his unbreakable composure, these qualities made him worthy of being the head of the Oak family. 

And then there was sweet-faced Robin. While Halovians were naturally born with an attractive aura, Robin could easily draw crowds and crowds of people from different planets with just her voice alone. It wasn't much of a wonder that she climbed her way up in stardom with little effort.

Unlike your siblings, you weren’t interested in the spotlight. Being in the center of the spotlight means that you must possess the voice that the people want to hear and listen to, you must have a face that is easily distinguishable among rows and rows of people, and you must have a heart that naturally desires to be adored. And frankly, none of these appealed much to you. 

But one should not presume that your lack of interest in the world of celebrities implied that you weren’t promised for greatness. 

You were well-versed in the world of business. Your social networking skills were of top-notch quality. Negotiation comes naturally to you. While Robin found joy dancing and singing on the shining stage, your happiness lied under stacks and stacks of wealth and luxuries. Your riches were forged by your own sweat, blood, and tears and most knew that. 

Though some people would have assumed that greed would eventually have spoiled your heart to the rotten core, you would continually prove them wrong. As someone who knew the language and the culture of business, you decided to pass it all to Sunday. At young, he became well-acquainted with the mortal psyche. He knew about the worlds that they wanted to walk on, the lullabies that they wanted to hear of, and the lives that they wished they had. With the help of your connections, he easily made his way up. And before you even know it, he became the head of the Oak Family. 

And this went the same for Robin. As you weren't very fond of the life of celebrities, you faced some obstacles in conditioning her up for success. But you disliked failures, hence why Robin managed to become a top star at a young age with your help, despite the disagreements and disputes that you faced by the people in your surroundings. You then received Sunday’s assistance, who helped his sister to adapt to the life of a star. 

Because of you, the two of your siblings were well-known figures in Penacony. 

Your achievements alone served as the evidence of your success, thus bringing some clarification towards your prestige in the world of the rich. 

But you didn’t reach this elevated level of success overnight. You had some help here and there. Met a few people, some that you shouldn't even acknowledge. 

“Gallagher?” Your voice was pitched with curiosity, as you swirled the drink inside the glass by the stem. “Gallagher, the member of the Bloodhound family?”

Your maid nodded her head in confirmation. “He shared with me that he would like to meet you soon, and asked when you will be free.”

The sip from the drink trickled down to your throat. But the sip could not muster a quick answer out of you. You thought deeply on how you should approach the situation. The kick from the aftertaste finally booted out a response out of you. 

“There's no need for such a formal arrangement. We were close friends,” you said calmly.  “He can meet me right now if he wants to.”

Your maid gave you a second nod, before walking around. As her hand rested around the doorknob, you loudly said, “Actually, he doesn’t need to see me. I will see him myself. It would have been easier for both parties.”

Your maid pinched her eyebrows together confusedly at your suggestion. “But what would they think about—”

Her question was interrupted by the clinking sound of the glass against the table. Raising from your seat, you gathered your purse in your hand. You reassured her, “Don’t fret about it.”

When the door opened, you swung your car keys between your fingers. “I’ll be home around 8 PM. You know what to do if I'm not home by then.”

Before your maid could even argue against your departure, the door behind you was already slammed shut. 

You were an individual who marched forward with a well-strategized stride. It was an uncommon sight to see you standing still, feeling lost. You always knew what to say, when to act. It was almost as if living was natural for you. 

But anyone who observed you from a distance, knew that there were rare moments where there was a crack in the facade you wore. 

Heels clicked against the marble floor, turning the heads of the few customers in the bar. You sat at one of the empty seats, before placing your purse on the table. You wiggled yourself out of your coat, folding it neatly before placing it on the seat next to you. 

Closing your eyes, you indulged in the noises and chatters of the bar. The bar didn’t have too many attendees. But you were hardly bugged by it, as a quiet bar had a greater appeal to you. 

A glass was placed in front of you. It was filled to the brim with a pink juice, in which you suspected it to come from the finest of strawberries. Lemon slices were floating on the surface, with a sticker of the top-star celebrity of Penacony being plastered at the corner of the drink. The presentation of the drink was endearing, you would say. Especially given your background. 

Strangers would have been confused by the strange gesture. But you were no stranger to this place.

“Aw, how sweet.” Your hand reached out for the drink, as the ice cubes clinked against the glass. Even by a simple glance, you could easily guess it. Rose In Rain. 

Before you could even have a sip of it, you can already taste the flavors of the drink melting into your tongue. “It’s not a wonder that the bar has managed to retain its popularity among people of all classes.” 

With a very composed air, the drinksmith pronounced his response, “This is simply a part of my job. There’s no need for such flattery.”

He grabbed a towel, as he began drying the newly-cleaned glasses.

“Surely, a part of your job does not include you offering such a special treatment to his customers,” You teased, as you brought the drink close to your lips. “And why, I wonder. Are you interested in me, Mr. Gallagher?”

He kept the towel away, and you noticed that the folds were rather uneven. His lack of verbal response might imply disinterest, but his body language was telling you a different story. 

“Yes. Because no member from the Oak family, who are raised with wealth and riches, would spend the night in such a shabby, gloomy bar with moody bartenders. How could I not be interested when met with such abnormality?”

“Abnormality,” you repeated after him playfully. “How awful! I used to be addressed by such endearments, now I’m reduced to an abnormality. Do you detest me that much, Mr. Gallagher?”

You attempted to tease an answer out of him, as you slowly stroked his leg with the tips of your heels. 

“And here I thought that you would have a change of character after successfully climbing up in the social hierarchy,” he commented flatly. 

“Let me hear it.”

“Feisty, birdie,” he said in a voice that was tinged with slight amusement. With arms crossed against his chest, he asked in a huff, “Don’t say you come all the way here for that?”

“No,” you denied. “My maid came here telling me that you would like to discuss some matters. I just thought that it would be convenient to come here instead of the other way around.”

“Well, the discussion is not bar-friendly, I would say. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

An exasperated sigh came out of your mouth. “I’m assuming it involves Sunday.”

When your younger brother’s name rolled out of your tongue, there was a slight disdainful glance towards you. “Spot-on. Quite impressive, really.”

“Give him time.”

“And will time grow him out of tyranny?” asked Gallagher. 

“Tyranny?” You repeated him again. But instead of uttering it in a playful chirp, your tone was raised in frustration. “You’re speaking nonsense. He is controlling and demanding, but none of that fits what people might consider a tyrant. You need to kill someone to become one. And I don’t recall my younger brother getting involved in a manslaughter case.”

You slowly pushed the drink away from your sight. You continued, “I come here with the intention to have some fun. Let’s not sour the mood with such hostile arguments.”

“Sunday is young, and inexperienced in this kind of position. But he’s fast-learner. With his wits and charms, it wouldn’t take that much time for him to grow and become a proper man,” you defended.

There was an unusual pause in the conversation. And for some reason, the hairs on your arms stood up from the freezing air around you. Too cold for your liking. Not only the air, but also the man in front of you. Too cold for your liking.

“A higher position comes with higher ambitions, and followed with a higher price,” your voice dropped at a lower note, while shrugging your shoulders. “It’s just the way it is.”

He hummed in response. “It comes naturally out of you.”

Your forehead wrinkled at his remark, but before you could question his comment, he cut you to it: “Almost as if you are speaking about yourself.”

“Funny,” you said, feigning amusement. You heaved out a sigh of exasperation, your gaze fallen on the shiny counter. Your tongue no longer longed for the sweet, pink juice that was served earlier. “Let’s settle this with civility. We don’t need to jab at each other’s faults and families. To be insulting and mocking one another relentlessly is very unprofessional of us, who are known as the people who oversee all of Penacony’s matters.”

“Ah, I see. We are colleagues now.”

You closed your eyes, as you swallowed the rising anger that nearly escaped from your throat. “Yes. What else would we be?”

“Old friends?”

“Stop,” you commanded. Though your lips curled into the sweet smile, the white feathers on your wings started slicking down out of fury. 

“Stop?” He raised his eyebrows, amused at your attempt in concealing your anger. “I’m pointing out facts. There’s no need to get riled up over the truth. As someone who values honesty, I don’t understand why you are upset at the mention of our relationship.”

You exploded in fits of laughter at his provocation. The hand covering your mouth was an attempt in restoring your graceful image. And though the corner of your eyes wrinkled in delight, there was a mischief gleam shining in your eyes.

“Ah. I see it now. Well, forgive me for acting all uptight earlier. I seem to have forgotten that dogs need plays and treats in order to feel fulfilled in life,” you mocked. 

“And where’s my treat?” he asked, playing along with you. 

You grinned back at him, with your nose scrunched in slight repulse. “You will get your treats when you shut up about us. Alright, puppy?”

“No problem, birdie. As long as you could convince your bird friends that they wouldn't be chirping around about our reconciliation. ‘Don’t want to be on the bad side of your spouse. ‘Heard that they’re a scary person.”

“Fine,” the smile on your lips was now hanging loosely. “If that’s what you want the most.”

“Now, here’s where you are wrong. That’s not what I want the most.”

Your face scrunched into confusion, but how the corner of your lips twitched implied that you were not very happy with the way he was leading the game. 

“Then?” you dared yourself to ask. “Tell me. What is it that you want?”

He took out the container of washed blueberries, tossing them in the blender. 

“You,” he answered. It was such a plain reply that was pronounced in a flat tone but it had such a strong effect on you.

The chair that you were sitting in was very uncomfortable, you suddenly noticed. 

“You are a little quiet. Bet your mouth dry,” he asked. He threw out the first drink that was served for you, as he replaced it with a new one. You observed the drink, as the radiant, yet somewhat gloomy, blue color of the juice was toned down by your shadow that loomed over it. “Drink up.”

“Do you mean it?” you asked. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he answered. 

“After all these years?” again, you asked. But this time, with the intention to confirm. 

The toughest challenge in the world was no longer convincing the other four families that your brother was not a despicable, hellish being. But rather maintaining a simple eye contact with your first love at his bar.

He nodded his head. “How is that shocking to you?”

“It’s shocking to me because it has been so long. Was it like, 9— no, 12 years?” 

“13 years,” he confirmed. “I waited for 13 years. For you.”

“That sounds ridiculous,” your wings tucked closely to your neck, as they hid in your hair. “Not only that, this seems like what? A poor attempt to lure me in your little trap? But this. This whole thing— it’s not something that you could blurt out so loudly. Especially in a bar where we have eyes everywhere. What would my spouse think about this, what would Sunday and Robin think that their older sibling is out fraternizing with the drinksmith while their spouse is waiting for them at home?”

“You already spelled it all out. There’s not much for your ‘baby brother Sunday’ to figure out why this reunion was such a big deal,” Gallagher teased. With a shrug, he corrected you, “You got one part wrong though.”

This man. 

“Mind telling me?” You were greatly exasperated at this point. 

“I don’t like how the drinksmith sounds. How about your ex-boyfriend?”

Your hand reached out for your purse, and then the coat that you threw over on the next seat. In a hurry, you rose from your seat. “If this is what we are doing, then I’m leaving.”

As you turned your back against him, he walked around the counter as he chased after you. “Hey,” he called. “Don’t get all pissy about it. Teasing used to be our language. Remember?”

At the corner of your eyes, you took notice that one of the bartenders immediately took over Gallagher’s job. You had a hunch that they had been observing you two in a while. Even guessing what they could have heard gave you a headache.

But the man who was following you from behind was ticking you off even more. Even when you were both outside of the bar, he was still trailing you behind like a puppy. 

Finally, you spun around, now facing him. Baring your gritted teeth, you hissed, “I’m not going to lose my dignity tonight just because you—” You pointed your finger towards him, “—couldn’t move on from the past. I have a reputation, Gallagher. So do you. But unlike you, I care deeply about my image. So, let’s just bid our farewells. It’s for the best of us.”

He seemed to be taken aback by your fierce statement. With his hands placed on his hips, he dramatically tapped his foot against the ground a few times before shaking his head, “Wow. People weren’t lying at all. You changed.”

“So?”

Your jeer was barely registered into his head. With his chin slightly tilted upward, he continued, “You really did lose yourself to the riches and fame.”

The feathers of your wings hackled in anger. “And you changed too. It’s hard to believe that the lone wolf of Bloodhound family has now decided to be gossipy, and the first thing that he did is to believe some moronic rumors. Fuck off, Gallagher.”

“Did your partner teach you that?”

“Teach me what?”

“Teach you to curse,” he said, as he pulled out a cigarette box from the pocket of his pants. “Because I’m tellin’ you right now, they’re doing a poor job.”

You shook your head in disbelief. You huffed, “Why are you so against my marriage? Do you hate to see me happy, is that it?”

With nonchalance, he nodded his head in confirmation. “Yes. I’m unhappy that you are with them.”

“And so? Do you want me to toss my future away with them just because of what?” You gestured towards him angrily, “Some man?”

“Now it’s some man. Back then, you used to call me cuter names than that,” he teased. “Actually, it sounded even better when you moaned it out in bed,” a muffled groan escaped from his lips as he thought of all the good times you two shared. Well, it was all funny memories now. 

“Should I list it all down right now, birdie?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. “How would you prefer me to do it? Should I yell it out so that the whole world knows about your secret scandal with the drinksmith from the Bloodhound family?”

You leaned forward towards him, as he pretended to flinch. Your wings flipped angrily, messing up your hair. “Cut it, dog.”

“Oh, I will,” he agreed, with the tone of his voice now lowered. “But only if you tell me why you left me for that stupid chicken you married to.”

“They’re Halovian, not a chicken,” you exasperatedly corrected him. 

You look at a distance, as you wrung your brain out for an appropriate answer. While you thought deeply on what to say, Gallagher caught a glimpse of the wedding band around your ring finger. 

“Are they wealthy?” he risked another jab. “Old money, or new money?”

“Old,” you answered flatly while rolling your eyes.

He hummed. “So I guessed it right.”

Gallagher pulled out the cigarette out of the box, before putting it between his lips. He patted on his pockets for his lighter.

But you were quicker. You pulled out the lighter from your purse, as you lit it up the end of the cigarette. The light from the fire shone on your face. 

And out of sudden, his intense hatred towards you slowly burned away along with the ashes from the cigarette he was smoking.

You were annoying, that was for the first fact. While the second fact, you were dangerously beautiful. 

“Maybe if I wasn’t much of a social climber, I wouldn’t leave you,” you suddenly confessed. “But I wanted all the fame and the wealth. Because I have a family to support. If I were to run off and marry the guy I actually liked, there’s no such thing as Sunday the Allegedly Tyrannical Leader of the Oak Family or A-List Celebrity Robin in the news and other media outlets. They were out there, taking jobs of some rich pigs. Not living comfortably as today.” 

Now, his mouth felt dry. And the air around him felt hot, making him sweaty and uncomfortable.

With your arms crossed and your wings slightly droopy, you continued, “I saw the ring in your pocket when I was cleaning the house before we broke up.”

Gray smoke escaped from his cracked lips. “You did?”

By the tone, it was clear that it wasn’t your confirmation that he needed. Rather, he wanted your clarification on why you decided to ditch him out of nowhere. 

“You never told me that you wanted to be more than just that,” you said.

“Sucks to know that you hate surprises right now.”

Even in moments of a heated dispute, Gallagher would try to twist it into a comedy. 

“I wanted to make a name for myself in the Penaconian society. And the only way for me to do so was to make myself seen by these prominent people. At the banquet, at the ball, at the party, or at the bar,” you explained.

“I didn’t want to be a nobody. I wanted to become somebody. In that way, my siblings can live an easy life, without some rich snobs telling them what to do, and what to say. How to dress and when to speak. I lived that life. That was how I realized how irksome it was, and how I refused to let it happen to my siblings.”

You looked down to your feet, as your shoes reflected your face. All the treatments you received to retain your youthful beauty, but yet you hardly felt that your younger self was with you. Your younger self wouldn’t make that many excuses. They weren’t avoidant — they faced all obstacles head first with a feisty spirit. But nowadays, even a confrontation from a past lover can get you this upset. 

“It wasn’t a part of my plan to be pinned down by marriage. I was just taken aback by the sudden shift of our relationship, so I left. I worked for a few more years, then I received a marriage proposal from them. Old money, goal-oriented, business-minded. I knew two things when I saw them. That marrying them means that I could finally retire from all that social-climbing and establish myself among the elites. And marrying them means that my siblings have a greater chance to become successful. It would be a great investment, really,” you explained. 

“But I didn’t like them that much.” you reassured him. “They were good, but only enough to make me feel wanted. To them, I was just an accessory for him to flaunt off to his rich friends. They lie sometimes, even to me. I can see it right through them,” you admitted. “They lie to feel respected and liked. To fit in, sometimes. And I guess whatever they say about marriage is true. You will slowly become them, whether you like it or not.”

“So let me get this straight. He didn’t teach you to curse, but he did teach you to lie so  you could look better than everyone?” Gallagher joked bitterly. He looked at you up and down, “Yeah, I see it now.”

You decided to ignore him. 

“I liked you because unlike other people I have met, you were truthful. You didn’t treat me like a sweet candy meant to be tasted, or an object that was meant to be possessed. You were honest and you were genuine. I knew it by the first time we just met, when you dissed me about my drink order,” you laughed a bit. “What was it? My first order? Oh, dearest Xipe, I think I forgot about it.”

“Mungbean Soda. With that distressed look on your face, I knew that a few shots of Stellar Champagne was all you needed to keep yourself composed while dealing with those aristocrats,” he answered.

“So then I decided to take your recommendation.”

“Which was Rose In Rain. A classy and sweet choice, but strong enough to make you forget all your miseries for the night.”

“And it was delicious. That tipsiness made me realize how kissable you were, especially under that dimmed, yellow light,” you finished your sentence. 

“Am I still kissable now?” he teased, as he blew the smoke from his mouth. When he took notice of your irked glare, he raised your hands up in defense. “Hey, ‘just confirming.”

“Annoyingly kissable,” you replied. 

You watched the direction of his eyes fall to your lips. And just by a simple stare, you could feel all the blood from your feet and legs go up to your face, making your cheeks and neck feel hot. 

When he removed the cigarette from his lip, he slowly leaned forward. Your breath hitched up in response, he noticed. So he stopped. 

What filled in the air was the strange silence, the acrid smoke and your guilt. 

“What’s stopping you, then?” he asked softly.

Honestly, it was a difficult question to answer. Could it be that it had been an hour past eight. Or it could have been the wedding ring around your finger. Or it could have been because the way your stomach churned at the bitter smell of his cigarette reminded you of why you left Gallagher that day.

“I don’t know,” but your eyes told a different story.

His hand reached out for you, and as he interlocked your fingers with him, he played with the ring, twisting and turning it. But he knew what was your answer when your fingers curled in your palm, suggesting that you refused to let go of the ring.

“Oh, but I think I know,” he answered.

A worried sigh came out of your mouth. “I can’t leave all of this behind. I climbed too high, I’m not sure how to get down. If I choose to go down with you now, the fall would be too painful. And I don’t even know if I could survive through it.”

There was too much running in his head. His thoughts fly from one extreme to another. It was impressive that you could easily turn a decisive, composed man into such a mess: where he struggled to feel pity for you or just kill you off on the spot. 

“Why didn’t you want to be with me?” he asked, losing the childish accents in his voice.

“Marrying you was a choice, marrying them, however, was a necessity,” you answered. The softness in your voice felt like a sharp piercing through his heart. “A bird can’t be with a dog. That’s unnatural.”

Quietude witnessed the way you looked at each other longingly. While your heart weighed with guilt and shame, his mind was congested with frustration and anger. But yet, both secretly longed for each other. 

“But  I refuse to accept it as the truth. No, not when I keep on missing you for all these years.”

Before he could come up with a cheeky reply, you shushed him from his sarcastic remarks by resting your hand on his cheek, bringing his face to yours. Your soft lips pressed against his bloodless and dry ones. The heat from a sinful kiss engulfed the two of you closely, burning the part of your skin on your back that he gently touched. His hand rested on your lower back, bringing you closer to him. You could feel his beard tickling your chin, and he could smell your perfume in his nostrils. The bitter taste of his alcohol that he downed melted in your tongue, causing you to groan in delight.

The kiss lasted a few minutes, but you wished it could go on for hours. 

“For the last time,” you reminded him, your thumb rubbing his cheek in circles. “There will be no longer us after this.”

You stepped away from him, as your wings shyly closed your mouth while you were cleaning off your lips with the back of your hands. 

“You sure?” he asked breathily, his pale lips now stained with a crimson-colored lipstick. He might have to lie to everyone that he was drinking too many bottles in the Soulglad in the past few days (though Soulglad was clearly orange.)

“Yes,” you confirmed. You took a few steps backwards. With your hands gathered together, you gracefully bowed your head towards him. An act of courtesy which also served to restore your damaged dignity as a married person from an honorable family. 

“Goodnight, Gallagher.”

You waited for his response, but all he did was stare at you. The light from the lamp above you started flickering, before it completely went out.

Was it longing on his face? It was difficult to make out his expression, especially when the shadow covered him.

You guessed that it was hard to bid goodbyes after such a kiss. 

But for some reason, you felt shivers running down your spine. Beads of sweat were forming on your neck from the cold. Your mind was sending rapid signals to your legs: alerting it to run immediately.

Though your sudden instinct to run was scaring you, you calmed down your nerves by guessing that it could have been because of the kiss. 

Your thoughts were quietened when you saw the shadow of Gallagher rolling his thumb against the metal wheel of his lighter that he pulled out of his pocket.

Yes, yes. It must have been the kiss.

You were scared of your partner leaving you. Or Sunday being humiliated at his work because of his older sibling’s infidelity with some member from the Bloodhound family. And it could be because that person happened to be his colleague who kept on riling him up at work. Or maybe you were afraid that your scandal could create a blemish on Robin’s reputation as a celebrity. Now the whole world assumed that she was a dirty popstar.

But it didn’t seem that your body was agreeing with any of those guesses. 

Gallagher’s frustrated grunt at the stubborn lighter shushed your thoughts again.

You came to notice that your white wings were quickering badly. 

There was too much happening at the moment. You were so overwhelmed by the urge to flight, that you felt that you could vomit on the spot. 

Suddenly, a thought came to you.

His cigarette was already lit up. So what could be the reason why he pulled out his lighter?

The flame from the lighter brought some light to his face, but the sight of the man you used to love led to you gasping in horror. It was gloomy with burning hatred, the glare alone could almost kill you on the spot.

But before you could ask, a mysterious sound of ringing pierced through your eardrums. It belonged to no other but Memory Zone Meme, a secret from The Family that were kept away from you. You could feel it slowly spread its wings, which resembled the terrible noise of bone-cracking. 

You gathered the courage to turn around. But it perceived the sudden movement of its prey as an attempted fight. Feeling threatened, it stabbed its stingers through your body. The ground was splattered with a mysterious blue liquid, followed by the sound of your wedding ring rolling and spinning in circles. 

Your purse that was hanging around your arm was now on the other side of the ground. 

The outside of the dark bar that was filled with heated arguments and sweet confessions earlier died out, with only silence remaining. 

Well, only for a few minutes.

A melodious voice of Robin was heard, muffled by the zipped purse. Your phone rang a few times, playing the same music. It appeared that the caller was worried. Or angry. 

Gallagher crouched down, unzipping your purse. He groaned in repulse when the blue liquid stuck to his skin, as he wiped it down on his pants. He took out your phone, as the name of your spouse filled his vision. 

Your phone was flooded with notifications of your worried partner, asking about your whereabouts. 

Ah, you were supposed to be home by 8 PM. He looked at the time, it was already 9:30 PM.

In your defense, he would also be sneaking around to kiss a drinksmith at the bar if he had an overbearing partner like yours.

He thought of sharing the news of your infidelity.

But then, he scrapped the thought. He wanted to respect your wishes. Something about how the story of tonight was going to destroy Sunday and Robin’s image. Or something similar to that. He didn’t remember much because he hardly cared about your siblings.

It was not like all your siblings had the time to process your death, especially when they were next in line.

So he came up with a different plan. Your password was easy to guess. It wasn’t difficult with the help of your maid who used to work under him. 

A flash from the camera was heard. The phone captured the scene of a mysterious liquid splattered across the ground, with the gold-colored wedding ring shining brightly under the light, with some being covered by the puddle of your remains. 

Along with the picture, he texted, “Not coming home tonight, sorry.” 

He later pressed the send button, before tossing the crushed phone into the trash. 

The plan was to kill you off in your house. But you made it easy for him instead. He was amused, really. 

But his amusement was short-lived. He was disgusted at the sight of your wedding ring, which stared back at him menacingly. He kicked the ring into the trash as well. He wasn’t an expert in the art of interior designing, but he hated the ring being near his bar. It was ugly, hardly matched the aesthetics of his business.

But your finger wouldn’t be too lonely without the ring. Not when he still had the same wedding band from 13 years ago in his pocket right now. What was left for him was to wear it around your finger in the real world, then he could truly move on from his past. Just as you asked him to. 

And just like that, his mission was done.

[cod-imagines-fanfiction]

Jealous Alejandro kidnaps Valeria's girlfriend (1.6k words part 4)

Summary: Valeria breaks into the headquarters of the Mexican Army in search of her wife.

TW: implied sexual violence, violence more generally (and Google Translated Mexican Spanish)

Note: I'm back from my home country y'all and free to write gay fanfiction once again. I'm working on the next part ASAP but I wanted to post this because you guys have been waiting forever. Thank you for all the lovely comments and the interactions!! means a lot to me that you guys enjoy reading this :>

Link to A03 Link to part 1, part 2, part 3. Next part: part 5

'Army soldier' was more than a type of occupation, more than any other job title; it was a lifestyle. It is truly a different way of life, a way of life that most people are simply not built for. A soldier's form - their straight back, their way of taking in the world around them within a second, their way of assessing everything as either hostile or neutral, their battlefield instinct - it all became an inseparable part of who they are. There is a certain instinct that gets drilled into soldiers, the instinct to act immediately and fast. The instinct to not think twice about running into danger. It is triggered immediately and triggered intensely. So when the emergency siren at the Mexican Army Headquarters wailed, the whole place came alive. No time was wasted before troops placed themselves in position. Snipers grabbed their rifles and headed for the rooftops, Captains and sergeants tuned into their mics, barking orders to their subordinates, assembling their troops as quickly as possible. Guards ran to their posts and pilots rushed to where their aircraft were getting readied by flying personnel, prepared to take off to gain an advantage in the airfield and a much-needed vantage point of what was happening. The armoury opened as many hands reached within for ammo and other equipment.

From the outside, it was a perfect scene of military efficiency and readiness. But from the inside, anxiety bubbled, threatening to cut loose.

"Why did this have to happen today of all days?" A soldier grumbled as he tightened his weapon belt.

"Someone planned this. It's the most popular day for annual leave," another responded as he grabbed his shoes.

"Dia de los Muertos," the first one said, his voice low and grim.

The Day of the Dead. Celebrated annually around November 1st but spanning over the course of multiple days. A day of celebration for life and death, a day to pay respects to those who have passed on. A time of parades on squares and community gatherings, with crowds of people in traditional costumes and painted faces taking to the streets to rejoice with others. A time when many troops were stationed outside the headquarters for public safety. A time, therefore, of relatively little staff being left behind to man the fort.

It was so perfect, Valeria almost giggled as she withdrew her knife from someone's body and let them drop to the floor.

She had infiltrated the headquarters from the underground tunnels that connected to some fields further out, which were created to be used in emergencies but had been long forgotten over the years. These were the same tunnels she took many years back when she wanted to see you on a day that she hadn't booked off. She would wait until most of the barracks were asleep before slipping away in the shadows, passing the guards and quietly unscrewing the lid that separated the tunnels from the world above ground. It was even more exciting once she taught you when and where to wait for her, at the end of the tunnel, among greenery and orange trees. Among the fields that you would lay on for the rest of the night underneath your blanket, touching each other's bodies and talking to the stars. Whispering how badly you'd missed each other, hearing the hum of insects in between short gasps and warm moans. Now, she had unscrewed these same lids and stabbed the person in front of her, dragging them out and passing the body along to the staff that followed her. They dumped the body back in the fields. Part of her found it annoying that these tunnels were always standing between her and her wife. And yet there was some charm, too. Travelling the bowels of the Earth for her love.

Having officially stepped on ground owned by the Mexican Army, El Sin Nombre and her people spread like a virus, taking down certain key spots and hiding bodies. Not enough damage to create immediate alarm, but good enough progress to feel confident about the next step. Her heart sped up in excitement as she thought of her wife, who was only one building and a lock away from her. And right in front of that building, was him.

Valeria looked out from one of the windows and saw Alejandro standing with his back straight, his face possessing a deep scowl as he conversed with Rudolpho. It had been many years since she last saw him, which was nothing memorable. There was no goodbye, no farewell. She had simply gotten up in the middle of the night and gazed at his face one final time; he glistened beneath the moonlight. He was younger then, his face smoother, his voice gentler; not yet hardened. A mass of muscle on a standard issue Army bed, he was unaware that the woman he loved was slipping right through his fingers. Unaware that by the time he woke up, she'd be gone.

There'd be nothing left behind to prove that she even existed. All of her things just went missing alone with her. She didn't even leave a picture behind to immortalise their love, to have something to look at during those nights when his heart almost gave out, when he realised that he was starting to forget what she looked like. That he could no longer remember her voice. Now, as she looked at him, she wondered why they even started a relationship in the first place. He was attractive, sure, but nothing special. Not like the woman in the box.

He was older now, his face more wrinkled. Valeria was raised with the idea that in women, this quality had the same visual effect as decaying fruit. When Valeria looked in the mirror and saw her signs of age - the smile lines that wouldn't smooth out when her smile fell, the lines around her mouth that could not be covered by cosmetics, the wrinkles around her eyes - it reminded her of something that was starting to fade. But in men, the quality was different, more merciful. More like maturing. It enraged her to see him getting older. To see him in the exact same place that she left him. The memories attached to this place were too much to handle. Memories of her younger years kept materialising at the edge of her vision, like a trick of the light; a shadow figure that kept pursuing. It used to be her, out there in the yard. Talking with Alejandro and Rudy, passing along jokes during a long day. But right now it was just the two of them, talking with ease like she had never been there at all. And right at that moment, as she gazed down at them, the alarm went off. What a glorious opportunity to have a front-row seat to witness Alejandro's reaction once she pulled the rug from underneath his feet. There was no more time to waste. She forced herself to stop gloating at these shadows of the past and to move forward. With each step, she got closer to her wife, her sweetheart. Valeria felt weightless, she felt herself glide through the space between herself and Y/N. She would pause here and there to ensure she did not reveal herself to her enemies. At times, she stealthily murdered someone who could have easily been her roommate back when she was a cadet. But that was another lifetime, a lifetime of making the wrong friendships and choosing the wrong lovers. She wasted no time on these obstacles. At last, her hand encircled the handle of the container. She pushed her weight into it and entered, ready for anything. Be it to murder a guard, or to embrace her love; her instincts were on the front seat. She could kill a hundred men if it came to it.

“Valeria. Bienvenida.”

The metal door crashed into the threshold behind her, the echoes reverberating, she felt, for eternity. There was nothing beyond these metal walls anymore, the whole world went silent. The wrath that burned in her eyes met the hatred that dripped out of his. Darkness met darkness; loathing encircled within their dark glares like an ouroboros, its dark scales flashing where the light hit it. Valeria and Alejandro were a perfect mirror, they were tuned into the same frequency, a frequency of violence. They were built of the same clay; two destroyers meeting at last.

He was right in front of her, waiting. Standing tall and armed to the teeth, Colonel Alejandro Vargas. Her jealous ex-lover, the kidnapper of her wife, the annihilator of peace, the snake that infiltrated the garden. The evil eye incarnate. And here was she, the abandoner, the backstabber; the woman lover.

“Y/N.” Valeria spoke with steel in her voice.

“Is no longer with us, I’m afraid.” The lines of his mouth fell into a pout, feigning sadness. Mocking her. “She’s not a fighter, like you or me. You know what happens to the weak here,” he scoffed. “What was it that you used to say? That the weak exist to serve the strong and die? Yeah,” he said diabolically, a grin etching itself on his face. “That’s what happened.”

She knew he was lying; Y/N walked this earth still. She and her wife’s souls were so intertwined, Valeria would have felt it if her wife was gone. Y/N could never leave without her heart knowing. Valeria would put her hand through fire to prove her conviction.

“If I thought she was dead, I would have shot you on sight,” she said. Her hand gripped a blade tightly, willing herself to stop shaking.

Alejandro laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean she was dead.” His gloved hands held onto his vest as he looked down at her. “I meant that your wife served me.”

Unable to contain her wrath any longer, Valeria lunged at him with a scream.

tag list: @justmare @silas-222 @m0rganit3 @blarba-girl @sleepiemain @caffeineliker @ashy-kit @00ops1e @lesvii @therapyneeds @lez-zuha @starre-eyes @7smexy7diva @hello-kitty-festival @konigmeu @cassiecasluciluce @gay-ass-country-boy @starwars-theclonewhore @bi-witch-bxtch @somnoslvt @ashthepillow @b3ns0ne  @idiotwrites @danart501 @deakyspuff @mistresssiri @angethehimbosimp

thanks for supporting me!!

[redsummermoon]

Hi! I have a request for Charlie x Reader.

Welton Academy integrates girls into the student body. Reader is one of the only female players on the boy’s soccer team. Some of the student body is not in favor of a co-ed team, but Charlie is-it gives him the opportunity to flirt and be in proximity to Reader.

At a game, Charlie is injured. He picks Reader to take his place. Despite the misogyny, she kills it on the field, Charlie and DPS members cheering her on with every kick and pass. At the end, Charlie and Reader have a sweet and intimate moment and DPS charge the field to lift her up, Mr. Keating-style.

Thank you! Carpe Diem! ✊🏻

i think i really like charlie soccer fics 🤓 thanks for the request !!

The Save

Charlie Dalton x reader CW: y/n a couple times, misogyny!, knee injury (no blood but bruise) [2.2k words] 

Welton Academy had always been a place steeped in tradition, its ivy-covered walls echoing decades of strict rules and exclusivity. But this year marked a historic change. The school had gone co-ed. The transition felt slow and tentative, with only a handful of girls joining the student body. You were one of them.

For as long as you could remember, you’d loved soccer. You grew up with a ball at your feet, dreaming of matches under bright lights and the thrill of a last-second save. But at Welton, there wasn’t enough interest among the girls to form a team of your own. You weren’t sure how to channel that passion if there wasn’t a team to play on.

Then Mr. Keating pulled you aside one afternoon.

“Why not try out for the boys’ team?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes full of that determined spark he always seemed to carry.

You blinked at him, sure you hadn’t heard correctly. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about soccer,” he replied with a grin.

You laughed nervously, but the idea stuck with you. The thought of joining the boys’ team was intimidating, but the way Keating said it, like it was the most obvious solution in the world, made you think that maybe you could do it. Maybe you could belong.

And somehow, you did.

Being on the boys’ team was exhilarating. It was also nerve-wracking. You were the alternate goalie, which meant sharing the position with none other than Charlie Dalton, the team’s star. Charlie was phenomenal, quick, fearless, and impossible to outmaneuver. Watching him play was like watching art in motion.

Normally, sitting on the bench while someone else took the spotlight would have driven you crazy. But with Charlie, it was hard to feel anything but admiration.

From the very first practice, Charlie made it his mission to make you feel welcome.

“Finally,” he said, jogging over to you with that easy grin of his, “another keeper. You know, it gets lonely back there saving everyone’s asses. Glad you’re here to share the burden.”

You laughed, trying to ignore how your face flushed under his attention. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you keep most of the glory.”

“Well if thats what you want,” he teased, his eyes sparkling. “But don’t think you’re getting out of the occasional jaw-dropping save. Gotta keep the crowd entertained, right?”

You didn’t tell him that most of the crowd had stopped showing up.

When word spread that a girl had joined the boys’ soccer team, the school’s enthusiasm for the sport evaporated. People whispered in the hallways about how you didn’t belong, how you were ruining the team. The stands, once packed with students, were suddenly half-empty on game days.

It hurt more than you wanted to admit. But what stung even more were the occasional sidelong glances from your own teammates. Not all of them, but enough to make you wonder if they resented your spot on the roster.

Charlie, though, never wavered.

“You’re better than half the guys on this team,” he told you after practice one day, tossing a ball into the net with a careless flick of his wrist. “And way better-looking. But don’t tell Meeks I said that. He’s sensitive.”

You snorted, trying to keep your heart from fluttering at the compliment. “Sure, I’ll keep your secret.”

“Good,” he said, winking. 

He was always like that. Playful, supportive, and just flirty enough to leave you wondering if there was more behind his words.

Even with the school’s rejection, you had Charlie. You had Mr. Keating. You had the rest of the poets, who showed up at every game, cheering louder than the rest of the crowd combined.

And somehow, that was enough.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

The game begins like any other. The crowd's cheers ripple across the field as the referee’s whistle cuts through the air. You sit on the bench, your eyes glued to Charlie in goal. He’s in his element, commanding the box with ease, barking orders to his defenders and making every save look effortless. You watch closely, studying his movements and how he positions himself, how he anticipates the ball. 

The game is intense. The opposing team pushes hard, but Welton is holding strong. With fifteen minutes left, the score sits at 1-3 in Welton’s favor. You feel a flicker of pride watching Charlie dive for another save, stretching his body to its limit. He punches the ball clear of the goal, but when he lands, something is off.

Charlie doesn’t get up.

Your heart drops as the stadium falls into an eerie silence. He’s clutching his knee, his face twisted in pain. From the bench, you whisper, “Get up, Charlie. Please, get up.”

But he doesn’t.

Keating is already on his feet, concern etched across his face. Neil and Knox sprint to Charlie from the field, their hands hovering as if unsure how to help. Finally, Charlie grits his teeth and lets them pull him up. He leans heavily on them, his arm draped over Neil’s shoulders. His knee is already swelling, turning an alarming shade of black and blue.

As they approach the sideline, Charlie winces with every step. He keeps his gaze fixed forward, saying nothing until they reach the bench. Then, he looks at Keating and says firmly, “Put her in. She’s got this.”

You freeze.

“What?” The word comes out barely above a whisper, your eyes widening as you process his words.

“Put her in,” Charlie repeats, his voice steady even as his face betrays his pain. He glances at you, his eyes full of trust. “She’s ready.”

Keating doesn’t hesitate. He nods at you, his expression calm but expectant. “Warm up.”

Your pulse quickens as you stand. The weight of the moment settles on your shoulders, but you force yourself to focus. You start stretching, trying to shake off the nervous energy buzzing through your veins.

Charlie sits down heavily on the bench, beckoning you over with a wave of his hand. “Hey,” he says softly, his voice laced with pain but steady. “You’ve got this. Don’t overthink it. Just play your game. You’ve been watching me all season, right?”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

“Good. Then you know what to do,” he continues, his tone turning playful. “And don’t let them score, okay? My reputation’s on the line here.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He reaches out, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “Seriously. You’re going to be amazing. I know it.”

The whistle blows, signaling the substitution. Keating gives you an encouraging nod as you jog onto the field, your heart pounding.

The first few moments in goal are a blur. The other team is relentless, pressing harder now that Charlie’s out. Their star striker breaks through the defense and takes a shot. You dive, stretching as far as you can, but the ball slips past your fingers and into the net.

The crowd groans, and the scoreboard shifts to 2-3.

You pick yourself up, your chest heaving as frustration bubbles inside you. But you don’t let it consume you. Instead, it sharpens your focus. You glance toward the sideline, catching Charlie’s gaze. He nods at you, his expression unwavering.

You plant your feet, determined.

The next ten minutes are a whirlwind. The opposing team throws everything they have at you, but you’re ready. You block a low shot, deflect a corner kick, and dive to tip another ball just over the crossbar. Each save fuels your confidence, and the cheers from the stands spur you on.

“Let’s go, Y/N!” Knox shouts from his position on the field.

“That’s how it’s done!” Neil adds, pumping his fist in the air.

With two minutes left, Neil secures a breakaway goal, pushing the score to 2-4. The tension on the field is palpable as the clock ticks down. The opposing team launches one final attack, their striker charging toward you with the ball.

You hold your ground, your muscles coiled like a spring. The striker shoots, and you dive with your hands meeting the ball with a satisfying smack.

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the game.

Welton wins.

Cheers erupt from the stands, and the team rushes onto the field, celebrating with triumphant shouts and slaps on the back. You’re still catching your breath, adrenaline surging through your veins as the reality of the win sinks in.

The Dead Poets are losing their minds. Knox is practically vibrating with excitement, and Neil’s voice rises above the chaos. “Let’s go, Y/N!” he shouts.

Before you know it, they’re surrounding you, their faces alight with pride and joy.

“She’s the MVP!” Knox yells, pointing at you dramatically.

“Lift her up!” Neil declares, and before you can protest, their hands are under your arms and legs.

“Wait, what are you..!” you begin, but your words are drowned out by their cheers.

The boys hoist you into the air, carrying you as if you’ve just won the championship. The crowd erupts into laughter and applause, their initial skepticism replaced by admiration for your performance.

“Carpe diem!” Knox yells, and they all echo it, their voices carrying over the field.

Despite your initial embarrassment, you can’t help but laugh. The moment is surreal, and the warmth of their support fills you with gratitude. After a few laps, they gently lower you to the ground, right next to Charlie, who’s still sitting on the bench with his injured leg propped up.

“Well, that was a show,” Charlie says with a grin, his eyes sparkling despite the pain etched on his face.

“Not my idea,” you say, brushing the grass off your uniform.

“Doesn’t matter. You earned it,” he says warmly. “Seriously, Y/N. You were amazing out there.”

You duck your head, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Thanks, Charlie. I just... didn’t want to let the team down.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you. Then, with a wince, he shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “Think you could help me back to the locker room? I’d try on my own, but I’d probably end up face-planting.”

“Of course,” you say, moving to his side.

He drapes an arm around your shoulders, and you wrap yours around his waist, supporting his weight as he leans heavily on you. “Careful,” you warn as he takes his first step.

“I’m always careful,” he quips, his voice teasing.

You snort. “Yeah, because diving for that last save was so careful.”

“I couldn’t let them score,” he says, grinning. “But hey, I’m pretty sure you’ll be the one in goal for the rest of the season now.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so, you were incredible,” he says confidently. “And I don’t think I’ll be able to walk for the rest of the season. Maybe now the rest of the school will stop being idiots and realize how good you are.”

His words make you smile. “I hope so.”

“So,” he begins, his voice taking on that familiar playful tone, “how does it feel to be the star of the show? I think you might’ve stolen my spotlight out there.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your grip around his waist to support him better. “Oh, please. If I stole your spotlight, it’s only because you handed it over when you decided to play hero and wreck your knee.”

He grins, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that infuriatingly charming way. “I didn’t wreck it for nothing, though. Got you out on the field, didn’t I?”

“Is that your way of taking credit for the win?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he says, chuckling. “Or maybe I just wanted to see you shine. You looked good out there.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, but you brush it off. “Well, thanks. I guess.”

“Guess?” he teases, feigning offense. “Come on, admit it. You were amazing. And I’m not just saying that because I’m hopelessly biased.”

You give him a sidelong glance. “Hopelessly biased, huh? Is that your way of saying you think I’m cute?”

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation, his grin widening. “Have I not been obvious enough? I mean, come on, Y/N. I’m practically limping into the sunset with you right now.”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Honestly, though,” he says, his voice softening, “you should’ve been in goal sooner.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Is that because I’m better than you?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But also because it made you flirt back with me.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but you can’t deny how much his words make your heart flutter.

“See?” he says, his grin widening. “It’s a win-win.”

Before you can respond, he gives you a playful squeeze with the arm draped around your shoulders and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You’re the best, Y/N. Don’t ever forget that.”

You glance up at him, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. 

When you reach the locker room entrance, Knox comes up from behind, ready to help Charlie the rest of the way. “Got him from here,” Knox says, giving you a knowing smile as he takes Charlie’s other side.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping back as Charlie shifts his weight.

Charlie turns to you, his gaze lingering. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “See you.”

Charlie gives you one last look, winks, and lets Knox drag him away.

[lovetei]

could you write obey me boys with an idol mc? like they just somehow became famous on devildom 🕺 like these kpop/jpop idols! i was thinkin abt a newjeans like concept (attention, hype boy and cookie specifically)!

Hmm, that's so cute. I wanna see the boys watching your private life through your videos!

Damn... This made me want to redo my ROYAL Universe, I put such a small effort in that I feel sorry :')

Never mind, I'll redo it later.

--------------------------------------------------

Obey me universe where MC is an Idol

IDOL Universe: Introduction

Warnings: MC uses gender neutral pronouns, manipulation, slightly dark themes

Links: Masterlist

--------------------------------------------------

Frilly skirts and sexy tuxedo's

The one and only idol that threatened every other groups in the Devildom by simply playing their songs intro,

MC

Dancing at the largest stage of the Devildom is basically your normal by now.

Getting invited at parties where the wealthy and the influential can only enter

Your influence spread like wild fire all across the eighth rings of hell until no one in the Devildom don't know you.

But that isn't enough,

After you conquered the lower class of demons you climbed your way up to meet the socialites

And now here you are, on one of your highly earning concerts but this one is different

There's a different face among the crowds

There's Leviathan

Sitting in front with no one beside him

That's weird, your manager told you that every ticket are sold out and the VVIP tickets are sold at the same day...

No way...

Did Leviathan bought all the VVIP tickets?!

Yes, yes he did.

He even bought a special fan meet ticket.

"Hi! Good evening!" You cheerfully greeted to your only fan that managed to afford your over the top VVIP fan meet ticket.

"Have a seat." How weird, the rumors said he's all shy and stuttery but the person you're seeing right now is no weeb, it's the grand admiral.

"Ah, yes... Thank you!" Even though nervousness is starting to cloud your senses you need to keep your idol persona or else some nasty news will dug themselves up from the graves.

"I must say your pricing is totally over the top but I expected it from an idol whose at the top of the current food chain." Wow, how blunt.

"Yup! This ticket allows my fans have more indept conversation with me!" You smiled with your usual bright grin.

"Yeah, I almost thought it's a bait for those in the noble class. You know, for them to brag about how they managed to get their hands on such ticket." He replied as he took a sip of the coffee in front of the two of you.

"I'll go straight to the catch." He voiced out as soon as the mug landed on the glass of the coffee table.

"I want you to perform for my birthday." You almost choked up on your own spit after what he said sinked in.

"Aw... I'm deeply sorry but my manager won't allow me-" Is what I'm about to say but my manager barged into the room, sweating adn excused herself saying she has something to say to me.

She went closer and whispered something to me "He's willing to pay hundred of billions Darling! Hundreds of millions!"

What? Is he some type of freak? Why would he pay hundreds of millions just to have some idol like me to dance and sing around for his birthday?

MC, Devildoms brightest star who's hiding something

MC who secretly despised all the creepy people in the fan meets

MC who washed her hand throughly until it scratches every fan meet because of the amount of disgusting people that touched them.

MC who thinks everyone, everything is there to help them get on top of everything

MC who practiced the 'genuine' smile the crowd loves so much.

MC who can cry on command that faked their cry on live stage a they accept their most recent award.

MC Devildoms brightest star

MC who's willing to be in a dating scandal with the avatar of envy if it means it'll raise their popularity and their net worth.