#even while I was writing I had that vague sense of dread like

[cerealmonster15]

ouguhhh people being nice to me online disease lol

[after-witch]

Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Mahito doesn't like that you have an interest in a book character.

Word count: 1787

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of other people being tortured/killed, supreme self indulgence of the highest order

“Who is the smiling man?” 

The silence that had existed between the two of you was broken by a question that made you flinch. Well, why not? Mahito has been quiet all morning--and afternoon, actually, which perhaps should have startled you more than his sudden words. 

But you were too happy to enjoy some quiet (you would never say “peace and quiet,” not down here, not with him); all too happy to curl up in your haphazard nest on the floor with some books that took  you away from this place. Away from Mahito.

Who was, of course, still here. Lounging in his hammock with a pile of books sagging down the netting. 

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was reading from down here--you probably needed new glasses, a subject you were certainly not going to bring up with Mahito, who might reiterate his offer to “fix” your eyes. It looked like a bundle of pages stapled together. Maybe he went to the library and printed off obscure articles to read again. 

“Hey,” he calls down, and the first hint of worry begins to prickle on your arms at his uncharacteristically serious tone, “Answer me.”

Your mind stutters, tries to put one word in front of the other, and make sense of it all. 

The smiling man? The smiling man, the… ah. From Small Spaces. The otherworldly supernatural entity who lives in a world behind mist and has a penchant for making deals with people for their greatest wishes. 

It’s not your fault that you haven’t thought about him in ages. It’s not like you had copies of your books with you, and the fun you had with imagining him in an endless number of scenarios had fallen by the wayside considering your circumstances. 

It’s hard to daydream about worlds behind mist and cornfield servants when you’re watching people be turned into grotesque experiments that had them, sometimes quite literally and loudly, begging for death.

Mahito is looking down at you now, staring expectantly. 

“He’s a character,” you say, fidgeting on the floor. “From a book series.” You look down, flip a page in your book, although you haven’t finished reading the last one, and ask, casually as you can muster: “Why?”

Mahito, up above, flips a page. You can hear the wobble in the paper--not a bound book, that’s for certain. And there’s some low, primal sense that shivers through you which says, plainly, that he’s actually reading whatever’s in front of him. 

“You write about him a lot.”

Oh.

Low, slimy dread filters into your stomach. Thick and gelatinous, resting at the bottom of your belly like an unwanted slug. 

“I… don’t know what you mean,” you say, voice only half-there, because while you are apparently stupid enough to lie to Mahito’s face, you’re not stupid enough to think he’ll believe you. 

You are just stupid enough to think that he won’t know exactly how deep your interest in this particular character goes; before Mahito took you, you thought about him all the time. You’d take walks and daydream about him, write story after story; you’d even commissioned fanart of him, because it wasn’t like there was a plethora of fanart for a character from a middle grade horror book. 

Mahito huffs out a sigh. Quick and short, it sends a shock right down your stomach. 

“Get you a man,” he starts, and confusion buzzes through your brain until he continues. “Who is an otherworldly entity that is so petty when an 11 year old beats him that he traps her in another world, leaving her to a fate worse than death, and laughs until he cries about it.”

You wrote that. There’s a vague memory of when you posted it--after you’d taken a walk, you think, and reread your favorite parts in the books for a few hours. But the way Mahito says it makes it sound--you don’t know how to explain it. Like saying the words out loud almost pains him; they come out clipped and bitter. 

Bitter? But why?

He doesn’t stop there. He reads something else, voice getting higher, almost mocking the way you talk. And that bitterness is still there, a thread continuing through every syllable.

“What if we kissed in the corn maze before you turned me into a scarecrow servant whose soul slowly gets dried out and useless and in the end you feed it, crunchy and tasteless, to your hellhound.” 

He takes a breath. Then--

“One particular aspect of the Smiling Man’s cruelty that I truly adore is that he can make people feel understood. He can make them feel like he cares, like he’s lending a listening ear, like he’s wanting to help them out and make them feel nice.”

Another breath--and he continues, again and again, reading your posts. Quoting your stories. Listing off the titles, the imagine posts, everything you’ve said about him.

All the while, bitter and mocking, his voice raising now and then in an imitation of your own. 

Then he gets to the last page of his clearly self-created tome and stares down at you, waiting, expectant. 

And you… you actually glare up at him. 

Because you're scared, sure. You’re always scared in some way, when you’re with Mahito. But there’s something else too, something that digs its way out of the rot in your gut and sticks up a petulant middle finger.

How dare he do this. How dare he take something that was yours and make it his; put it in his mouth and sneer over it. 

“Have you been--” Your mouth sticks together, refusing to let you accuse him of what you know he’s been doing. Stalking your online profiles. “That’s… that’s private,” is what you finally mutter, cheeks feeling hot and that half-buried petulance pushing you forward. “It’s not any of your business.” 

“Private?” He mutters the word softly, cradling the sound.

And then--

Mahito doesn’t often move fast around you. He prefers to be slow, languid. Calculating. You think it’s because that terrifies you more.

But now, in a moment, he goes from being slouched in his hammock to leaping down and crouching right in your face--there’s sudden pain in your head, and you realize he’s grabbed your hair and yanked it back.

That metaphorical middle finger sinks back down into the slimy gut sludge.

“Not from me,” he says, low, a warning. “Not for you.”

This is all it takes for tears to prick inside your eyes.

Mahito’s lips quirk up. Just a little. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re going to cry already? I didn’t even do anything.”

Your eyes dart up and back, towards where he’s currently gripping your hair hard enough for it to sting.

He sighs through his nose. “This isn’t anything. You know that. Don’t be childish now.”

But--he lets go of your hair, and doesn’t grab for you when you scoot backwards on your blanket nest. Instead, he plops himself down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his elbow.

You don’t speak. You don’t want to, and you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s better to be quiet around Mahito, so he doesn’t get ideas. Although he comes up with them on his own just fine, even if you try to stay silent.

It’s Mahito who breaks the silence.

“Why do you like him so much?”

How silly, to feel embarrassed right now. With the creature in front of you, and what he can do. But that’s what makes your cheeks burn: embarrassment. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble, because while you are stupid in so many ways, you’re still smart enough to know he wants an answer. “I guess I just like antagonist characters sometimes.” Well, most of the time. But it’s better to keep that from Mahito, if you can.

Mahito’s lips quirk here and there while he thinks. Then he looks at you with something like genuine confusion.

“You say that you like how awful he is. The awful things he does. So…” He tilts his head a little. “You should like me. Right?”

Your fingers pick at the loose threads of your clothes. Your eyes don’t meet his entirely--they flick up and down, from your legs to his face. 

“It’s not the same thing,” is what you come up with. But how to explain that to a curse?

Mahito frowns. 

“I don’t understand.” No bitterness, no pouting. A simple statement of fact.

“He’s not real.” You swallow against the minefield that all of this is making you step through, hoping you’ll avoid them. “But you are. That makes it different.” 

Mahito leans forward, grabbing your wrists, pulling you closer to him with a yanking, childish gesture.

“So you should like me more,” he says, a slight pout in his tone. “Because I can really do those things.” His eyebrows raise, and you swear you can hear a buzzing light bulb go off. “I could turn someone into a scarecrow for you.” He smiles, sudden, excited. “Do you want me to find some school children to torment?”

“No!” Your voice cracks. There are brief images in your mind--the people he’s tortured and killed, experimented with, before you were here and while you’re here and probably after you’re dead and gone--and you shake them away. 

Mahito’s eyebrows furrow. He groans and rolls his eyes backwards until they are entirely white, not in mockery or an attempt to scare you, but in irritation. Fingers squeeze your wrists briefly and let go, and you stay quiet, trying to fight your urge to cry, until Mahito slowly rolls his eyes back to stare at you.

His gaze flicks over you, until he catches your eyes with his. 

“You won’t write about him anymore.”

You don’t take a moment to answer this time.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t read those books anymore.”

“I won’t,” you stay. “I haven’t. I--don’t even have copies anymore.”

Mahito smiles, a little. Maybe it’s a good thing you never asked him to find you a copy, a thought which had been a brief temptation a while back.

And then he leans in closer again, until his nose touches yours.

“You won’t think about him anymore,” he says, quiet, solemn. Not an order but a matter of fact. 

You don’t answer. You swallow against a bitter taste in  your throat; you swear, sometimes, that the sludge in your gut is real and tries to make its way out sometimes.

Mahito presses his nose against yours until it starts to hurt.

“You won’t,” he says again, this time more to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

[iamtired10]

out of focus

pairing - ??? x female reader x ???

synopsis - you have two sides to run from, but both are dangerous.

genre - yandere, stalker fic. nothing cute here

warnings - stalking, death threats, extreme, blood, idk, idk², cliffhanger ending, strong language, reader being dumbass, sorry to hyein, pt. 2 coming soon.

word count - 2.6k

a/n - lame-ass fic, im illiterate, my dark romance era is back!! imma write more yandere fics❤️

the first message had unsettled you, but you’d shrugged it off as a minor, albeit eerie, incident.

an unknown number had texted something vague and unsettling:

i’m watching you.

it seemed like the kind of thing you'd hear in some horror movie, but reality?

that felt unlikely.

it could have been a prank—a bored teenager with too much time on their hands or someone testing a spam bot. you rolled your eyes at the thought and went about your day.

but the messages didn’t stop.

in fact, they grew more frequent, more specific.

at first they were merely creepy—just enough to make you glance over your shoulder, but nothing that couldn’t be brushed off.

however as time passed, the texts grew far too detailed.

someone out there knew things no one should know: the exact time you left for uni every morning, what you were wearing, even the tiny, unnoticed things, like how you tapped your fingers on the counter when you were anxious or the way you hummed under your breath when you were deep in thought.

and then came the photo.

the one that made your skin crawl.

it was of you—sitting alone in your room.

the image had been taken from outside, through your window, the angle unmistakably clear.

whoever was sending these messages wasn’t just toying with you from a distance anymore.

they were close.

so close you could almost feel their eyes on you.

you tried to make sense of it, but there was no logic to be found.

every message came from a different number, each with a distinct tone.

some were desperate, almost pleading, demanding your attention with phrases like

why r u ignoring me? i just want to talk.

those ones felt needy, like a strange, twisted longing.

others, however were chillingly emotionless.

u need to be more careful.

those messages felt more like warnings, threats whispered in the dark.

cold, detached, and calculating.

it felt like you were caught between two different people.

one seemed desperate to get close to you; the other wanted you to protect you.

maybe it was just one person.

maybe they had split personalities, switching between obsession and cruelty. or maybe this was a sick game, a test to see how far they could push you, how much fear they could instill.

despite the growing dread, you tried to ignore it.

life continued, even as the dark presence lingered in the background of your mind.

your best friend, hanni, had been the only person you confided in.

she had always been your rock, grounding you when the weight of the situation became too heavy to bear.

when you told her, she didn’t hesitate. “i’m staying over,” she had said, her tone firm, no room for protest. “you’re not going through this alone.”

and for a little while, with hanni there, you’d managed to convince yourself that things were going to be okay.

but now, hanni had too much on her plate.

you didn’t want to burden her further, so when your other friend, hyein, invited you over for a sleepover, you agreed.

maybe a change of scenery would help.

maybe being at hyein's place would give you the distance you needed to think clearly.

you leaned against the cold metal wall of the elevator, the phone pressed to your ear. “i’ll be there in about 30 minutes,” you said, forcing your voice to sound light, normal.

hyein had picked up on it, though. “unnie, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“yeah, i just haven’t been sleeping well,” you lied. “i’m looking forward to tonight.”

she didn’t push further, and you hung up, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

just as you slipped your phone into your bag, it buzzed again.

you froze.

unknown number [+82 67 3573 2345]

dont leave ur house

your heart skipped a beat.

it was that unknown number again.

the familiar sense of unease crept up your spine.

a second message quickly followed. . .

unknown number [+82 67 3573 2345]

if u leave, u’ll regret it

a threat. this was a threat, wasn’t it?

your pulse quickened, and your hand trembled slightly as you clutched your phone.

did they know where you were going?

how close were they?

were they watching you right now?

the elevator dinged as it came to a stop on the ground floor, but your feet felt glued to the floor. your mind raced, spiraling into a storm of questions and panic.

should you go back to your apartment? but what if going back gave them more power, made them think they could control you?

what if tomorrow you received another message, telling you not to leave again?

how long could you play by their rules?

but then what if ignoring them was worse?

what if disobeying meant they’d escalate?

you stepped out of the elevator, the chilly evening air hitting your skin.

the world around you seemed oblivious to the terror that had taken root in your life. people passed by, chatting and laughing, completely unaware of the invisible danger lurking around you.

your phone buzzed again. this time, it was hyein.

hye🐣👶🏻

see you soon right?

be careful on the way unnie (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

you stared at the message for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you.

if you went to hyein’s place, maybe you could escape the immediate threat.

after all, the stalker hadn’t done anything physical yet…

but how long until that changed?

you slipped your phone back into your backpack after finishing the text exchange with hyein.

just as you were adjusting the straps on your shoulders, you suddenly bumped into someone. the impact was light, but it was enough to knock the other person off balance, sending them crashing to the ground.

“shi—! i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to—” you started apologizing hastily, looking down at the person who had fallen. your words trailed off when you realized who it was.

“oh… hey, haerin-ssi.”

it was kang haerin, a junior at your university.

you had crossed paths with her before—usually in the library, where she often sat alone, nose buried in a book. your classmates had often teased you, claiming the quiet, cat-eyed girl had a crush on you. you’d noticed her occasional shy glances, but you always brushed off the idea. still, there was something about the way she quietly observed you that made you feel… watched.

“hey, sunbae-nim…” haerin’s voice was barely above a whisper. she had her hood up, almost like she was trying to hide.

she seemed to be in a hurry, her posture tense.

your eyes darted to her phone, which had slipped from her hand during the fall. “oh, let me grab that for you," you offered, kneeling down to pick it up.

but just as your fingers brushed the edge of the phone, haerin's hand shot out, grabbing it before you could. “no!! i can get it myself...” she blurted out, her voice suddenly panicked.

you blinked in surprise.

this was the first time you'd seen her react like that—so flustered, so defensive.

you stood up slowly, eyebrows raised. “uh, okay, but i heard the screen crack. you sure it’s not broken?”

haerin stood up quickly, clutching her phone tightly. “you don’t need to worry about that, sunbae-nim,” she muttered, her gaze avoiding yours.

before you could say anything else, she brushed past you, her shoulder bumping into yours as she hurried away.

you tilted your head, watching her rush off in confusion. “weird…” you muttered under your breath. “what’s she hiding on that phone?”

you shook your head, her sudden panic almost… cute, in a way.

later that evening, you were sprawled on Hyein’s couch, half-watching a movie.

or at least, hyein was watching.

your mind had checked out long ago.

every few minutes, your phone would vibrate in your lap, each buzz pulling you further away from the screen and deeper into a pit of anxiety.

then, a new message appeared, and your stomach dropped as you read it:

unknown number [+82 78 3573 1638]

darling my darling

u're going to regret what u've done

i told u not to leave last night

but look at u, out having fun with that kid

watching a movie like nothing’s wrong

you blinked at the screen, then quickly locked your phone, shoving it into your hoodie pocket.

“unnie, anything wrong?” hyein asked, turning her attention away from the movie to look at you.

“yeah, it’s fine,” you lied, glancing away. “just the stalker sending me another love notes, as usual.” you sighed heavily.

you had reported the stalker to the police, but they’d been no help. whoever this was, they were too good at covering their tracks.

changing numbers constantly, sending messages from random places—it was like they were a ghost, slipping through every crack and loophole in the system.

the police couldn’t pin them down, and it left you feeling trapped, helpless.

another vibration.

unknown number [+82 78 3573 1638]

r u u still ignoring me huh?

r u really having that much fun w her?

w that lee hyein?

is she that much better than me?

what r u going to do next?

sleep w her? w a kid? ㅋㅋㅋ

huh is that it?

this one was different.

more direct. more cruel.

the words cut deep, and something inside you snapped.

enough was enough.

you quickly typed back, your fingers flying across the screen:

stop messaging me

she's a hundred times better than u.

u’re just a pathetic loser who doesn’t have the guts to face me in person.

and dont u dare think about her again

you hit block for what felt like the hundredth time.

but even as the message disappeared, you knew it was only a matter of time before another number popped up, and the cycle would start all over again.

no matter how many numbers you blocked, the stalker always seemed to have infinite patience.

more patience than you, that was for sure.

you stared at your phone, frustration bubbling up inside you.

how long could this go on?

how long before they stopped playing games

and did something worse?

and it had gotten worse.

much worse than you could have ever imagined.

you hated yourself for going to hyein’s house that day.

every terrible thing that had happened to her was because of you.

the guilt gnawed at you like a beast with no mercy.

you stared at hyein, lying in the hospital bed, still unconscious.

her ankle was broken, a bandage wrapped around her head.

the doctor said she was lucky to be alive, but you couldn’t shake the words that haunted you:

unknown number [+82 90 5874 3663]

got a surprise for u, my love.

u're going to like it.

go to the gymnastics building.

i love u. so much

that’s where you found her.

hyein, crumpled at the bottom of the staircase, blood pooling beneath her.

someone—your stalker—had pushed her down the stairs.

the sight of her lying there, so still, so vulnerable, was burned into your memory.

and then the next message arrived.

unknown number [+82 90 5874 3663]

told u to stay away from her

but you didn’t listen

she’s lucky she’s not dead.

but the sound of her skull cracking was loud enough to satisfy me ㅋㅋㅋ

anyway i love u, my darling.

remember this is just a little showcase. i can do worse than that

all of this... it was because of you.

you couldn’t forgive yourself.

the guilt was unbearable, consuming you from the inside out.

mrs. lee’s sobs echoed in your ears as she clung to hyein’s brother in the waiting room.

the grief in their eyes was too much.

they loved her like you did, but they didn’t know the truth—their daughter, their sister, was in this hospital because of you.

you bit back your own tears, but they came anyway, spilling down your cheeks.

hyein had always been like a little sister to you, someone you wanted to protect. now she was hurt, possibly broken, because of you.

the thought of her dying because of your choices was like a knife twisting in your chest.

the stalker had done this.

and they could do worse.

much worse.

the only sliver of relief was that hyein was stable, though she hadn’t regained consciousness yet.

but you didn’t know if the stalker would come after her again.

that thought paralyzed you.

“it’s okay…” hanni’s voice broke through the fog of your mind.

she was sitting beside you, pulling you into her arms.

her hug was warm, firm, as she rubbed your back gently. “she’s going to be fine. don’t worry. she’ll be okay.”

her words were soothing, but they didn’t reach the gnawing fear inside you. “i’m here, okay? no one’s going to hurt you again. the police are here. we’re all here for you. you’ve got me. it’s going to be alright,” hanni whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head as you collapsed into her, sobbing into her chest.

“h-han, i’m so scared…” you stuttered, your voice broken. “why is this happening? why can’t they just leave us alone? why can’t they leave me alone? what do they want from me?”

hanni held you tighter, her voice low and serious. “love…,” she murmured.

you blinked and looked up at her, confused. “h-huh?”

she sighed, then met your eyes. “i mean... they’re obsessed with you. they want your attention, maybe more. maybe love. i don’t know... but let’s not think too much about it right now, okay? just focus on being here. on being safe.”

you swallowed hard, nodding as you let out a shaky breath. “o-okay…”

just then, minji’s voice interrupted the quiet moment. “are you guys leaving soon?”

she stood at the door, her eyes flicking between you and hanni.

you tried to pull away from hanni’s embrace, but she held on tighter.

“no—” you started, but hanni cut her off.

“yeah, i think y/n needs rest,” hanni said firmly, smiling softly as her hand continued to rub soothing circles on your back. “she was awake all night, and she’s exhausted.”

you shook your head. “but i need to stay for hye—”

“she has her brother and minji. doctors, nurses, and the police are here to protect her,” hanni interrupted gently. “you were here all night, y/n. you didn’t sleep. you need rest.”

you wanted to argue, but you were so tired.

the exhaustion hit you all at once, like a wave crashing down. you sighed in defeat.

minji nodded. “okay. i’ll keep you updated when she wakes up or if anything happens. and if you need anything, call me. do you want a police officer with you for protection?”

before you could respond, hanni spoke up confidently. “no, i’ll be with y/n. the stalker can’t do anything to her while i’m there.”

minji raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “alright. . . just let me know if you need anything.”

she gave you both a lingering look before walking away.

hanni finally let go of you and stood up. “i’ll grab your backpack. don’t move, okay?”

you nodded as you watched her walk off, the quiet hum of the hospital surrounding you.

nurses bustled about, doctors talked in low voices with patients, and the distant sound of machines beeped steadily in the background.

it all felt surreal, like the world was moving on while you were stuck in this nightmare.

and then your phone buzzed.

your heart stopped as you hesitantly pulled it out of your pocket.

you glanced down at the screen, and your blood ran cold.

unknown number [+82 67 3573 2345]

is typing. . .

dont go to her house

a/n - fell asleep while writing it -_-

my brain, butt, back, neck, fingers hurts 😣

[eunsuri]

The Lighthouse

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan

Summary: Lavellan explores The Lighthouse and reunites with her heart.

Word Count: 6,608

Warnings: ANGST. Lots of emotions. Lots of love. VEILGUARD SPOILERS.

A/N: Hi everyone! Happy 2 weeks until Veilguard! This has taken me way longer to write than I'd hoped, but I MADE IT! This was inspired by a beautiful piece of art by @pani-artz, I couldn't resist! I've kept Lavellan's description vague for those who would like to keep their own Lavellan in mind while reading! Also posted on AO3!

“We’re here.”

A cold breeze swept through the crossroads, cooling Lavellan’s skin as she stepped up the stairs, Harding, and Leliana flanking her from behind. The three stood before the Eluvian, the shimmering surface glowing faintly. The ancient mirror reflected the crumbled pieces of the ruins floating within the crossroads, flickering with ancient magic and ready to draw them into another world.

Anticipation stirred in Lavellan’s stomach, her senses heightened and glaring at her warped reflection. The faint glow of the mirror’s surface cast a strange light across the stone floor through the overgrown foliage around its frame, and the chill in the air seemed to seep into her bones. 

Harding and Leliana exchanged glances behind her, but she hardly noticed, her heart thudding rapidly in her chest like a wild creature trying to escape its cage. Harding had seen this Lighthouse before, She knew what lay behind the Eluvian, all the memories hidden in Solas’ base of operations.

Lavellan knew Solas wouldn’t be waiting for her on the other side. Instead, what awaited was everything he had left behind—his memories, his isolation, the echoes of a life spent in the shadows. The thought of stepping into his world, of facing the remnants of his past and the pieces he had chosen to keep hidden, sent a wave of dread through her. She wasn’t sure she was ready for what she might see—for how deeply his loneliness would be etched into every corner of this place

He had stopped appearing in her dreams, no matter how hard she searched the endless distance where he once stood, always watching over her from afar. Even when she reached out, he’d slip away like a shadow, yet his presence had brought her comfort. Night after night, she would speak to him—tell him how much she missed him, how she longed to change his heart. The wolf never answered, but the sorrow in his eyes cut deeper each time, and her desperation to find him only grew over the years.

Now, her dreams were empty, filled with nothing but the ache of waiting for a love that never came. Sleepless nights blurred together as she wondered if he had forgotten her, or if something terrible had happened to him. When Harding had brought news that Solas was alive but trapped in the Fade, it brought a measure of relief, yet doubt still gnawed at her. Would she find any sign that he remembered her in this place, or had she been lost to him as well?

Harding broke the silence, her voice gentle but laced with tension. “It’s… a lot to take in, but I thought you might want to see it.” She paused, then added, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lavellan’s breath caught in her throat, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over her. Ready? She didn’t think she ever could be. How could anyone prepare to see the deepest, most private parts of someone they loved, but had lost so long ago? 

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She needed to do this, no matter how much it hurt. She needed to understand him in a way she hadn’t before, to see his world, his pain, and his purpose. Where he had been all this time, if he remembered her. Even if he wasn’t there to explain it himself.

Lavellan took a shaky, deep breath and stepped toward the mirror, the surface rippling as she neared. With a final glance back at Harding and Leliana, she stepped through and the two followed.

Emerging on the other side, her breath caught in her chest. The three stepped into a realm bathed in a warm, golden glow, as if suspended in the sky. Floating islands hovered in the distance, each dotted with autumn-hued trees as if kissed by sunlight, gently swaying in an unseen breeze. Ancient elven ruins, crumbled yet graceful, drifted among them, suspended in the air like forgotten dreams.

Before them stood a weathered statue of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, positioned in the heart of the courtyard. It was a figure of a protector—his posture calm, watching over the space with an almost serene presence. Cracks ran through the stone, softened by patches of moss that had claimed him over time, as though nature itself had embraced him. The statue seemed ancient, yet resilient, a symbol of an age long past, guarding the Lighthouse like a silent sentinel.

Beyond the statue, the Lighthouse rose, stretching impossibly high into the sky, its top crowned by a bright magical light encased in a spinning golden roof. The beacon pulsed with an ethereal glow, guiding not only the lost but also wandering spirits seeking refuge. The golden accents that decorated the Lighthouse shimmered in the sunlight, long streams of green fabric dancing in the wind.

Lavellan marvelled at the beauty and serenity of the place as she continued towards the entrance of the Lighthouse, carefully stepping down the broken staircase. The large door opened as the three approached, allowing them to enter the towering building.

Her breath caught in her throat as she glanced at the faded murals stretching along the pathway, their muted colours leading into the centre of the Lighthouse. Each one told a story—Solas’ time in Arlathan, his stories of rebellion, and the ancient history of the elves, including the tale of the Evanuris' downfall.The images on the walls, the stories painted into the stone, all reflected the weight of millennia. 

Murals she had seen variations of before caught her eye, depicting Fen’Harel freeing slaves and removing their Vallaslin, as he had once done for her. Another told the story of the Evanuris’ rise to power and their tyrannical ways, with Fen’Harel’s outstretched arms attempting to show them they were not truly gods.

The Dalish legends she had grown up with had taught her to fear the Dread Wolf, to tread lightly lest the trickster god hear her footsteps. But now, knowing him as she did—not as the villain in their stories, but as the man who had fought to free his people, the man she loved—her heart was torn. The fear remained, lingering like an old scar, but it was now tangled with love, understanding, and sorrow for what he had become.

Lavellan wandered through the Lighthouse, her steps slow as she absorbed the surroundings. Relics of a world long lost lay scattered around, each one steeped in both history and longing. The air felt thick with memories—some sorrowful, others sacred—echoes of a time far beyond reach.

She found herself in a large room that appeared to be underwater, giant framed glass windows as a barrier between the water, with many schools of fish swimming through the depths. A lone green leather sofa was situated in the middle of the room, stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and an array of candles scattered across the floor creating a cosy warmth that drew her in. 

It was then that a soft flicker of candlelight against brilliant colours drew her gaze to a mural, its glow pulling at her like a distant memory. A set of candles was arranged on either side of the mural, almost as though it were a shrine. As she made her way towards the artwork, her heart sank deep into her stomach, a heavy weight settling in her chest.

The painting depicted a woman—one hand raised high, a radiant burst of green light pouring from her palm, the other clutching a sword close to her chest. Below the hilt, the familiar mark of the Inquisition gleamed. It was her.

The weight of this realisation struck her in an instant, chest tightening with disbelief, an ache settling deep as sorrow wrapped itself around her heart. Her likeness, immortalised in these ancient halls, was a reminder of what she once stood for, of the time they shared and the distance between them now. 

Her fingers traced along the lines of the mural, imagining the strokes Solas had made, his hand dragging the brush across the stone with care. Every detail, every line, told her this was more than a mere addition to his collection of stories. This was crafted with love. He had painted her not just to remember her, but to hold onto her presence, as though each stroke was a vow to never let her fade from his memory.

Tears pooled along her eyelashes. She didn’t know whether to feel honoured, heartbroken, or both. Every detail of the mural seemed to call out to her, each brushstroke a whisper of what had been, what was lost. Slowly, Lavellan’s gaze fell to a small wooden box resting beneath the mural, its presence unassuming, as though it had always been waiting for her.

Hands trembling, she reached for the box, dragging her fingertips along the warmed wood, and gently lifted the lid. Inside, nestled among the old wood, lay Solas' jawbone necklace. The one he had always worn. Lavellan paused, inspecting the familiar necklace before  reaching to lift it from the box. The sensation of the cold bone and thick rope looped around it was almost foreign, yet the weight of its meaning was still heavy.

As the jawbone rested in her palm, memories surged through her mind—fragments of what they once had. She recalled how she’d often tug him closer by the necklace, his lips moving against hers, fervent and desperate, as though her touch were the very air he breathed. She remembered idly tracing the rigid texture of the necklace as she lay against his chest, listening to the gentle rise and fall of his breath as he shared quiet stories of the Fade. Each moment felt as tangible as the cool bone now in her grasp.

She could no longer hold it with the same warmth she once had, but the connection to him, to their shared past, lingered still. The weight of the jawbone in her hand felt like a lifeline to the man she had been hunting for all these years. Desperate to keep that feeling close, she gently lifted the necklace over her head, letting the familiar curve of bone rest against her chest. It settled there, and for a brief moment, she felt as though she had him with her again.

Lavellan clutched the bone in her hand while blinking away the lingering tears which threatened to fall at any moment. As she moved forward, every step felt heavier, unable to shake the palpable sense of solitude that hung in the air. This place, with all its beauty, was not just a refuge for spirits. It was a place of mourning—a sanctuary for Solas’ lost hopes, where his memories whispered through every crack in the stone, and his loneliness lingered like a shadow.

Further in, a large dining table sat in the centre of the room. The long wooden surface stretched out before her, grand and ancient, yet only a single place setting lay at its head—a lone plate, a single cup, and neatly arranged cutlery beside them. An ache squeezed in her chest at the sight. This table, large enough for a gathering, bore only the quiet signs of one man’s solitary meals. Solas had sat here alone, day after day, surrounded by memories and ghosts of his old ambitions. 

She couldn’t bear the thought of him there, sitting quietly, the vast emptiness echoing through the room as he contemplated the burden of his mission. He had been so steadfast, so determined, yet the loneliness had seeped into every corner of his existence. How many nights had he sat here in silence, the weight of his choices pressing down on him, thinking that this was the only choice he had.

The simple setting was a stark reminder of everything he had left behind for his mission—companionship, love, the simple joys of shared moments. The pain choked at Lavellan's throat and the tears she had fought streamed down her skin as she took in the sight. She rested a hand on the back of the chair, picturing him there, staring into the distance across the table, as he grappled with the weight of millennia. He had shut everyone out, even those who would have fought beside him, and in doing so, had consigned himself to this eternal isolation.

Lavellan stood still by the table, the weight of her thoughts pushing down on her shoulders like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. Her sadness gave way to a simmering anger that twisted deep in her chest. How could he have left her—left them—like this?  If only Solas had confided in her—trusted her with his truths. If only he had let her share the burden that had twisted his path into something unrecognisable. Things could have been different; they could have faced this together. She could have stood by his side, helped him bear the weight of his cause, find a better way, and maybe, just maybe, spared them both the pain of this isolation.

The thoughts of what could have been pierced through her, sharp and unyielding. How different would their lives have been if he hadn’t pushed her away, if he hadn’t shrouded himself in secrecy and left her to chase shadows for years? Heavy and unrelenting regret settled into her bones. They could have shared this—this fight, this journey. She had loved him enough to stay, to fight for him, but he had locked her out, too consumed by his purpose, too afraid to burden her with the truth. 

Her fingers curled into her palms, hands clenched at her sides, frustration clawing its way up her body as she thought of the pain he had caused—his actions had left Varric wounded, with the false gods free to wreak their havoc upon the world. He had condemned himself to isolation, convinced he was sparing her the pain when, in truth, he had only deepened the wound.

Maybe he had been too proud, too wrapped in his conviction that he had to bear this weight alone. He hadn’t let her love him the way she could have. If only. If only things had been different. If only he had trusted her.

Lavellan’s thoughts were then interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor. She wiped at her eyes hastily, straightening her posture as Leliana appeared at the doorway.

“They’ve returned,” Leliana spoke softly. “Rook and the others are back.”

Lavellan turned, her heart still heavy from the weight of her reflections. Without a word, she nodded, following Leliana out of the room and towards the group that had gathered in the main hall.

There was more to it now—she’d learned that Rook had formed a connection with Solas. A tether, almost, caused by the disrupted ritual. She had to know if there was a way, some hidden thread she could pull to reach him herself, to bridge the distance between them once more. 

A spark of determination tingled through her skin. If Rook had found a way to connect, perhaps she could too.

Later that same evening, with the sharp sting of her discoveries still fresh in her chest, Lavellan found herself standing in the Fade. 

Rook had spoken of how they had become connected to Solas through the ritual gone wrong, their fates intertwined, and Lavellan had seized upon that fragile link. It was all she needed—a thread, however thin, to follow him.

With Varric’s warning in her ears and Solas’ necklace warm against her skin, she stepped forward, stumbling through the dark and desolate landscape of the Fade. The twisted remnants of broken elven statues loomed around her, their cracked surfaces glinting dully in the ethereal light, like forgotten memories trapped in stone. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt magic, a bitter tang that clung to her tongue, tainted by a ritual gone horribly wrong. 

As she moved, the ground crumbled beneath her feet, each step sending a shiver through her body as she navigated the uneven terrain. She could feel Solas’ presence—distant, yet unmistakable—like a flickering flame in the depths of her mind, pulling her forward despite the air of despair that settled around her like a shroud. Echoes of lost voices whispered through the stillness, their lamentations brushing against her ears, urging her to keep searching in this forsaken place.

She had worked so hard to find him over the past ten years, constantly reaching for him in her dreams only for him to slip away like a fading memory. Her relief at hearing he was alive warred with the anger gnawing at her heart. He had stopped appearing in her dreams, and for so long she had feared the worst—afraid he had been consumed by his mission, or worse, by his pride. Yet here he was, trapped in the Fade, perhaps lost in his own way.

The thought of him being trapped, cut off from everything, pulled at her heart. Just as she had found him again, he was suffering. But that grief mixed with a simmering anger. He had hurt Varric, who had only been trying to stop him from making a terrible mistake.

Her steps quickened, the greyed path through the Fade twisting and bending as though it were alive. She remembered Varric’s words—how he had tried to stop Solas, how Solas, in his struggle tugging at the lyrium dagger, had let it go too far. The thought stung, reopening the old wounds that had never fully healed. He had hurt someone they both cared about. Had it been an accident, or had his obsession with his plan blinded him to everything else?

It was then she saw him. Solas stood at the edge of the platform, his presence powerful and untouchable like a distant star. His eyes caught hers with a knowing look, as though he had been expecting her all along. 

His strong stance wavered ever so slightly, a near imperceptible shift. Somehow, he was even more beautiful than she remembered. He was draped in dark leather armour that hugged his frame, his broad shoulders embellished with gold which decorated his chest as well. His face remained sharp and regal, though it now carried a colder edge. The weight of his millennia-old burden clung to him, as heavy as the Fade around them.

The sight of him sent a rush of warmth through her, but it was quickly swallowed by the bitter pang of nostalgia and regret, memories crashing over her like an ice cold wave. Lavellan’s voice faltered, the carefully rehearsed words slipping from her grasp, lost under the crushing gravity of his presence. For countless nights, she had imagined this moment—each conversation, every plea, practised over and over. But now, as he stood before her, all those thoughts scattered like dust, leaving her speechless.

“Solas.”

Her voice trembled with the only thing she could utter, a raw mix of anger and longing breaking free. Lavellan felt the years between them collapse. The sorrow, the love, the pain, and the anger—it all surged forward, overwhelming her in an instant.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Solas’ expression remained guarded, though the tension in his jaw and the weariness in his eyes betrayed him. His lips parted, as though he might speak, but the words died unspoken on his tongue. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken history.

Lavellan’s heart raced as she struggled to steady her breath, emotions crashing over her: love, anger, and grief all vying for control. She wanted to scream at him for the pain he'd caused—to her friends, to her. She wanted to demand answers, to weep for his loneliness, for how lost he had become. But she also longed to run into his arms, to hold him so tightly he could never leave again, to feel the warmth of his lips, to taste the love they once shared.

Across the distance, Solas silently soaked in the sight before him. Amidst the boundless darkness of his prison, his heart stood before him once more. A dull ache crawled from his chest into his throat as he noticed how time had touched her. Soft lines had etched themselves across her skin—subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but him. She looked exhausted, as though the years had been heavy, yet her beauty had not faded. Her eyes still held the same fire, the same brightness that had captivated him. 

His gaze fell to her arm, the gleam of metal catching his eye—her prosthetic. The sight of it twisted his heart into a deep, bitter knot of guilt. She had lost her arm because of choices he had made. Though removing it would save her from an untimely end, her connection to the Anchor would have consumed her had the arm remained. However, that knowledge offered little comfort. 

It was because of him. she had been marked in the first place, that she had been forced to bear that burden, to lose part of herself for a cause that had never truly been hers to fight. He carefully swallowed the pain in his throat in an attempt to mask the surge of sorrow that threatened to break through.

For a heartbeat, the distance between them seemed insurmountable and never ending. Yet the connection they had forged so long ago, deep and unshakable, remained—like a tether drawing them together even now. 

Solas shifted subtly, searching the depths of his mind for words that could bridge the chasm of time and pain between them. No words could repair the damage that had been done, not a single syllable could undo the devastation he had caused.

“Vhenan…” he whispered at last, his voice rough, heavy with all the things left unsaid. It was the only word he could manage, the only truth left to him, spoken as though it held within it all his love and regret. The word hung in the air like a fragile promise.

The harsh and unforgiving hand of grief gripped Lavellan’s heart at the sound of his endearment. It had been so long since she had heard the word leave his lips, and yet it was the same—soft, full of meaning. She placed one foot in front of the other, taking a tentative step forward, her fingers brushing against the jawbone necklace, grounding her in the reality of the moment. The memory of their love flooded her, the fluttering which overwhelmed her belly when he would call her his heart, mingling with the anger that still smouldered in her chest.

“What have you done, Solas?” Her voice cracked through her cutting words, the accusation spilling through her lips before she could bite her tongue. “You stopped coming to me. You were…tearing the Veil apart, and then Varric—” She swallowed hard, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You didn’t stop. You hurt him, and now… the false gods are free and ready to destroy this world.”

Her words were sharp, biting, but beneath the anger was the raw, unspoken truth: she loved him. She always had. And seeing her proud, cunning love like this—trapped in the cage of his own creation—cut deeper than any wound she had ever known.

Solas’ eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his head bowing beneath the shameful weight of her words. When his eyes found her again, there was a subtle flicker in his gaze—something raw and aching, a depth of emotion she couldn’t quite define. Regret, perhaps, or something far more tangled and broken. 

“It was not supposed to happen this way,” he murmured, voice thin and weary, as if even the admission pained him, the words almost too heavy to continue. “I had a plan. The ritual, I was moving them to another prison. But Varric interfered, he disrupted a dangerous ritual. I did not intend for him to get hurt.”

The flame in Lavellan’s eyes blazed with fury, her voice trembling as the words tumbled out without a second thought. "Varric was our friend, Solas. You’ve gone too far. He wasn’t aware of your intentions. He tried to stop you, tried to make you see reason, and you—" She faltered, the pain caught in her throat reducing her voice to a weak whisper. 

Though Varric still lived, his fate was uncertain, the magic from the lyrium-infused dagger weaving through his veins unpredictably. Her dear friend had only wanted to help—and yet, he had paid the painful price for it. 

The hardened resolve in Solas’ eyes wavered, his brow furrowing with the slightest shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he uttered, the words quiet, but laden with everything left unspoken. 

“That’s all you have to offer? After everything that’s happened? After all this time?” Lavellan’s words sliced through the air, her voice was low yet biting. Her fingers curled in, hands tense at her sides as her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. 

She was torn between the depth of her love and the hot flame of her anger. She had missed him so achingly—every day without him was a quiet torment—but now, seeing him like this, the one she’d loved so fiercely, all she could feel was the cold sting of his absence, the ache of betrayal. He had left her, and worse, he had hurt Varric in his reckless pursuit. 

And now, after everything he had done, he stood there with regret etched into his sharp features, yet offering nothing more than a simple apology. She could see the remorse in his eyes, he meant it, but it wasn’t enough—not after everything. She longed to reach out to him, to close the distance between them, but the wound was too fresh, too raw. How could she bridge the gap when all he had to offer were those meagre words?

“Nothing can change what I have already done,” Solas sighed, the sound long and weary, as though carrying the burden of centuries. 

“I know,” she replied, her voice trembling with the heaviness of her admission. “You can’t undo what’s been done… but you can still do better. You can still choose differently.”

Solas studied her, his expression unreadable for a moment, though the gravity of her words seemed to hang between them. "Better choices do not erase what has already been set in motion," he spoke quietly, his tone almost resigned, as though he carried the inevitability of his fate like a burden.

“So what, you'll just let the world fall apart because it's already in motion? You think destroying this world will somehow lead to salvation?” Lavellan began, her voice cold and cutting. Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching as she took a hard step forward. “The elven people you’re trying to save? There’ll be nothing left for them if you don’t help us stop this madness now.” 

Her words hit him like a sudden gust, rattling the walls he had built around himself. For a moment, his defences collapsed under the truth of her words. But then, almost instinctively, he pulled them back up, his expression hardening as his gaze held hers.

”'Did you come only to scold me, Vhenan? Or is there more you wish to say?”

Lavellan’s breath quickened at his response, the fire in her eyes dimming for just a moment as his question hung in the air. The silence between the two stretched, filled with all the things that had never been said, all the pain, all the longing in their time apart. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, struggling to speak past the heaviness of her own heart. 

"There is plenty I wish to say. But in truth, I came because—" She managed to murmur, the words catching in her throat. Her feet moved before her mind could stop them, stepping slowly towards Solas. "Because I was worried about you. Because I wanted to see you." Her voice was raw, as if speaking the truth aloud burned at her tongue. "Because…even after everything I—"

Solas’ head tilted ever so slightly, his expression softening as his furrowed brows relaxed, and for a fleeting second, something in him seemed to break. The unspoken bond between them, ever-present and undeniable, pulled at him once more. He reached out, almost as if drawn by the force of her words, but stopped himself just short.

He wanted nothing more than to hold her close to him and never let her go again. To let every thought spill from his lips and confess his love for her as if it were the first time. The warmth of her presence was only growing closer as she stepped further in his direction, her beautifully intoxicating scent stirring memories of their past together. He craved her fiercely—the softness of her lips, the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips, her lovely voice whispering words of love that echoed in his heart.

But the shrinking space between them felt like a chasm born not only of time, but of all the hurt and chaos he had left in his wake. He didn’t deserve her. Not after his failure. Not after what he had done.  He couldn't bear to drag her into the darkness of his journey, a path that he believed would only lead to death. She deserved so much more than the ruins of his mistakes. 

He imagined the weight of his choices suffocating her, dimming the light that had always drawn him in. Yet as she drew nearer, he could feel the pull of her more acutely, as though the Fade itself conspired to draw them together. The ache of her absence, the torment of his own regret—none of it could dampen the magnetic force that still lingered between them.

"You should hate me," he spoke quietly, his voice barely more than a breath. "After everything I’ve done. All of the pain I have caused."

Lavellan had closed the never-ending distance between them, the air around them thick with an intensity that took her breath away. Her already racing heart quickened, emboldened by a sudden rush, a defiance against the pain that had lingered for far too long. With a trembling hand, she reached for him, her fingertips brushing against his cheek. The connection was electric, sending shivers through her, reigniting a fire that warmed her very core.

In that moment, all his carefully constructed walls began to crumble, melting away beneath her touch. She could see the tension in his shoulders ease, the weight of his regrets momentarily lifting. Their breaths mingled in the space between them, a fragile intimacy that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

It had been years since they last stood face-to-face, their encounters reduced to her lone whispers in her dreams. Each night, she yearned for the warmth of his presence, the comfort of his touch, imagining the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his voice calling her name. The ache of separation had clawed at her heart, and she knew he had felt it too—a longing that transcended the boundaries of their worlds. 

"I tried," she confessed, her voice heavy with emotion, barely above a whisper. "I tried to hate you, but I can’t, Vhenan. I could never."

Solas’ resolve crumbled even further, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes undeniable. “I never wanted you to see what I’ve become. I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he pushed further in a weak attempt to suppress the overpowering love that threatened to consume him. 

“I know you cannot change what you have done,” She began through her breath, gently placing her prosthetic hand against his armoured chest and meeting his eyes directly, as though reaching into the depths of his heart. “But I see you, Solas. I see the burden you carry, I’ve seen what you hide in your Lighthouse. It hasn’t changed the way I feel about you.”

Her touch unravelled him completely, cutting through the barriers he had so meticulously built to keep her at a distance and protect her. For all the power that pulsed within him, he was utterly powerless before her. His breath was hitched in his throat, his senses overwhelmed and intoxicated by her nearness. All words escaped him, and instead, he clutched her prosthetic hand to his chest, his knuckles brushing the delicate skin of her cheek, drinking in the moment as if it were the last.

The space between the two vanished, the long-forgotten warmth of each other’s touch easing the ache of a lifetime apart. Starved of the love they had once shared, the air around them grew heavy with anticipation. The energy between them hummed, drawing them closer with each breath, until their eyes flitted shut, surrendering to the inevitable pull of their connection.

“Vhenan…” Solas found his voice once more, before the thread which held him together finally snapped and his lips found hers.

The kiss, at first tentative, quickly deepened as the years of distance, longing, and unspoken words melted between them. It wasn’t gentle; it was desperate, filled with the ache of years apart, with the pain of betrayal and the hope of forgiveness. Lavellan’s hands instinctively reached for him, fingers curling against the cool, textured surface of his armour as if he might slip away again, as if this moment might vanish like a fleeting dream. His hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her closer still, like a drowning man grasping for air.

Solas trembled against her, the control he had so precisely maintained for years finally unravelling in her embrace. Every heartbeat, every breath shared in their kiss spoke of the time they had lost and the memories they had clung to in the dark. 

He clutched at her waist, tugging her impossibly close, as though she might disappear if he allowed any distance open between them. The taste of her lips—familiar and sweet—sent a rush of emotion surging through his mouth and into his heart, blooming with love. It was a taste he had dreamed of, mixed with grief, regret, and the bittersweet recognition of all the time they could never reclaim.

For Lavellan, kissing him felt like breaking the surface after endless years submerged in sorrow. She had imagined this reunion, longed for it in her loneliest moments, but nothing could have prepared her for the rawness of it now, the intensity of feeling his warmth, his breath, after so long. Her lips moved fervently against his, as if she could anchor them both in the present, as if this kiss could hold them together while the world threatened to crumble around them.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as their spirits reached for one another, desperate to bridge the chasm of all that had been lost. The air around them shimmered with the intensity of their emotions, the soft crackle of magic lingering like static electricity. Tears mingled between their lips, and Lavellan found herself unsure if they were born from her own heartache or Solas’ sorrow. 

When at last they reluctantly parted, it was only enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. The warmth of Solas’ skin contrasted with the coolness of the Fade around them. His fingers brushed her cheek, wiping away a tear, his eyes searching hers with a mix of reverence and sorrow, as if committing her face to memory all over again.

“I have missed you,” Solas admitted through a trembling breath, his voice fraying at the edges, each syllable thick with longing and vulnerability. “Every moment, I have missed you.”

Lavellan’s heart stilled at his confession, the pain she’d carried for so long softening, giving way to a quiet joy she had scarcely dared to feel. It was real—his yearning, his regret. He had missed her, and in hearing those words, a wave of warmth rushed through her, filling the hollow space his absence had left behind, like sunlight breaking through a dark, heavy cloud.

“As have I,” she whispered, her voice a breath, an ache. “I love you, Solas.”

The distance between them vanished once more as she closed the space with her lips. An electric tangle of desperation and love crackled in the air, as if they could pour every stolen moment of the past ten years into this one kiss. She breathed the words against his lips— Ar lath ma. I love you, I love you, over and over, with each fleeting pause for air. One hand gripped his broad shoulder as though holding onto the thread of the life they might still have together, while the other skimmed gingerly across his sharp jaw, the cool metal of her fingertips shooting a shiver down his spine.

As their lips moved together, she tasted the faint remnants of the Fade on him—like the bittersweet tang of twilight and the warmth of embers long extinguished. The air was thick with unspoken promises, Solas’ scent enveloping her, an earthy blend of ancient forests, fragrant herbs, and a whisper of magic that felt both familiar and achingly distant. Her heart raced, a wild drum echoing in her ears, as she felt the world around them fade into insignificance. In that moment, nothing else mattered—just the two of them, entwined in a dance of love and longing, the taste of their shared past lingering sweetly on their tongues.

Solas drew a tight breath, his lips forming the words in return, “Ar lath ma, I love you,” each confession fragile and tender, as if speaking it aloud made the moment more real. His hands cupped her face with reverence, fingers tracing the contours of her skin as if rediscovering her all over again, as though he needed to believe this wasn’t some fading dream. She was truly here with him, loving him still, despite all that had come between them. And with each kiss, each murmured promise of love, he felt the final crumbling of the walls he had built to protect himself from this—this undeniable truth that she saw him, truly, as he was: Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. And still, she chose him—Solas.

Warm, fresh tears streamed down his cheeks—tears of relief, not of sorrow, and for the first time in an age, he felt lighter, the burden of millennia softening in her embrace. 

Lavellan’s fingers traced the familiar lines of his face, feeling the tension in his jaw slowly release. She caught her breath, pressing her forehead gently to his once more, letting the moment wrap around them like a fragile cocoon, holding them together.

They no longer needed words. There was no need for promises, no talk of what came next.

For now, they were simply here—together.

Solas’ hands held her tightly against him, as if memorising every curve of her, grounding himself in her presence, in the warmth of her body pressed to his. He drank in every bit of her, enraptured by the way her eyes sparkled with the tears she had shed. There was no one more beautiful, in body and spirit.

The world beyond them faded into the abyss—no ancient gods, no torn Veil, no crumbling ruins. Just the rhythmic sound of their breaths mingling between them, the quiet beat of their hearts within their chests, steady and sure. For so long, he had dreamed of this, and yet the reality of it was more than he could have ever imagined.

Lavellan clutched him closer, as if to say all the things she couldn’t form with her lips, as if to tell him that here, in this moment, she chose him—not Fen’Harel, not the Dread Wolf. Just Solas.

And as they stayed there, lost in each other, neither knew how long the moment would last—only that, for now, it was enough.

[pomefioredove]

please, PLEASE write a rollo x reader fic where rollo wakes up from a nightmare about his brother and where there to comfort him PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏🙏

let it be known that the only reason I started playing this game was because they added frollo. rollo is like a cryptid in the HoND fandom

summary: nightmares and comfort type of post: fic characters: rollo additional info: romantic, established relationship?, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, not proofread, rollo vaguely implied to have ptsd because I do and am a scholar in trauma nightmares ^-^

There's a certain point at which bad dreams and reality melt together.

Where the line blurs, and you can't be sure where the nightmare ends and you begin. They so often feel one in the same.

Rollo is familiar with bad dreams.

At one point, he thought there would be a solution. Something to hold them back, to release him from their sticky grasp. He journaled, for a while, but all that brought him was grief.

It happens like clockwork.

Four or five nightmares in one rest, for one to two weeks, at the same time every year. He keeps track of them. How could he not?

They culminate on a certain day, one he dreads in and of itself, and then slowly, painfully die off, leaving him wounded and alone.

It's dreadful.

And it's worse that he knows exactly why they happen.

You had once asked him what keeps him up at night, as a sort of conversation starter when you were first getting to know each other. What a strange question to ask someone, and in such a light-hearted tone.

He told you he sees no use for excess sleep when he can be diligent, instead.

Sloth is a vice, he said. Detestable.

You seemed to accept that as an answer, much to his relief. The truth was far too ugly for someone as pure as you to shoulder. He was only protecting your feelings, after all. And perhaps his.

Rollo hoped, for your sake, that you wouldn't notice. He was still getting used to the idea of sleeping beside another person, and the very last thing he wanted was to burden you with all of what he is.

To put it plainly, he didn't want to scare you off.

The first few nights were easy enough. Nasty imagery wrapped up in otherwise normal dreams, those of which could hardly be considered nightmares.

He'd wake up in a cold sweat, and toss and turn until he could manage to fall back asleep, never stirring you.

This time is different.

He wakes, not quite jolting, but certainly thrashing himself back into the present moment like an animal caught in a trap.

His eyes snap open, and there's nothing but darkness, his breathing, and the uneasy feeling of his stomach. It takes a moment for him to adjust to his surroundings.

You're still asleep. Thankfully.

He liked to keep some distance between the two of you, anyway. Rollo had to ease himself into the idea of being physically close with someone without being utterly repulsed.

The only reason he'd entertained the idea in the first place was because it's you, you, pure and good, who would never do anything to discomfort him, you, who even now, sleeps like an angel in his bed.

There's something unclean about that thought, although it's not your doing.

Rollo gets up, careful not to disturb you, and paces around the room while he tries to get ahold of reality. He reminds himself of the date, the time, his full name, anything that will shake the lingering terror coursing through is body.

He does not cry. He hasn't since...

Well. Never mind, that.

Now is not the time to make a fuss. He's not a child, he's not fragile, he can handle his own nightmares without needing someone to tuck him back in.

The dream was so terrifyingly, disgustingly real, though.

The nightmares which aren't nightmares are the worst sorts of dreams, because he instantly feels silly for scaring himself over something so mundane, even if that looming sense of dread and fear still makes him feel ill.

This one was but a normal conversation, with...

...He didn't want to remember it.

The point was more so that it felt so utterly real that waking up like this, having it fall apart around him like the rotting pages of an old book, was like having his head dunked in freezing cold water repeatedly.

Not a pleasant feeling.

He paces, back and forth, in front of the now-dead fireplace, trying to regain his bearings.

He's quiet; he so often is; and yet, still, roused either by the sound of his footsteps or the heavy, uncomfortable feeling in the air, you wake.

The sound of your voice nearly scares him.

Rollo turns to you, eyes wide as you sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. "What?"

"I asked if you're okay," you repeat, turning to the space beside you to check the time. "It's two in the morning."

His answer is immediate, as calm as he can muster, although there's a faint crack in his voice on the last word. "I'm well. I was just thinking,"

"Thinking? Now?"

He nods, and turns back to the mantle. His arms are crossed over his chest, acting as a sort of armor, protecting him.

You tilt your head to the side. "Did you have a bad dream?"

He hates how perceptive you can be, sometimes. It takes him a moment to think of a suitable answer- is it worth telling you the truth?

"I have bad dreams all the time," you say. "Like... all the time. Weird ones, too. It's nothing to be embarrassed a-"

"I am not embarrassed," he snaps, whirling around on his heels to face you. His tone softens when he sees the perplexed expression on your face. "I was just trying to tire myself before returning to bed. I didn't want to disturb you."

You shake your head. "I wouldn't have minded if you did. I understand... do you want to talk about it?"

He's silent, looking away again, which is enough of an answer to you.

"Then will you at least come back to bed?"

Rollo supposes he should. He doesn't want to risk worrying you any further. That would only stir up more questions.

He settles himself in bed, lying flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, more cadaver than human. You always found that position so amusing, for whatever reason, and even now you can't contain a laugh.

"Are you cold? You're shaking,"

Damn it. He is. He hadn't even noticed... and though his tremors aren't from the temperature, he agrees with you anyway.

"Yes. It's rather cold tonight,"

You hum a small note of contemplation and inch closer to him. "May I?"

Rollo's face immediately turns red, although he can't help but indulge himself... just this once. For your sake, anyway.

He nods.

You come closer, resting your head on his shoulder and putting an arm around his waist in the most comfortable position you can manage while he's lying like this.

Your body is warm, soft, comforting... all things that would normally repulse him, but it's you...

He pats the back of your hand with one of his in a reassuring, though awkward gesture. As much as he expected to feel his heart pounding even harder at your closeness, there's something quite... safe about the embrace. He can't deny it.

"Good night," you murmur, already half-asleep.

He closes his eyes, allowing his body to relax... just the tiniest bit.

"Good night,"

[dovithedarklord]

Stucked

You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.

..............................................

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader

Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader

Trigger Warning: Contains violence, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

......................................................

Author's Note

This idea came to me while I was running and I had to write it down.

Just a short story that will have a sequel, I guess.

The story is inspired by this manhwa: https://cloudrecess.io/manga/dreadful-night

If you can, read it, it's great!

........................................................

You stare out of the car window with glassy eyes, and although it's not the first time that the lush green of the forest bathed in the light of the setting sun slips by on the horizon, it still manages to put the tension back into your stomach every single time. The peace out there could lull anyone into a false sense of security. But not you. It can't fool you anymore.

The same female voice comes from the radio, and you already know every single word of that damned song by heart. But even if you would show your displeasure, even if your companion sitting in the passenger seat would look for another radio station, the next time still the same godforsaken music would be playing. This is the background noise every time you return to the starting point, and it has almost become a habit that this melodic introduction starts your suffering all over again.

At first, as you woke up from your slumber in the back seat, the unfamiliar surroundings made you feel as though the vague world of your dreams had bled into reality, and now you found yourself in some bizarre fairy tale. But this is the twenty-second time that you come to your senses in the vehicle moving down the bumpy forest road, and you slowly start to get used to the stomach-turning cheerfulness repeated in a loop, which welcomes you every single time. And it was enough for you to feel the metallic taste of the blood filling your mouth once, and find yourself here again after feeling the icy pain of the knife slitting your throat, to understand that you are not in reality. Although the rough material for your jeans under your fingers, the floral scent of the perfume in the car, and the bitter taste of stomach acid creeping into your mouth seem perfectly real, just like the agony of your latest death, but you've learned that it's all just an appearance. An illusion. In which you have been imprisoned for weeks, and for exactly that long you are forced to die again and again, because you won't escape until you finally find the way out at the end of the mysteries that keep multiplying.

You don't know how you got here, but that doesn't matter anymore. The important thing is that you’re stuck in a game, and you have to find out how to get out of it before this madness consumes the last shred of your sanity.

A loud laughter comes from the front, the blonde girl sitting behind the wheel recounts with a grin, how her ex-boyfriend tried to perform an erotic dance to this song, and how it ended in a late-night visit to the ER. Pam is that typical obligatory extroverted character, whose only role in such games is to be brutally murdered when she's about to get naughty with someone. She's a nice but stupid girl, and it's not her fault that whoever created her intended her to have this tragic end.

Rebecca, your other companion, who only laughs at Pam's story while sitting in the passenger seat, shily hides the blush rising on her face with her hand. And although she's a charming girl, you've seen her bloody corpse too many times for you to remember her blank, worldless eyes and her pale mouth frozen in an eternal scream instead of her radiant smile. She is the first to die. Always. And you might have felt sorry for her in the beginning, but you no longer have the strength to have compassion for someone who only exists in this nightmarish world.

As soon as the outline of the homey cabin appears at the end of the road, the foreboding appears in you like a familiar friend, which slowly closes your insides in an iron grip, as if the pull of the stress that awakens in your veins would help anything. After all, it always ends the same. You search for a clue, you die and you end up here. And the only thing that keeps you from going crazy is the faint hope that the more secrets you uncover in this goddamn purgatory, the closer you get to the exit. Maybe.

The car slows to a stop in front of the location of your late autumn vacation, and the two girls jump out of the car with excited laughter, arguing over who will occupy which guest room in the huge house. The same dialogue, the same room layout, the same ear-splitting giggles from Pam's mouth that remind you of her screams cutting through the silence of the night, as she gets gutted like a trapped deer. You've seen her mangled body too many times for her laughter to revive the images of the delicate, wet glistening of her intestines, as the pale light of the moon surrounds her lifeless form on the cold wooden floor.

With a weary sigh, you grab your backpack resting next to you, mentally preparing in advance to once again suffer through the excruciating play that, like a prologue, leads up to the horrors that await you in the night. You list the thousand steps you have to take to find out where you are in the game, to discover if your previous death was in vain. Did you get a new puzzle that brings you closer to the finish line? Has another path been revealed for you to continue on, one that might finally take you back to the real world? Your chest hurts when you realize that you don't even remember what it was like to not live in this hell. With each passing night, the memory of reality floats further away, and the ghost of tears burns your eyes when you realize that even your real name sounds like a false fabrication in your brain. As if you never existed outside the confines of this dreadful place.

The door of the cabin opens with a loud creak, and this disturbs you from your thoughts that are spiraling into ever darker depths. And as a man appears on the doorstep, you almost taste the bitterness of anger on your tongue, because although anyone would be fooled by the wide grin on his face, anyone would be enchanted by those vivid blue eyes, and anyone would be swept off their feet by the playful friendliness he embraces your two traveling companions in his strong arms with as a greeting, but you already know him all too well. After all, Johnny has killed you at least eleven times, with the same sickly sweet smile on his curved lips, with which he now turns to you again.

"Bunny!" He beams, and you have to use all your strength to suppress the stomach acid rising in your throat from the nausea that fills you from the fake kindness emanating from him. "It's good to see ye again!" He pulls you into a tight hug, as you shamble to the small terrace, and as he presses you to his broad chest, his scent, which you would recognize from everywhere, creeps into your nose. The aroma of his cologne, the saltiness of his skin, and that smell that you couldn't quite place before. The smell of blood clings to him like a faint, barely perceptible phantom that only you can sense. You've witnessed it too many times.

"You too, Johnny."  You reply, each word burning your tongue like poison, but that's the script. You have to get into this act because there's no point in resisting. The story progresses the same whether you oppose it or not. The weirder you act in their eyes, the more the game will punish you later. And so you lose the chance of finding that tiny crumb that might help you get closer to your escape.

And from this point on, time crawls on leaden legs, and you sit through the impromptu dinner with gritted teeth, which was made by the man for you, while he was waiting for you to arrive at his modest little shack. He invited you here to celebrate your birthday. Your birthday according to the game, that is. You remember your own more and more faintly, and this makes you fall into despair enough to drag yourself through the events with a forced smile, like a puppet being pulled on a string by an unknown hand.

Sometimes you have the stray thought that you might be stuck here forever, and that you are forced to fight again and again in an endless circle, without end, without hope. And this suddenly makes the food taste like ash, which you force into your mouth with automatic movements.

"Is somethin' wrong, hen?" Comes the worried question, and blinking in confusion, you look up from your plate to Johnny, who is eyeing you with his dark brows furrowed in worry, as if your behavior would really disturb him. And you just shake your head with practiced happiness, putting a faint smile on your lips that doesn't reach your eyes.

"No. Not at all. My stomach is just a little upset. But it'll pass." You explain, quickly gathering your faux, artificial cheerfulness, because you can't deviate from the story now. Tonight you might have a chance to discover where the last clue leads to, and you shouldn't attract any unnecessary attention if you want to continue your search later. Let everything go in its own way until the shit inevitably hits the fan. But you still have work to do before that. It's only a few hours. You just have to bear it for that long.

This seems to calm him, for in an instant the lines of doubt disappear from his features, to be replaced by that disgusting kindness. And you are already familiar with the barely visible glimmer in those beautiful eyes, which makes you feel like a startled little rabbit being cornered by a fox. Johnny is a threat wrapped in honeyed words and friendly smiles, which was able to lower your guard one too many times. And you paid the price of your carelessness every single time.

And when the whiskey bottle, which was brought out in your honor halfway through the dinner, is finally empty, and the cake, which the man so generously bought for you before he came here, has been eaten, then the essential part of the evening arrives. Rebecca's phone rings, and she hastily apologizes so that she can go out into the cool night and immerse herself in the argumentative conversation she is having with her boyfriend. And you almost start to feel sorry for her, that death finds while she tries to get her love life straight. She doesn't even notice how deep the forest swallows her in the middle of the fight, and she is easy prey in the desolate wildness of trees and bushes. After the first three times, you no longer go after her or try to save her. You can't protect either of them. They are all animals for slaughter in the eyes of the game.

Johnny also retires for the night, claiming that the alcohol has gone to his head, and wishing you a "good night" he goes upstairs to sleep. For a while, you believed that he was indeed sleeping every time, and you honestly fell for the innocent performance he gave you, when the corpse of one of your friends was found. You seriously wanted to believe that he wasn't a threat to you. But then he broke your neck as easily as a twig. You will never be naive enough to trust him again.

"What a pity that you can't fuck your friends." Pam sighs longingly, and she almost undresses the man walking up the stairs with her eyes, biting her lip as her gaze glides over his broad back hidden trapped in the tight shirt. There is no denying that Johnny is an attractive man. It's a shame he's so handsome and even knows it. But the most evil creatures tend to be the most beautiful. You have learned this well.

Finally, you are alone after Pam has also left to take a shower, and you can begin what every nerve fiber of yours has been screaming for for hours. You jump up with nimble movements and hurriedly head in the direction of the kitchen, dropping the feigned serenity from your face. Last time, you found a dirty, yellowed picture in the woodshed, which took a while to decipher, but then you realized where to look.  As you enter the small room, you pull out the photo to hold it up in front of you, comparing it to the room bathed in the warm light coming from the living room. Although Johnny renovated this house, you can still easily find the wall where a refrigerator now rests, but based on the bright red circle in the photo, you have to look for the next clue somewhere there. You slip the picture back into your pocket and try to search for something suspicious with the flashlight of your phone, so you can better see what you're dealing with, there's no other use for this damn device anyway. You can't turn on the lights because that would immediately alert the other killer lurking outside. You learn a new lesson every time you fuck up, but you get smarter with each attempt. You'll be out of here soon. You have to get out of here.

As you peer under the fridge on all fours, squinting, a board creaks under your palm, pressing down a bit under your weight as you lean on your hands. You know that this is a sign, and as you kneel up to look for something to pry open the wood with, your eyes settle on a knife left on the kitchen counter. The whipped cream is still smudged against the cool metal, and suddenly the unwanted image enters your mind as the same blade slowly sinks into your chest, breaking through the protection of your ribs to then penetrate your lungs, pouring warm blood into your throat. You swallow hard, forcing the memory of the metallic taste out of your mouth, and steeling yourself, you wrap your fingers around the knife so you can get back to work, because you can't dwell on this right now. There's no point.

You stick the knife under the board and carefully pry it open, making sure to stay as quiet as possible because you don't know what will trigger the next death flag. Even though you are now aware of the signs and actions that lead the attacker to find you, this miserable game still has many surprises in store. With a soft squeak, the wood pops open, and as a small dark hole is revealed underneath, you take your phone in your hand and cast light on it, and like a wild animal pouncing on its prey, you reach for the small object shining in a golden light. Your fingers find the relic resting there, and you examine the key in puzzlement, as you pull it out of its hiding place. What does this open? Too small to be for a door. Maybe a lock?

The realization hits your brain like a bolt of lightning, and you spring up and turn back towards the living room. The hope that you might find something valuable rises in you, so you hurry through the room still shrouded in intimate silence, to sneak upstairs with silent steps when you reach the stairs. You know, if Pam shows up to the noise, she'll be on your trail the whole time, and that way you'll only attract trouble sooner. It might be selfish, but it's easier to let her die alone than to be hunted down together. You need time, and the more you waste on supporting characters, the less you have left to progress. But even because of this, your sense of guilt is starting to fade.

As soon as you reach the upper floor, you see the door at the end of the long corridor, on which even at such a distance you can faintly see the padlock that keeps it closed. Until now, this fact wasn't important to you, because it immediately became clear that you can only get in if you have the key. You can't hack it with anything else, you can't tear it down, this damn diabolical place will only let you in if you find the right clue to it.

You stalk like a cat in the darkness of the corridor, and the sound of your footsteps is absorbed by the soft carpet running along the floor. You consider your every move, because a new way out is possibly within your reach, and you fear that the chance to find the next important hint may disappear at any moment. Your own soft breathing sounds deafening to your ears, and each heartbeat feels as if your heart would want to burst out of your chest. Every inch of your body fills with anticipatory tension as you creep closer and closer…

And then you hear the voices.

At first, the muffled sighs seem like nothing more than the soft snores of one of your sleeping companions, but then you hear a moan, and you are overcome with confusion. The closer you get to the door opening from the middle of the corridor, the louder the panting and the gentle rustling of the bedsheets become, and you try to recall who could be hiding there according to the script. But nothing comes into your mind, because that room has been empty until now, without role or importance.

And as soon as you get close enough, you understand what is going on behind the door left ajar. The only source of light in the darkness of the room is the moon peeking through the window, but you can perfectly make out the movements of the tightly entangled figures. Johnny looks almost otherworldly as the pale light paints the dance of the corded muscles on his back as his mouth smooths over Pam's throat, eliciting a lustful moan from her. One of his strong hands slides along her breasts, and soon after his lips stray there, he almost viciously bites her nipple, to receive a pained gasp in response. His palm rests on her hips, and as he digs his fingers into the soft flesh, his hips only meet hers with vigorous movements, filling the heavy air with almost obscene, wet sounds. And as he kneels up, his fingers glide along her thigh almost teasingly, so that, hooking his hand in the bend of her knee, he directs her leg to his shoulder, locking it in a vise-like embrace that makes his biceps bulge. He brushes his lips against her calf, and you see his teeth flash for just a moment before he sinks them into the delicate skin, drawing a lewd whimper from her mouth opening in surprise. His movements are restless, each thrust seems violent and desperate, and she just grabs at the sheet and starts pleading, encouraging him in tears to sink his cock into her pussy just a little bit harder. And with each passing moment, Johnny looks more like a beast lost in his pleasure, as low grunts and moans erupt from his throat as he pushes himself closer and closer to the edge. And your feet are almost rooted to the ground, and you're unable to tear your eyes away from them, as you lose control over your body from shock and disbelief. Even though you know you shouldn't be here, you shouldn't be watching them, suddenly too much information rushes through your senses into your brain to process what is happening.

But as Pam's back arches with a loud cry, and Johnny's hips stutter with a growl-like sound, the surreal image ends, because the man turns his head towards you as if he knew you were standing in front of the door, frozen in astonishment. Your stunned gaze meets his eyes, dilated pupils swimming in lust, and you feel like a deer stuck in the headlights, waiting to be hit by a car speeding towards it. His mouth stretches into a lazy, satisfied grin as he slides out of the panting girl and slowly begins to rub his cock, as if to tell you that it could be you if you would just give in to the temptation.

And that clears your mind in the blink of an eye, and you back away hastily, almost running to the door resting at the end of the corridor, before you would have time to further analyze the features of the man's face filled with post-orgasm bliss. What the hell is this new scene? This has never happened before…

You reach for the lock hanging on the door with trembling hands, but your fingers are still clumsy from the adrenaline pumping through your veins, and they only find the keyhole after many tries. And in the middle of your fumbling, you don't even notice how a dark shadow appears behind you, and you only realize that you're late and have failed, when a gloved hand grips the back of your neck and smashes your head into the hard wood of the door with an almost painful strength. The force of the impact resonates through your skull, and you clench your teeth with a yelp as the sharp pain rips through your head.

Black spots swim into your field of vision, and you have trouble when you try to focus your eyes to decipher who attacked you this time. And as soon as you catch a glimpse of the skull-like mask out of the corner of your eye, you realize that this time you only managed to get this far. When the knife glints in the killer's hand as he strikes you, you only bitterly realize through the blood filling in your mouth that the game is trying to divert you from the escape with more and more vile methods. Because you're convinced that Johnny's action was just another death flag that ended your search prematurely. And you surrender yourself to the darkness with the knowledge that you cannot let this happen again...

~

When you come to, you're sitting in the back seat again, and the melody of familiar music reaches your ears only as a low hum, because you know you're back at the beginning of the game. But what worries you much more is that you walked into a scene the previous night, which not only completely deviates from the usual pattern of all the events until now, but also represents a downright disturbing new development. So far, the script hasn't gotten sidetracked from the main story in the case of the supporting characters, and Pam should have been waiting in the shower for the killer to appear when you sneaked up to find the door with the lock. The fact that this story has changed so drastically helps the icy fingers of dread wrap around your stomach. Because you have no idea what kind of difficulties this will cause you.

The usual conversation takes place between the two girls, and when you arrive at the wretched cabin, they leap out of the car with the same enthusiasm, as if they weren't heading towards another painful death. But it doesn't matter to them anyway, because surrounded by carefree ignorance, they don't even know what awaits them.

When the door opens and Johnny's well-known figure appears, his face filled with desire flashes before your eyes almost on a cue, and you forcefully push the memory out of your head. This little interlude distracted you just enough to know you shouldn't fall for the game's nasty tricks again. Because you are more and more certain that it actively wants to hold you back and trap you here forever. The heated spectacle of the previous evening can only be due to this…

"Bunny!" The man greets you with the same bursting, false joy that he always shows you, but now you have to forcefully drive away the moans echoing in your ears, which surface in your head when you hear his deep voice. "It's good to see ye again!"  He says enthusiastically, and as his strong arms wrap around you, every single muscle of yours tenses, as the stress wakes up in you as a result of the fear that grips your insides. But it's even more worrying, as new fragments of memories flood the canvas of your mind, because the experience of seeing those hands glide over the body of your companion is too fresh to quickly overcome your embarrassment.

But you don't have time to think about how to get over these tangled emotions and continue the play, because suddenly you feel the man's hot breath on your ear, and in an instant, every part of you freezes like a frightened animal when the predator digs its claws into it.

"I hope ye liked what you saw, bonnie." The man grunts softly, and for a moment you think you misheard it. But as one of his hands creeps down to rest on your waist, and he presses you closer to him, the air gets trapped in your lungs with an almost painful force. "Because ye'll be next..." He whispers, and in his voice lies such a dark promise that it makes your blood run cold.

And as if nothing had happened, the moment ends suddenly, and as he steps away from you, he only looks down at you with his usual nauseating smile. But you see the dangerous predatory sparks in his eyes, and his gaze makes the little hairs rise up on your neck. And you soon realize that something is very wrong with the game. Fuck.

[ozzgin]

I also had a Yandere Eyeless Jack meets Y/N as an entity/spirit is very similar to Sadako the ring girl. However, more playful and dangerous. Y/N is different from Sadako or Samara. Y/N wants to play a dreadful games with EJ.

So I did start writing this with Sadako in mind, although I ended up with a more generic kind of reader whose background isn’t very clear. I found the lack of details to be more interesting, since it’s up to you to decide what kind of devilish entity this reader is. It’s also heavily focused on their encounter rather than overall headcanons.

Yandere! Eyeless Jack x Haunting! Reader

Featuring Eyeless Jack and a ghoulish reader that just found a new favorite target. Warning: mentions of violence and death

[Horror Masterlist]

Well, this is awkward. The hooded creature stands before the bed, scalpel in hand, unsure how to proceed. After a moment of consideration he nonchalantly stuffs the blade back into his pocket, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Judging by the stagnant blood that has pooled into the lower half of the body, he’d say the man has been dead for several days. A waste of his evening. Who could’ve gotten here before him? Burglars? He quickly scans the surroundings for clues, but nothing seems amiss.

Just as he ponders on the possible scenarios, a faint knock can be heard from the window. He crawls over and abruptly pulls the curtains, hoping to surprise whoever is on the other side. Pitch black. Now that he thinks about it, isn’t this an attic bedroom? Who could even casually jump over three floors? Besides him, obviously. Jack opens the window and peeks down, but no ladder can be discerned through the murk.

“Wrong guess.” He snaps back and hovers a hand over his pocket, ready to draw his weapon. He can’t quite place the whisper he just heard. A jagged, interrupted voice, like a broken record, echoing in the distance and yet as clear as if it blew right upon his ears. He stares into the darkness before sneaking out of the room. Detective work wasn’t on his list tonight, but alas, he might as well find his new source of fresh organs. Whoever is playing these games better enjoy it while it lasts.

You can sense his frustration and smile to yourself. The previous one was so quick to go. You hoped you could drag it on for longer, but humans have frail hearts. You glance at the decaying carcass and muse over the sunken face with its features distorted in terror. Was it too much? No matter, this one is different. He seems more of a creature than a mortal. Will it make a difference? Oh, you can’t wait to test it yourself. As you stalk his figure in the hallway, you stretch out your fingers and sink your claws into the wallpaper.

Without looking back, Jack plunges his scalpel in the same spot. Your hand remains in place, merely visible fog surrounding the shining piece of metal. For the first time, the creature can see you. You gaze into his endless, cloudy sockets and nod, attempting a greeting gesture. You then switch your focus to your hand and he follows. “That’s…not very useful, is it?” You state plainly. An invisible frown darkens his expression and he pulls out the blade. Statistically speaking, encountering a ghost was the least likely situation. His reaction was by all definitions rational and he does not appreciate your mockery.

Yet tangled up in his anger lies something else. Throbbing, twisting and turning, the vague beginnings of intrigue gnaw at his chest in anticipation. He’s found a rival, or maybe a playmate. Curiosity binds him in place. If it’s amusement you want, he might just provide you with it. Although he won’t make it easy for you. And if he wins, he expects a prize in return. You’ve caught his interest and he will not be leaving empty handed. Can you tell?

A shiver runs down your spine. The smile occupying your face has now widened into a full, harrowing grin. “It’s a deal”, you murmur. The hunter and the hunted. Except no one can tell who plays the roles.

[theninth09]

people dont actually believe that theo killed his sister, do they?

like okay. the entire pack and probably theo himself think that hes responsible for her death, but the pack hates him and doesnt trust him for valid reasons and theo is traumatized and holds guilt over her death so hes probably convinced himself that he did kill her. i just dont believe thats true.

in s5b when hes with stiles in the tunnels (i forgot why they're down there but whatever) and stiles tells him "oh yeah, the guy that killed his own sister when he was nine?" and theo argues back "yeah. i was nine. i had no idea what was going on." and that he also still believed santa exists so obviously he believed the dread doctors when they told him she wanted him to have his heart.

first of all: this is s5b. hes long dropped his act and he has no reason to lie in this moment. he knows that stiles wont fall for his lies and hes stopped lying and transitioned into threatening and intimidating anyway. theres no good reason for theo to lie to stiles here: theres no actual benefit that would come from that.

and his behavior points towards him telling the truth. instead of deflecting or making a joke, or any of the stuff he usually does to get his way, he starts explaining and defending himself. he seems almost agitated that stiles claims that he did kill tara and argues why he didnt.

and ofc stiles doesnt believe him and tells him "i think you pushed her. i think you liked it." which is, sorry, utter bullshit. i understand why stiles says this (yk. theo killed his bffie and all that) but i think stiles is purposely turning everything that he knows about theo into something evil. he doesnt want to believe that theo was a victim of his circumstances, because that would make him human, that would explain why he became the person that he is. its easier to fall back onto the "hes just purely evil" argument, because then he can hate theo for what he did.

stiles is smart. thats his whole thing. thats his whole thing with theo, that he was "smart enough not to trust him" as theo says to the sheriff in s6a. stiles knows that theo was a child, that its likely that theo got manipulated and groomed by the dread doctors. but, i think, he decides not to care about that, to ignore that. he hates theo and he wants to hate theo, but if he starts looking at the reasons for why he did what he did, he'll begin to understand him. and while he'll still never forgive theo, that will reduce this fury he has for him because, newsflash, theo was a CHILD.

people argue that tw doesnt show us enough of his back story to back this up and yeah, i kinda agree. we dont get enough of his story because teen wolf ALWAYS does this. with every character. they insinuate something, they start something interesting that could give their characters depth and then they abandon it and its like the characters just forget about it. all this show has is small details for fans to focus on if you want to analyze anything, because this show is objectively not good enough to actually do that.

+ theo is a side character. he wasnt even meant to stay as long as he did and cody did his best to work with the material. if your argument is that theres missing context and only vaguely shown stuff, im sorry but thats so stupid. thats not a good argument for in canon. "oh but we never see theo do this or that" HES A SIDE CHARACTER. he wasnt even supposed to come back! and tw is not a very good show! obviously they added more depth to his character in s6 because cody came back. like yeah theres stuff that doesnt make sense (like the show saying he didnt have a heart condition), because his back story got added as an afterthought in s6. you cant only look at s5 and judge his character based on that. his depth comes from s6 and its not the characters fault that the show has bad writing.

and if you simply dont like theo, cool. i dont like a bunch of characters in tw. but i find this argument that hes actually evil and deserved getting tortured and whatever exhausting and annoying.

if you dont have empathy for his character in s6 bc you just hate him, fine. i dont care. but if you're talking about this in a more analytical way? fuck off. he was a child, the show points towards him getting groomed and abused by the dread doctors and guess what? even during his villain arc, hes still a child. yes he should take responsibility for what he did, im not excusing any of that stuff. but theres reasons for why he did all that.

and again, dumb tv logic reasons, but most of the villains getting away unscathed, fucking peter hale and deucalion being allowed to just kinda wander around while theo is in an eternal time loop of torture? like this technically erases the packs rule of not killing because i dont think its weird for me to argue that getting non-stop tortured without the ability to die is objectively worse than actually dying. and yeah, tv logic, but if you think that (in canon, not just bc you personally dont like theo) he deserved that, idk. weird. very weird.

[otomehonyaku]

otomehonyaku writes ☽ it's possession that will set me free (Ruki/Yui)

Ruki/Yui scenario with some yandere tendencies, bite play & semi-spicy aftercare. Full text under the cut. Implied NSFW.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Please do not reuse or repost my writing elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I blindly patted the bed sheets around me when I came to. My eyes squeezed shut to block out the light—it must still be very early in the morning if the sun blinded me like this—but I could feel that I was alone this time. 

Flashes of last night flooded my mind. Ruki had never been this rough with me before.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Yesterday, Ayato had confidently positioned himself as a competitor when he pulled me aside after class to ‘introduce’ himself. It was fortunate that Ruki had been close by and sensed the danger immediately–the realisation that other, less cordial vampires were coming for me had kicked my adrenaline into full gear, after all–but my relief soon turned into dread when Ruki took me home.

The situation had clearly struck a nerve and ignited a fierce possessiveness in him that I had never seen before. Ruki had dragged me into his bedroom and unceremoniously ripped the uniform from my body until I was left in my underwear. I had simply stood there with my back pressed up against the door, holding my breath, my mind hazy in a flurry of both fear and anticipation. Ruki had towered over me, eyes ablaze with frustration and hunger as he growled at me to hold still. 

I had tried to reassure Ruki that I wanted nothing to do with Ayato. That he hadn’t hurt me, and that I would never let him hurt me, either. I grasped the collar of Ruki’s shirt in an effort to get through to him, but I was imprisoned in his arms. I don’t think he even heard me. 

His body was suddenly flush with mine, his face buried in the crook of my neck. His lips ghosted over the delicate skin of my collarbone. He inhaled deeply. Savoured my scent. A final attempt to ground himself. 

“You are my Eve. Mine alone.” His whisper had been quick and frenzied, his composure gone. “I’ll carve it deep into your body so you will never forget.”

No matter how hard I bit down on my lip, I couldn’t keep myself from screaming Ruki’s name every time his fangs penetrated me, piercing veins and scraping bone. The others undoubtedly heard me. Lavender bruises in the shape of his fingertips had come to flower all over my body since then–my wrists, my waist, even my thighs–where Ruki had held me down firmly while he overrode any possible traces of the other vampire.

It always took considerable effort to keep myself together when I let him feed on me. I had come to manage it over the past weeks. Indulge in it, even. That night, however, his frantic bites and touches had made my composure crumble in the blink of an eye. Every whisper of my name left me reeling. My cheeks were soon wet with tears. The bizarre concoction of agony and ecstasy overwhelmed me. Intoxicated me.

Ruki was devouring me whole, and I let myself succumb to his greediness completely.

“Yui. Look at me.” 

Ruki’s breathing was ragged. He grabbed my chin roughly and forced me to meet his gaze when my eyes threatened to roll into the back of my head. His other hand erratically roamed my skin, as if I could disappear at any moment. My whimpers spurred him on even more.

It was getting difficult to focus, but I managed a pleading look at him. “Ruki…”

The taste of iron flooded my mouth when his lips collided with mine.

Ruki’s desperate desire to monopolise me hadn’t worn off until my head began lolling off the side of the bed. I drifted in and out of consciousness. From that point, I only vaguely remembered him carrying me down the hall and into the bathroom. 

At least I hadn’t been completely naked. Ruki had draped his bloodied shirt over my shoulders as a courtesy, but it did very little to keep the chill of his bare skin away as I lay defeated in his arms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In a wave of sleep-induced, blind panic, I instinctively reached for my bra with one hand and the other down under the bedsheets to my panties. They both felt slightly damp to the touch. I relaxed a little. Right. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The remaining blood in my body had crowded in my cheeks when Ruki coaxed me under a hot shower to clean up, all with a surprising amount of patience and care. 

He had agreed to leave my underwear on. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his own slacks, for that matter. My memory was spotty, but I was sure Ruki would make me remember every millisecond of it if he had. It was already torture enough to have to clutch onto his bare upper body to keep myself from falling over.

Losing consciousness had turned out to be the least of my problems. I winced at the pain of the warm water flowing over the fresh wounds on my skin, but arguably much worse was having to endure the full extent of the healing properties of Ruki’s saliva. I appreciated the gesture, of course. The punctures, especially this deep, would take weeks to heal otherwise. However, whereas Ruki’s feeding mostly incapacitated me–it made it hard to form a coherent thought at all, really–it was unbearable to be wholly conscious of his mouth in such intimate places.

Ruki expertly ran his tongue over the wet skin of my neck to close up the punctures, occasionally sucking without drawing blood just for the sake of it. By the time he had knelt between my legs to heal the one bite mark on my inner thigh, I was completely out of my mind. The steam clouding the shower cabin seemed to be coming out of my ears. My hands were braced on his broad shoulders, and I nervously looked down at him. 

Streaks of his dripping inky black hair fell in front of his eyes as our gazes met. I shivered involuntarily when the light caught the tips of his sharp teeth, making them stand out. Those teeth had been in me. Ruki held my gaze, his face slowly leaning in to nudge my thighs apart…

For a fraction of a second, I recalled him forcefully parting my legs as I lay bleeding and writhing underneath him on the bed. He’d taken a brief moment to savour the sight of me, his expression dark with desire, before making me cry out when he greedily drew blood from the innermost part of my thigh.

Embarrassment had gotten the better of me in the cramped space of the shower. I swatted him away before I could stop myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whimpered.

Ruki had stood back up with a low chuckle. The devious twinkle in his eyes suggested that he enjoyed my reaction.

“If you insist,” was his only reply.

With heavy-lidded eyes but no less interest, I had watched the lean muscles of Ruki’s back shift under his skin as he washed his hair. To say that his feeding had always been an intimate experience was an understatement—sharing the very thing that keeps you alive does that to you, I suppose—but this had actually been the first time I’d seen so much of his body. Ruki casually showed me the lacerations on his back, the sole reminder of his human past. It had been humbling. The bite marks he gave me would always fade away with time, but even in death he was quite literally branded for life. Merciless as he could be, he had once been a human boy with hopes and dreams for the future.

At the same time, the plain carnal desire for the vampire—the man—before me had hit me like a battering ram. Anyone could see at a glance that he was beautiful, unusually so. He was equally apt at using his handsome features and gallant façade to effortlessly lure people in like moths to a flame. Upon a closer look, then, the inhuman poise with which he carried himself was nothing short of predatory. A chill ran down my spine when I realised how much he must have held himself back before I knew about his true nature. Now that no holds were barred, Ruki both relished his bloodlust and yet had the unnerving restraint to kiss me like I was as fragile as a porcelain doll. Perhaps the precarious balance between the two was what drew me so much to him. 

While my eyes followed the V-shaped line of muscle in his lower back until it dipped below the waistband of his slacks, which were drenched to the skin, any lingering resolve to run away faded in an instant. Instead, I had come to entertain the thought of Ruki taking me to bed and claiming the last part of me that I hadn’t surrendered to him yet.

I wanted him to ruin me.

Ruki turned around, and so my gaze had been promptly and undeniably trained on the front of his slacks. The soaked fabric left little to the imagination.

“You really are an indecent woman, Yui.”

I inhaled sharply and looked away so fast my head spun. 

“Try not to stare so much,” he said, sounding unfazed. “Unless you’re hellbent on fainting, your heart rate is much too fast for an anaemic.”

Ruki silently grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower. 

I stayed behind in the cabin for another while, trying desperately to regain my composure, but I had to cover my burning face with my hands when I caught the wet sound of his slacks falling to the bathroom floor.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Now wide awake, I rolled onto my stomach and groaned into my pillow. I was glad to know that at least some of my modesty had been preserved. But then again, the throbbing pain up my leg reminded me that I’d lost most of it already.

[suzdin]

Mad Max Phillips

(Vampire!Max Phillips x f!reader)

Summary: When trying to deliver a message to Max Phillips doesn’t go according to plan.

Warnings: no use of y/n but use of a nickname/pet name, violence/gore, blood kink, fingering, unprotected p in v (he’s dead it doesn’t matter), squirting, biting (obviously), kind of soft Max at one point

Notes: Basically wanted an excuse to write something about vampires to exercise my knowledge of vampire lore, that’s all really. Enjoy!

18+ MDNI

——

You aren’t sure what compels you to knock on the door to Max’s office. It’s after hours and you should be sitting in traffic by now, chugging down your third or fourth iced coffee of the day, mentally preparing yourself to go to the bar for St. Patrick’s Day celebrations with Alice and Tristan later. Not standing on the fifth floor, where you definitely don’t belong, with some name and phone number scrawled on a post-it note because asshole Max Phillips wouldn’t answer his goddamn phone.

You got the call right as you were about to clock out—a client called ManeGain that sells hair growth products for men. Needed to talk Max Phillips about their account. Fine, you thought. Last one of the day.

Let me direct your call, you’d told the voice on the phone. One moment.

You thought you were home free after that. That is until another call rolled through right as you were slinking into your purse and jacket, fingers hovering over the keyboard to log your hours for the day.

He isn’t answering and I need to talk to him immediately. Please see to it he gets my message, the voice said.

You’re under no obligation to hand deliver messages. Your job is to man the front desk, answer and route phone calls to the appropriate recipients. Direct visitors to the bathroom down the hall. Be a smiling face—or not—as people you barely recognize wash past you and into the building for a long and exhausting 9 to 5 in corporate America.

You had a vague idea of what Max looked like. By and large, he ignored you. As if you weren’t really there. Which was fine by you; the less interaction you had to endure throughout the day, the better.

So you aren’t sure why you’re here, on this empty floor crammed full of cubicles by yourself, hand delivering a message to a man you couldn’t care less about right now. Especially after hearing what sounded like screams as you stepped off the elevator into the hall; and especially after said screams had fallen stagnant and the only other noise audible to you is the crescendo of your own breath as it warbles out of your chest.

You rap your knuckles softly against the door, a lingering sense of dread snaking its way up your spine. “Mr. Phillips? I’m from downstairs. From the lobby? I have a message for you from a Jim Hicks with ManeGain?“

You wait patiently and you’re met with silence so heavy your ears ring. Not even the creak of an office chair or the tapping of fingers on a keyboard can be heard. Perhaps Max has already gone home for the day? You don’t recall seeing him, but it’s possible you missed him in the rush to complete your end of day tasks.

Now that you think about it, you don’t remember seeing him much at all lately.

You could just stick the note to his door and be done with it. After all, it isn’t your job to play delivery person. You’ve done more than is necessary already.

But there’s a persistent intuition rising in your throat that something is off. That something is wrong—you’re sure you’d heard screams. What if Max is hurt? What if you could help him?

The smart thing to do would be to call 911 and vacate yourself back to the safety of the lobby while you wait for emergency services to arrive. But if Max or someone else is injured, they may only have precious few seconds to live, so if you could just check that everything is alright first for your own peace of mind…

As you raise your hand to knock a second time, the door abruptly whooshes open in front of you, an arm shooting forward to hook around your neck and snatch you into the confines of the office, a second hand clapping over your mouth to dampen the horrified yelp that works its way up from your lungs. Your back collides harshly into the door as someone you can’t see spins you, pinning you between themselves and the wood. This all happens within fractions of a second.

At first you think you’ve lost your vision; the room is black as pitch and you can’t even make out the edges of the space around you, much less whoever is inches from your face. Once your vision adjusts, you pick up on the faint blinking glow of a modem against the wall; aside from that, you’re completely blind, your other senses going into overtime.

The first thing you notice is the smell. A thick coppery tang, it almost seems to cake the inside of your nasal passage, overburdening your senses. You think you know what it is—it can’t be though, right? Why would it be?—but you can’t be sure without your sight.

And then you hear something…dripping. Whatever it is, it isn’t far. Few feet, maybe. It seems to be low, which means the source of the sound isn’t coming from the ceiling, where you would suspect. Possibly a desk. Perhaps someone spilled a drink?

Everything happens quickly, within split seconds of one another, and it’s only then you’re acutely aware you’re still being pinned by a faceless assailant, and that whoever it is is breathing against your neck, their breath rife with the same copper stench of the surrounding room. You make a pathetic, mewling sound, your muscles pulled tighter than a snare drum over your trembling frame.

“I can hear the blood coursing through your veins,” murmurs the phantom voice. Then, a dark chuckle. “Fear makes it taste better. Lucky for you, I just fed.”

You feel a shift in your bodies as he manipulates you into a position more advantageous for him, lining his pelvis up with yours. You feel the hard pressure of his erection prodding at your center, dragging your seam through your thin leggings. You relinquish a small sound, one that sounds more gratuitous than you intend it to be, your core throbbing at the sensation in spite of—or perhaps as a consequence of—the spikes of fear and adrenaline currently threading their way through you.

“Did someone like that?” the voice chuckles. You feel the sharp hook of his nose press against the flesh of your neck, skimming along your pulse point. He groans salaciously and rolls his hips against yours, your own utterance of pleasure reverberating your lungs and dying in the meat of the palm still clamped over your mouth. Fuck, this shouldn’t feel good, it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, but it does—

—it’s the fear, you think. Your mind is trying to help you cope by flooding your body with endorphins. That has to be it. It must be…

“I can smell your blood, sweetheart. Smells so fucking sweet and intoxicating,” he asserts, his tone heady and full of longing. “Never smelled any like yours before. What is your blood type?”

His hand moves away from your mouth, sliding down to circle the underside of your jaw. “Make a sound and I’ll snap your neck like a toothpick,” he warns. Max knows he isn’t above fucking a corpse. Hell, he is a corpse.

You could scream now if you wanted, and you most definitely should. But in spite of yourself, you don’t. You know as well as anyone there’s no one in the building who can save you. And even if there were, they’d never make it in time; the firm press of his hand against your jawbone confirms your suspicion that his threat is anything but idle. You vaguely remember your crisis training and know that compliance is key to survival in hostage situations, if that’s what this is.

“AB negative,” you answer, your voice quavering. Hot tears collecting along the rims of your eyes. “R-rarest… rarest blood type,” you finish.

Max grins and pulls back to study your face. Unlike you, he doesn’t need light to see, his supernatural senses honed now that he’s grown accustomed to using them. He recognizes you as the pretty face from downstairs, the first and last he used to see every work day. Although not so much lately; not since the shift and that pesky allergy to sunlight that would render him to a pile of ash if he tempted it.

“Excellent,” he croons, licking a slow stripe along your neck, simultaneously drunk on the blood in his belly that is making his head swim, and the way he can feel your artery pulsing under his tongue.

“Maybe I’ll have a taste anyway. Always room for dessert, right?” His hand travels from your jaw to the curve of your waist, then to your thigh, where he grabs your leg to hitch it up against him, slinking you around himself so he can deepen the angle of his erection against your core. He needs to be inside you sooner than later, the high of his recent kill making him insatiable.

You let out a sob. It isn’t exactly loud and you hope it isn’t enough to get you killed, but you can’t help it, panic now taking the wheel. A taste of what? Your blood? Does he think he’s a fucking vampire?

You’re definitely the kind of weird girl to believe such things—vampires, aliens, ghosts and the lot. But now that it actually appears to be happening, you’re paralyzed with disbelief, your heart telling you there’s no other logical explanation, but your brain not wanting to accept.

“Shhhh, shhh. Quiet now. I’m going to turn on the light so you can see. And again, you will not make a sound. Right?” he implores.

“R-right,” you mumble, your tongue feeling like a dead lump of flesh in your mouth. “W-won’t make a sound,” you promise.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, flicking on the switch that you discover is only inches from where your head meets the door, reminding you that you could have turned it on at any point yourself.

You bring a hand up to shield your eyes from the onslaught of luminescence and Max does the same, his eyes far more sensitive than your own. You adjust faster than he does, your gaze already pointed at his chest as your hand lowers, and the first thing you notice is the smattering of blood adorning his suit, staining his white dress shirt. He’s wearing a green tie for Saint Patrick’s Day and you can’t help but think grimly that it looks like some sort of macabre version of Christmas.

Only after you gather your bearings do you allow yourself to look around fully and what you’re met with is nothing short of a horror show. A lifeless man is draped across Max’s desk, both arms displaced from his body, tendrils of sinew dangling gracelessly from the sockets where his arms should be. A gaping chasm decorates his chest which is devoid of a heart as far as you can tell. A smaller but similar impression is found in the stem of the man’s neck, which you deduce is the source of the dripping you heard, the shape and jagged edges of the wound indicative that Max took more than a generous bite out of him.

Rivulets of blood stream down the sides of the desk, collecting in a puddle which is still slowly spreading dark vermillion across the tiled floor. You inhale sharply, your tears flowing freely, thinking to yourself how you’ve never seen this much blood in your entire life. How you may be next.

You will yourself to look at the man’s face. You recognize him from earlier when he’d come up to you in the lobby to ask for directions to Max’s office. His eyes are glazed open in a perpetual loop of his final moments, his jaw slack, mouth ajar in a silent scream. Your stomach turns and you release another sob that you’ve been holding in your chest, but you don’t dare make any other sounds lest Max rips you asunder.

You find one arm on the floor next to the desk, your gaze pulling directly to it. Your eyes search with urgency for the second one, as there are very few places it could possibly be, but you don’t find it on visual inspection alone.

Max forces your visage back to his, black and endless as they scrutinize you. His face is streaked in blood, a goatee of red flowing down from his curved lips, which is splayed into a tilted smirk. You sniffle, your chest shuddering with effort as you attempt to collect your breath and your faculties.

“He wanted to pull his account from our company,” Max explains with a shrug, waving a hand dismissively. “There were some…choice words exchanged. Things escalated. I was hungry. It worked out.”

Max drags you backwards, twirling you toward the wall opposite the door as he releases you, turning the lock behind him. You swallow, dread hammering hard in your chest, doing all you can to regulate your pulse rate but easily failing, pinpricks of sweat breaking out on your skin.

You’ll make it through this. You’ll make it out alive. You won’t end up another meal for this… vampire, incubus, deranged cannibal. Whatever he is.

He steps forward, slipping out of his jacket and waistcoat, discarding them in the bin in the corner. They’re ruined, anyway.

“Fear makes…everything better,” Max intones, giving you a cursory once over as he licks his lips. “On both sides.”

He begins rolling up his sleeves on each arm, pinning them at the elbow, revealing a twin set of thick, toned forearms. His tie is last, which he removes deftly, stepping closer to you to loop it around your neck. You shrink away, or try to, your backside bumping against a cabinet. Max laughs when he effectively corners you again, your mingled scents driving him to madness, threatening to turn him into some sort of savage beast; he can smell the fear being excreted from your adrenal gland, the heady arousal pooling amid your thighs, the invigorating scent of blood pulsing in your veins. It’s enough to make any vampire crazy.

He cinches the tie around your neck, wrapping the other end around his fist. He knows he could use his mind control powers to will you into submission, but there’s no sport in that. No challenge. He prefers when it feels more like a game of cat and mouse and so far, you were being plenty acquiescent, stunned into submission like a timid little dormouse. He can’t help but wonder what you’d let him do to you. How far you would go.

He pulls you against him using the necktie for leverage, causing you to stumble into his chest. He can feel how hard your nipples are underneath your green blouse. You hate how much your body is betraying you right now.

“Taste,” Max quietly commands, lifting his fingers to your lips, the digits still slick with the drying blood of his victim. You whimper and shake your head, tilting away from him.

“N-no, please,” you beg. “Anything but that.”

“Anything? That’s a dangerous proposition, dollface,” Max tuts, smirking crookedly.

“I don’t think I c-can,” you reiterate, shaking like a leaf in his grasp. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can. It’s easy. And it tastes fucking amazing.” He places his fingers against your soft lips. “Open. Now.”

You ultimately resign yourself, knowing you shouldn’t fight him. You’ve seen what he can do—did do—the last thing you need is to antagonize him further. Your lips part softly for him and his fingers delve into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue.

You note the distinct coppery tang of blood right away and it makes you gag, sending you into an inadvertent coughing fit, your own hands pushing Max’s away before you’re aware you’re even doing so, more tears crowding your eyes. If it was your own blood or Max’s, you’re sure you could handle it. But knowing where it came from is enough to make you want to wretch. And you almost do.

Max chuckles, shaking his head at how easily you succumb to your pathetic human morals. “Not good?” he asks.

“Tastes like…rusty pennies,” you spit, swiping at your tongue in anguish to get the taste out of your mouth. In your peripheral, you can almost see the dead man’s eyes watching you. Rightfully judging you.

Max grins, musing over how easily he can make you fall apart, but satisfied that he got you to try, which is good enough for him. For now, at least. “Suit yourself. More for me,” he says with a flourish of his shoulders, licking the remnants of blood from his fingers. “Tastes like the best fucking drink I’ve ever had. I bet you taste even better, though.”

He’s pushing into you again, tightening the tie a few more inches until it’s just barely flush against your throat. His words go straight to your core, his nostrils flaring when he smells more arousal creeping into your panties.

His hand coils tighter around the other end of the necktie, a wry grin playing on his features. He studies you, memorizing all the different shades of your eyes; the curvature of your lips, of your soft cheeks. “I should make you my pet. Would you like that? Being a pet for a vampire?” he asks, his free hand cupping your cheek. “I would like that.”

You attempt a nod. You don’t dare say no. Part of you thinks you would like it, though. But the killing? The constant slew of bodies? You aren’t sure you could get used to that.

“That’s what I thought,” Max muses with a small puff of air from his lips, his opposite hand traversing the curves of your body at a agonizingly leisurely pace.

His hand finds your sex, fingers stroking along your folds through the cloth of your leggings. He can feel you’re soaked through already. His mouth dips to your neck, tongue trailing your pulse point, eager to taste you, but allotting you ample time to get used to the feeling of him there. His teeth tease across your pebbled skin, but he doesn’t clamp down yet, his vampire canines still tucked away for now.

He notices the way your muscles tense and your heart flutters each time his teeth graze, anticipating being bitten, being fed on. He wishes he hadn’t already gorged himself on some jerkoff right before you showed yourself at his door—you would have made a far more delicious meal than this guy. Not that he would have given you the same treatment. Unlike the corpse still cooling on his desk, he’d rather keep you around for future feedings and other forays.

“My pet likes this, doesn’t she?” he coos, nipping at the delicate intersection of your neck and shoulder with his human teeth, causing you to jump. He chuckles. “Relax, baby.”

There’s a sudden tight pull in your lungs, an inexplicable rush of air, and you start to panic when it feels like you can’t breathe, the oxygen punched out of your lungs. Everything goes static and you almost black out, the edges of the room slowly blotting away but then quickly coming back into focus, and you feel an inexplicable chill roll up your spine as a blast of cold air stings your skin.

There are two fingers tapping at your entrance and you look down in time to see Max’s thick digits sinking deep into you, all the way down to the meat of his hand. It occurs to you that you’re completely naked, your clothes discarded into a hasty pile on the floor. You look at Max with a quizzical expression, but before he can answer, your head is rolling back to brush the wall as he furls said fingers inside of you, slowly pumping, a moan departing your lips.

“Super speed. Comes in handy sometimes,” Max explains with a low chortle. “You get used to it.”

If there were any doubts before that Max could be a vampire, you definitely have none now. Unless you’re going insane, which is a very real possibility at this point, there is no other logical explanation for how expeditiously he was able to get you undressed.

He continues to fuck you slowly with his fingers, watching the way your expression transitions from horror to pleasure, your mouth dropping open in a small “O”.

He can tell by your scent that you haven’t been with any other men recently, indicating that you most likely don’t have a regular suitor in your life. He would be right, your last boyfriend out of the picture for several months now. That’s a good thing, because Max doesn’t do competition.

“Would you like to know the other ways it’s useful? My super speed?” Max questions, curving his fingers into a spot that makes your body roll into an arch against him.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter. “Please.”

It’s fucked that you’re enjoying this. Max is a killer who’s cloaked in another man’s blood. Said man wasn’t particularly kind to you—was in fact, curt and rude—but that doesn’t mean he deserved such a fate.

Whatever conflict you’re currently having over the whole ordeal hastily disperses when it’s almost like Max switches on a vibrator between your legs, the edges of his arm blurring away, an exquisite tingle pooling amid your thighs, spreading through your abdomen.

Max doesn’t use his advanced speed often as it takes a lot out of him to do so. Vampires were not as invulnerable as everyone perceived them to be, so he only used it when it was its most advantageous, such as now.

Your head droops forward to rest on his shoulder, blood and all, biting back a moan between your teeth. You think he’s probably even better than your vibrator back home, as you can’t recall something ever making you feel this good.

He lifts your eyes back to him and bites down against the side of your neck—once again only human teeth, which still hurt by all accounts—your muscles clamping down around him with a whimper. You feel the familiar stirring growing low in your core, and you know your orgasm is not far off.

“Max—“

“That’s it, sweetheart. Quiet now. Cum for me. Cum for me, but don’t make a sound.”

His eyes are dark, brow pushed down into a stern line. They bore holes straight through your soul, unmoving from your face as he watches you. You close your eyes to concentrate on the impending orgasm and he snaps the tie against your neck, making you gasp, bringing you back to the present.

“Don’t take your eyes off of me.”

His thumb finds your clit, anchoring itself there and that does it, the coil inside of you unfurling, euphoria peaking as you struggle to keep your sounds to a lower pitch.

And then a not-so-recognizable sensation overtakes you and you’re suddenly gushing around his fingers, your eyes going wide with shock as you realize what is happening, knowing you’ve never done that before, you never knew it was something you could do.

“Messy little thing,” Max muses, fingers slipping free with another rush of fluids that trickle down your inner thigh.

Mind somewhat foggy now with over exertion, he can’t help but think how much it was worth it as he tastes you on his fingers.

He hikes your leg up once more, wrapping it around his waist like a belt as he undoes his pants, pulling himself free. His cock springs forward, rock hard and twitching eagerly, flaring red at the tip, more than ready to bury himself in your depths.

You can’t stop your eyes from wandering and you marvel at his size, swallowing in anticipation of it, but your gaze quickly whips back to his when he tugs harshly on the tie.

“Eyes stay up here, dollface.”

He swipes the head of his shaft through your folds, gathering your slick. He admires the cluster of stars you have tattooed on your inner thigh, dragging a thumb over it. An impulsive thing you did as soon as you turned eighteen simply because you could.

You notice as you watch him that Max also has a tattoo—a small bullseye no bigger than a dime on the side of his left hand.

“My pet needs a new name,” he hums as he aligns himself with your entrance. “How about Star? Would you like that?”

You nod in affirmation. “S-star, yes. I like it.”

Max grins. That wide, self-important grin retained from his former self, blood still staining his lips and chin. “Good. Because if you’re a good little pet, that is what you will be. My Star.”

He starts to push into you, slow at first so you get used to the stretch of him, and then snapping forward the last inch or so, sinking until his hips slot against yours. He lets out a groan that sounds almost demonic in its ardor, causing your heart to skip a beat or several.

“I can…hear your blood…moving. Fucking hot,” he growls.

The first thing you notice about Max as he begins thrusting inside of you is how cold he feels. Not ice cold, but for sure not the warm bodies you’re used to sharing yourself with. Oddly enough, you kind of like it.

You wrap one hand around his neck to steady yourself as he ruts into you. He isn’t going any faster than you’re used to, but that’s probably for the best. If he went even half as fast as he did with his arm, he might actually rip you in half.

You’re the first human Max has been with since the change. He missed it, the warmth of it. Sex with other vampires was too cold, both physically and psychologically, too cunning and dispassionate. He much prefers this, the warmth of your skin sinking into his, making him feel almost like his mortal self again; your little moans and mewls of passion bringing out the monster in him.

You have to hide your face in his chest to muffle all the various sounds of being fucked you’re making, which he surprisingly lets you do without retribution this time, each thrust of his hips jerking you halfway up the wall, the cloth of his nice dress shirt damp from blood, not sweat. Strangely enough, there is no sweat aside from your own, his skin smooth as porcelain.

He slants his hips to deepen the angle inside of you, causing you to whimper louder than intended, his hand tightening around your hip, bruising. If not for the previous expenditure of his energy and the fact he was going easier on you than usual, he could do this all night and then some. You’re making him absolutely ravenous and his self-control not to taste you is waning by the minute.

He pins you in place with the span of his body, increasing the speed and power of his thrusts, and within seconds your walls start to clamp around him, another orgasm building low in your belly.

“That’s it, Star. Cum for me. Cum on my cock,” he beckons.

His face tilts to your neck, aquiline nose nuzzling in the small hollow at the back of your jaw, the soft area that bridges your neck and throat. Grazing his teeth over the warmth of your skin, the heat of your pulsating artery.

The feel of his teeth dragging your skin, teasing, testing, making you clench, and then you’re cumming again with a muted whimper lost in the wide breadth of his chest. You feel his mouth part against your skin as you come undone, a sharp pain suddenly blooming hot in the muscle of your neck.

You feel liquid pooling in the dip of your collarbone, and you realize that Max is feeding on you, sharp canines sinking deep into your neck, tongue laving across your skin with a deep, guttural groan as he feasts upon you. The sounds he’s making are lascivious and lewd, sending a fresh new wave of arousal through you despite your panic, amplifying your orgasm.

Lips still locked to your neck as he feeds, Max’s hips stutter and then draw to a halt when he begins to spill himself inside of you, unable to fully contain himself now that he’s gotten a taste, an unholy, inhuman roar erupting from him so terrifying in its potency that you nearly scream.

Max pulls his face away, lips dark and shiny with a fresh coat of blood as he looks down at you, half-cocked grin playing there. There’s something unsettlingly alluring about it.

You begin to sob softly, you can’t help it, your adrenaline and endorphins dwindling now that all is said and done.

“Shhhh, my Star. It’s okay. You’re okay. You did so well for me,” he consoles, tracing your cheek with the back of his hand.

You see his fangs now, which you’re positive weren’t there before, sharp and pointed and slicked in red. He pricks a finger on one of them and squeezes it, blood beading at the end of his fingertip. He smears it over the punctures in your neck, and you feel a small tickle as they close up almost instantaneously.

And then you see his teeth retract, not dissimilar to a cat’s claws. There one second and gone the next.

He leans forward to clean up any remaining traces of blood, gently pulling you off of him. “See? Good as new,” he says with a wink.

“W-what do I do now?” you ask with a tremble in your voice. You start fidgeting with the tie to see if he’ll let you take it off. He cocks his head curiously.

“You stay with me,” he explains. “You’ll live with me. I’ll take fabulous care of you, my pet, don’t worry.”

“C-can I take this off?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

You take it off and hand it to him, although it’s stained beyond usefulness, so he tosses it to the floor. He bends to gather your clothes, meticulously redressing you, placing a small kiss to your neck where he fed.

“You taste so fucking good, Star,” he pines with a stretch, sucking air through his teeth. “Best I’ve ever tasted. Now that I’ve had you, I’ll never be sated.”

He wraps his arms around your torso in an uncharacteristically tender embrace, skimming his lips along the shell of your ear. “Sleep, now,” he whispers, and you slip away just like that, Max lowering your now-limp body to the floor as he tucks his discarded jacket under your neck.

——

When you wake up—you don’t know how many minutes or hours later—Max is standing over you. Your eyes dart about the room and the man’s body and every trace of him is gone, as if he never existed. Max offers you a hand to help you up and you take it.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Just before sunrise. It’s too late to leave. You can call in today and I’ll keep you hidden in my office.”

You frown. Calling in after St. Paddy’s Day isn’t a good look, but what other choice do you have? You just hope you don’t lose your job.

“Okay,” you reply, nodding your head in confirmation. “And at the end of the day?”

“We wait until sun down,” Max begins with a grin, “and then we go home.”

[punkzines]

WRECKAGE

summary: Flying in an airplane was your biggest fear, thankfully everything turned out alright! (it didn’t)

warnings: mentions of death, its all vague !

a/n : hey guyss…..im back. i wrote this in a few mins cause i felt bad about not writing anything for so long. sorry if it has mistakes, im sleepyyyy.

There was no way you agreed to this. This was a big mistake, and it was a mistake that would cost you your life. This was your end, and there was no way to avoid it because you were strapped down to the seat. The exit closed a few minutes ago and you couldn’t even move to it because someone, God curse them, had closed the doors already.

Your hands shakily gripped both of the armrests, as your eyes were closed tightly in anxiety and it was like there was no air around you because no matter how much you inhaled, your lungs didn’t receive any air. To make matters worse, the loud music erupting from your headphones— which was entirely your own fault for choosing a song that didn’t make you calmer— made your ears and head hurt, it was as if your head was being crushed like a watermelon.

You really shouldn’t have come.

The music suddenly cut off, bringing you some sense of relief. You opened your eyes slowly and were met with blurry white light. “Hey. Hey.” A voice beside you said as you felt a hand touching your own—breaking you slowly out of your own panic. “It’s okay. Breathe with me.” You followed their breathing. In and out. In and out— until things were a lot more clearer.. “Don’t worry, airplane crashes are very unlikely.”

“You…don’t know- t-that.” You stammered, taking a deep breath. You feel your body begin to grow calmer and calmer. Breathing was a lot easier, but now you could hear someone's baby crying in the background and it was making you slightly annoyed. You quietly watch as the kind passenger next to you pulls back and leaned back onto their seat with a smile.

“This is one of the safest airlines. I promise, we are safe.”

Even if you had calmed down, only by a bit, you were still scared. Airplanes were one of your biggest fears. The fear of it suddenly exploding because of some mechanical malfunction is enough to keep you awake at night. Flying in air, in general, brings a different type of dread, because you can’t fly and would not be able to stop your body from hitting the ground or concrete waters. And even with all that fear, you had— you decided to fly out to Guatemala for a friend that lived there. You’ve never been to Guatemala, nor did you ever think about visiting it— but it was definitely an opportunity you couldn’t waste. Behind all the danger that flying an airplane brings, arriving at the destination will be worth it.

The plane has been on air for quite a while now, and it seemed pretty peaceful. You glanced out the window, and saw the breathtaking view up from high above. It was absolutely breathtaking. Were clouds always this pretty? “Thank you for helping me.” You turn back to the person next to you.

“No need to thank me.” They paused, grabbing a bottle of water. “So, why are you flying out to Guatemala?”

You suddenly noticed how thirsty you felt, or how your heartbeat spiked up a bit after the small startling movement that the plane just made. There was nothing to worry about. “Oh, to visit a friend. Haven’t seen them in 5 years? Yeah. Only reason I’m even here. To be honest, they should have come visit me instead. My fear of airplanes is nooott healthy…How about you?”

“Research project, I’m a scientist! But that’s not the only reason. I also have some family down there. A brother and two sisters. Guess we are both meeting important people, huh?”

You chuckled, “Cool coince-” Just then— the plane shook, as the sound of lightning filled your ears. You yelped in worry— your heart almost leaving your chest.

Luggages sprayed onto the floor—it was practically a mess! The person that was sitting next to you spilled some water off of their bottle, some of it ended up wetting you and got into your eyes. They apologized, but the shiver rolling down your spine— and the coldness that was overtaking you was making it impossible to hear what they were saying. “P...please tell me that was normal.” Your whole body trembled, this was not happening!

“Hey don’t worry-” They gasped. “A storm cloud?”

“What?” You asked, but their gaze was on something else— the window behind you. You turn around, unbuckling the wet seatbelt. A cloud. It was moving? But that wasn’t what scared you. It was the way you could see the lighting or thunder— it seemed like it was coming your way, and at a fast rate. This was dangerous, and you hadn’t read anything about a storm before boarding— you made sure of it. You made sure of it. And maybe you were going crazy, maybe the panic was making you see things— but you swore you could see something else in that storm. Suddenly, the lights started flickering— and that baby's cries got louder. Then there were people, who started questioning what was happening.

You stopped breathing.

“Everyone stay calm. We are passing through a storm, we will receive some back—“ Static. The intercom went static.

You take a deep breath— you cannot go into panic once again. Not again— you couldn’t, this would be alright. Everything— everything would be alright. Things like this happen frequently, right? This is a natural thing that happens— an airplane passing through a storm, or well from what you can see— a storm passing through an airplane, was completely normal.

“This is not normal.”

Your heart sinks at their words— this cannot be happening! You turn to them, eyes glossy. “What makes you say that? This is totally normal.”

“Part of my field of stu-” Their expression— that face, you’ve never seen it on someone other than yourself. “What the h—”

In a matter of seconds, something had hit the airplane, hard.

Everything, everyone was flown out of their seats— the plane split in half. Luggages hit people's bodies or pushed them out of the airplane— and that person— that sat next to you, they were hit too. Their face— you couldn’t stop screaming, you couldn’t stop hearing everyone scream. Everything was swirling around, and there was no mistaking it.

You were falling.

a/n: ill cook something else up soon i swear guys. if i dont go ia again. i promise i wont. i hope.

[bots-and-cons]

How's it kicking Ony? I wanted to request something with a human that was previously attacked by cons but they fought back and ended up getting exposed to the cons energon and therefore their DNA. Nothing happens for a little while but slowly the human starts doing things that normally only a bot would do? Developing small habits and the sort. Like when someone is coming out from that big elevator they can tell from the EM field who it is without seeing them. Amusing example is all is calm until their head shoots up like a dog and says "Wheeljack is back!" Then Miko and Bulkhead go running without questioning it. Before he even leaves the elevator. Essentially what I want is some of the bots reactions to figuring out one way or another that the exposure has left the human with some Cybertronian DNA? Since it came from a con and wasn't newly processed energon. I know it wouldn't be a completely smooth so the new abilities may be uncomfortable sometimes. I imagine a human would be more sensitive to the fields since they weren’t born with the ability. I hope this isn't to specific; I've just seen writers not be able to write somethings cause it was too vague. For this I'd like to see Ratchet & Bulkhead if that's alright! Feel free to have some artistic liberties here🤙. I don't want the scenario to seem to unrealistic ya know what I mean?

I was kind of dreading writing this, because I honestly had zero ideas for this for the longest time. I just rambled a bit about whatever came to mind surrounding this topic, but I hope it's okay. Also as a side note, I have a much harder time rejecting someone’s request when they aren’t on anon. Which is a good thing (?) and I love seeing the same names over and over again, when the same people ask me stuff, because it makes me happy when I see people have been here for a while. Of course I see a lot of you in the my notifications, and some names or profile pics have stuck in my mind, but I appreciate you all so much 💜

~Bulkhead~

•Your new abilities have much more to do with your senses, rather than you body noticeably changing or anything

•Bulkhead was very worried when you first got exposed to energon, but there didn’t seem to be many bad effects after Ratchet’s treatment

•You of course started noticing the changes in yourself first, but you thought it was just the after effects from the energon and that they would disappear on their own

•You started being able to sense the bots in some weird way and in time you learned to differentiate the vibes you got and be able to tell them apart

•You didn’t even really notice it at first, you just started mentioning “Hey they came back” before anyone else even heard anything and you were right every time

•You’d always be waiting for Bulkhead outside your place when he came to pick you up, because you sensed him coming

•Bulk didn’t even really notice it at first, he just thought you had good timing, but when it kept happening, he started wondering why

•You also became stronger than you were before, not inhumanly so, but pretty damn close

•Bulkhead wasn’t particularly worried about the changes, since you didn’t seem too bothered by them yourself

•Sure you sometimes got a headache when you spent time with the whole team for a long time, because the energy fields/vibes got a bit too overwhelming

~Ratchet~

•Ratchet was of course very worried when you were brought back to the base for treatment after you got hit by the energon

•He did checkups for weeks after you were already feeling better, because he had a feeling you weren’t as unaffected as you seemed

•And he was right of course

•When you started getting these odd headaches after hanging out with too many of the team members at the same time, Ratchet was baffled

•He couldn’t come up with a reason for that, until you started talking about sensing these weird things before one of the team members appeared

•It never happened with the trouble trio, only with the bots, so Ratchet put it together pretty quickly after that

•There wasn’t any energon traces in you, because it had fused with your dna, so he couldn’t detect it with just a scan, he needed to look at blood samples, which June helped him with

•Smokescreen started wondering if your ability to sense the bots would also work with the cons, and he suggested you try it out

•Ratchet was of course vehemently against this, because he was not going to expose you to any more danger

•It did become a bit of an early alarming system for the team, because if you sensed an energy you didn’t recognize nearby, you knew it was a decepticon and could alert them

[watercolorfreckles]

Apple Pie // Secret Santa Snippet for @that-storming-writer

If you're a part of the discord server, you probably know that @creweemmaeec11 arranged a secret Santa event for writing snippets! Everyone submitted a request and she assigned people's prompts to each other, to be posted on Christmas Eve. As said, this is for @that-storming-writer! Merry Christmas and I hope that you like it!!

Their prompt request is: Rescue missions are fun, especially if the rescuee is surprised they're being rescued. It's especially great if it's coupled with "My enemy/rival is in danger and I'm going to pretend I don't have these feelings/ignore the feelings I have for them while I save them"

TW: Vague mention of past violence; bruises; imprisonment

"You have an insufferably persistent knack for getting yourself into trouble. I have half a mind to leave you here."

Hero's head snapped up and immediately regretted the way the contents of his brain seemed to swoop and crash together at the sudden movement.

Villain could feel the jump of his pulse as if it were her own. It slashed red across her mind's eye. The two of them, in their thoughts and feelings, were intertwined. Villain's powers craved a host to copy; to mimic. To blur the lines between what feelings truly belonged to her and what only belonged to the person her powers clung to.

She could sense the horrors that had been done to Hero in this cell. The echo of it ghosted over her. Her skin itched with the false memory of it.

Hero's eyes locked with Villain's where she stood on the other side of the bars to his cell. One finger crooked, she dangled a jangling ring of keys in front of her.

Villain sensed Hero's stomach jolt. With hope? Relief? Dread that Villain might instead make a show of leaving him behind after demonstrating she could have helped him?

Hero rose to his feet, slowly as if cautious of spooking her off. In the dim light of the hanging lantern outside his cell, the purple bruises marring his perfect face became apparent. His lip sported a red split down the center.

Villain could taste blood in her mouth.

"I didn't mean to get caught," Hero said, trying for a smile. It shone with all the energy of a golden retriever seeking to please its human (while requesting a tummy rub with those innocent eyes).

"People seldom do, honey," Villain said, pitying.

Hero eyed the keys in her hand, though he didn't reach for them. "You came for me." Even through the edge of doubt lacing his words, his voice was optimistic. The unrelenting beam of sunshine that he was.

(And Villain most definitely did not love that about him.)

Something warm and velvet trickled through the cavity of her chest and she refused to consider that the feeling was her own.

"You are hopeless," Villain grumbled, sliding the key into the lock. The door swung open with a whine.

"But you came for me," Hero repeated, in that soft, adorable voice.

As he said the words, she smelled his surprise, sharp and vaguely sweet. It bubbled up and over her, settling into a blush at her cheeks.

Hero blinked at her. "You're blushing."

"Only because you're blushing," Villain shot back, taking hold of his arm and tepidly pulling him out of the cell.

Hero stumbled, legs folding beneath him. Villain caught him, saving his knees from cracking against the stone floor. His relief was jarring. It whispered against her bones, ringing them into wind chimes.

Villain had no control over who her powers chose to feed off of, nor could she determine how long her physical and emotional senses would be interwoven with theirs. The way those senses manifested themselves to her could be a tad unconventional as well. When her powers latched onto Hero some months ago--her rival, her enemy--it was unexpected, to say the least.

The growing fondness she had for him was a liability. It led her to do stupid things like chase down the lairs of supervillains to free naive heroes.

Annoyingly soft, sunny, and pitiful heroes.

"Are you hurt?" Villan nodded toward the hero's legs. Before she'd even finished speaking, her own legs creaked in answer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sure I can walk," Hero said, fumbling to straighten on wobbly feet. "I may just- need a minute."

His earnest expression, determined and delicate, spilled that heroic and golden hope through her insides. It felt sticky, like melted candy smudging her ribcage.

Disgusting.

She tried not to think about how cute he looked, clinging to her shoulders.

Shouts filled the distance.

"Unless you'd like to be locked back up in that cage, we may not have a minute." Villain swept the hero into her arms, hooking one arm under his legs. He was thin and relied far more on his own powers than his muscles. Which was reflected in the lean contour of his limbs.

His breath caught as Villain carried him out of the room.

His weight only strained her slightly. She focused her attention on dodging henchmen and reaching the exit safely, though Hero's singing heart and burning cheeks were difficult to ignore.

The pink flush of him branded her cheeks in mirror image.

Villain turned a corner and slipped down the final corridor, not looking at the hero in her arms. "Stop swooning."

"I am not swooning!" he squeaked.

"I literally feel you swooning, Hero, it feels like butterflies and apple pie, I can taste the color blue."

Hero's nose crinkled. "Huh?"

"Forget it," Villain snapped, kicking open the final door.

Freedom.

She wasn't sure whether the giddy rush of adrenaline was hers or Hero's.

Carrying him to her car, Villain tucked the hero into the back seat where he could lie down. She draped her jacket over him and reached to buckle his seatbelt.

Hero winced as her knuckles brushed an unhealed injury. Villain paused. Flashes of the incident blazed across her mind. It smelled like smoke in her nostrils. "They will pay for this," she said, soft and matter-of-fact.

Gently, she brushed the hair away from his aching temple.

Villain made to pull away to shut the door, but Hero caught her fingers. His touch was feather-light. Electric all the same.

"Villain?" His voice filled her with clouds and warm tea.

She looked at him, lifting a brow in question.

Hero glanced at their hands, as if unsure what to do now that he had it. "I, um- You... You feel like apple pies and butterflies too. I think."

Villain cracked a smile. The effort on his part to connect, to understand, made her pause. Even if he didn't really comprehend what he was saying. She knew what his soul whispered.

I was swooning. I do like you. Thank you. You came for me.

Villain straightened, pulling her jacket up a little more snugly against his chest. Her smile didn't fall. "All in a day's work, honey. Let's take this rendezvous to my place, yeah?"

The skip of her heart, the warmth in her belly, definitely belonged to her.

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl   , @valiantlytransparentwhispers   , @distance-does-not-matter  , @redbircl  , @lilaccatholic  , @crazytwentythrees   , @thelazywitchphotographer   , @chibicelloking   , @lolafaiy  , @thinkwrite5   , @putridghost  , @tobeornottobeateacher , @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist  , @feyriddle  , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1  , @distractedlydistracted, @pensivespacepirate  , @appleejuicee  , @deflated-bouncingball  @maybe-a-cat42  , @m0chik0furan , @mercurymomentum , @fairysprinkles, @vuvulia, @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie  , @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room  , @scorpio-smiles  , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch, @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo , @moonquires , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump, @smallangryfish  , @ladybookworm, @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy  , @puppyaddict , @a-person-who-likes-musicals  , @talkingsperm  , @qualitychaoslover, @deckofaces ,@7eselt, @annablogsposts, @lunatic-moss-studio, @medusas-hairband

[sailing-through-hawkins]

tagged by the bestie @a-little-unsteddie ( •̀ ω •́ )✧ who was gracious enough to listen to me ramble about this

rules: ✧ generate 5 random words using this generator and then write something using those words! ✧ tag 5 (or however many you want) mutuals to challenge! ✧ if you don’t like the five words you got, reroll them. this is meant to be a fun little challenge, not something to stress over. have fun!

✧ my words: stoichiometry, glenoid, secretion, encounter, fleam ✧ warning: this is some spooky stuff, lots of water imagery, stay safe ✧

If there's one thing Eddie hates more than sitting through another lecture from another townie about the dangers of the lake, it's being forced to listen to their made-up bullshit about what's out there.

They don't know a single thing about what lurks under the surface of the water.

They talk about the smell of blood, the sound of howling, the quick flash of fangs in the moonlight, all the typical bullshit they make up to scare kids away from the lake. They don't even put any effort, any imagination into the stories, being as vague as they can because god forbid the people of Hawkins add a little pizazz to their warnings.

And that's the real kicker really, that the scariest things they can come up with are so vague, so general it could be about any store-brand monster out there. The reality of the lake is unfathomable to them. It was unfathomable to Eddie too, once.

But he's had encounters. Real ones.

And now he knows.

The townsfolk would never talk about the goosebumps that prickle your skin when you're near the lake. The sense of awe and dread that soaks into your bones when you look at it, as though just the sight is enough to engulf you in the water. The way your limbs will lock for a moment, just a moment, when you step into old, wet footprints, the ones that leave the lakeside muddy, that make you think, wait a second, because those footprints don't go into the water.

They walk out of it.

And now Eddie is walking towards it, leaving his van and any chance of escape far behind him.

What a life.

With a grumble, Eddie stomps towards the cabin, rickety stairs creaking, and he pushes the door open.

"It's simple stoichiometry, my dear -"

"Hello friends and foes alike!" Eddie greets as he steps through the door. Or at least, he would have said that had he not been accosted against the wall with a firm arm crushing his throat to it.

He scrambles, staring into the black void eyes that glare at him. The snarl from something you can't really call a man, but there is no other word for the sight of him, echoing through his bones.

The arm against his throat pushes harder for a moment and he thinks, slightly hysterically, well, tit for tat, I guess. Not the usual tit I'd go for but beggars can't be choosers.

"Steve! Steve, it's okay, it's just Eddie!"

"Hey man," Eddie wheezes, grasping at Steve's forearm. "Been eating your greens, I gather?"

With a snort, Steve lets him go and steps away. Eddie takes a minute to gasp air back into his lungs, coughing out the instinctual fear that claws through his blood every time he sees - well.

"So," Eddie croaks out, rubbing at the skin of his neck, wiping away the cool water and the goosebumps that always take a while to fade away. "Why'd you call me here again, Henderson?"

Dustin gawks at him as Steve shuffles his way back to his stool. "I didn't call you!"

Eddie narrows his eyes and shoves his medallion, the one Will carved out for each of them, right in front of Dustin's face, making the kid go cross-eyed. "Oh yeah? So this signal wasn't from you, huh?"

"Wha - but - I didn't -" sputters Dustin, who then goes silent and turns around to Steve with his hands on his hips. "Steve."

What a sight he is to behold.

Leaning back on his stool, one arm supporting his weight from behind, Steve inspects the darkened nails of his other hand, not even gracing Dustin with a glance. It'd be the perfect rendition of the Kegstand King if it weren't for his sickly skin, always so cold and just on the wrong side of damp, and the way his face is perfectly still, no twitching, no blinking, no movement from any inch of him other than the droplets of water that drip from his hair.

Eddie always forgets that he doesn't breathe anymore.

"Steve," Dustin stresses again. "Did you call for Eddie on our emergency-only channel, the same one that has a limited amount of calls because of, oh y'know, Will's magic?!"

There's silence. Then Steve shrugs and Eddie laughs out loud.

"Steve!"

"Chill out, man," Eddie pats Dustin's shoulder. "We can always recharge the calls once your superhero girl comes back from the edge out there. She'll be back in what, two days?"

That doesn't seem to be enough to deter Dustin from glaring at Steve, who lazily looks back. An acidic taste rises at the back of Eddie's throat at how those voids stare, empty of intention, empty of the exasperated affection that he was so used to seeing.

Eddie clears his throat. "Did I hear something about science on my way in?"

And with that, the kid's face brightens up like the sun and he launches into his investigation into the "secretion from the roots closest to the lake, the colour is way off, way too green to be tree resin, and we couldn't cut through it, not even with Mrs. Byers' fleam so we figured -"

Throughout the rant, Eddie's eyes flicker between Dustin and Steve, his body freezing in place when the latter's gaze locks onto his own.

It's so bizarre to look at him. To look and see the Steve that protected the kids, the Steve that would gripe and groan, the Steve that would laugh goofily. But that Steve is a ghost, a memory laid over his body like those photographs Will brings to their sessions, proud and adamant about his brother's talent in - what did he call it? Double exposure.

This Steve doesn't laugh like that. He doesn't make much sound at all, beyond huffs and hums. This Steve doesn't look at Dustin with brotherly annoyance, or Lucas with cheerful pride, or Max with loving snark. This Steve looks at all of them with the same eyes, black and eternal, the same smile, hollow like a one-way mirror, the same tilt of his head, as if still contemplating who among them are prey.

This Steve doesn't take his eyes off of Eddie. And then he tilts his head.

"Okay, buddy," Eddie smacks a hand onto Dustin's shoulder, cutting him off. He glances back at Steve and sucks in a breath as he starts to lean forward. "Think it's time I get you home."

"What?" Dustin scrunches his nose. "It's not even sundown yet! And I still have to look at Steve's right glenoid, Robin said there might be some -"

"Kid." Eddie tightens his grip on Dustin's shoulder. Steve watches them. "Go sit in the van."

"Eddie -"

"Now."

With a grumble, Dustin gathers his books and equipment, hauling it all into his backpack. Steve doesn't look away from them. Eddie doesn't look away from Steve. Finally, the kid manages to get everything in and ready to go before he fucks it all up and sticks a hesitant hand out to Steve. "See you tomorrow?"

And then, then something incredible happens.

Steve blinks. He breaks his gaze away from Eddie, looking over to Dustin and his outstretched hand, and then he gives his own hand in return, bumping the two fists.

Dustin glows so brightly Eddie almost wants to grab the old pair of sunglasses he keeps inside his jacket pocket, the ones Robin told him to keep safe. The ones Steve used to wear.

"Bye Steve!" Dustin calls out as he leaves the cabin, snapping Eddie's gaze back to Steve.

Steve, who is smiling.

It sends shocks up Eddie's spine because that's Steve's smile, the sweet one, the warm one, the one so full of fondness it might as well have been carved into every crevice of his lips.

"Steve?" Eddie says quietly.

And just like that, those eyes snap back onto Eddie and in one smooth motion, Steve stands and stalks towards him, smile gone, warmth gone.

"Woah, woah," Eddie swears as Steve crawls into his space, the smell of wet grass invading his lungs. Steve has him against the wall again, arms caging him in, and face leaned in close. Eddie squeaks out, "That eager, huh?"

Steve tilts his head again before his mouth stretches out and up, a terrifying reflection of Eddie's nervous grin that makes sweat crawl down the skin of his back.

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie breathes out as Steve drags his nose down Eddie's neck, shivering at the ice-cold touch. "I'll be back tonight, just let me get Dustin home first."

The humming is the worst part. There's an odd melody to it, rising and lowering in pitch, as though he's using words. But he's not. He's just humming.

"Steve," Eddie whispers as the creature before him noses at his collarbone. "Just let me get Dustin home first. Please."

At the sound of Dustin's name, Steve sinks away. He stares up at Eddie, giving one, solitary nod towards the open door.

With frenzied nerves, Eddie makes his way over to the door and is just about to step outside when he hears a hum behind him. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Eddie glances back.

Steve is staring at him. None of the sunlight touches him, shadows creeping along the ground where he stands.

And then a hoarse, haunting sounds echoes through the cabin.

"Don't be late."

Eddie doesn't remember rushing into the van or the ride back to the Hendersons' place. By the time he settles back into his body, he's already standing in front of the cabin again, the sun sinking below the horizon, red skies bleeding into black trees.

Hawkins will always lament the terrors of the lake, Eddie thinks as the door creaks open for him. But they'll never know a single thing about what really lies down in it.

They'll never know who waits down there, with black eyes and hollow smiles.

They'll never know what he'd do to keep his family safe.

Who he would become.

"Welcome back," says a hoarse, lilting voice and Eddie hopes the people of Hawkins will never have to know.

and some no pressure tags:

@xenon-demon @unamusing-s @wynnyfryd @onirislanding @heartscoops

[villain-in-love]

i keep switching between tasks and losing track of what i'm doing but anyway. do you want to answer any more of those pining ask game questions for Liang? because like. i'd like to throw some more at you. ❌🚫❓ (@canarycurse)

I'm finally done with this ask! Thank gods.

One one hand, I like receiving asks and talking about my ships, but on the other hand, sometimes questions catch me off guard and I realize that I have no specific answer on hand ready, and therefore I have to sit there and think about it, even when I'm not ready to think about it... (I can't force ideas, they usually just naturally come to me by themselves.)

Anyways, thank you for the ask, and I'm sorry you had to wait for almost the entire summer for me to write down my answers.

🚫 what was holding you/them back from making a move or confessing your feelings?

If you said that to him, Liang would look at you like you’re an idiot, before gesturing vaguely at the entirety of Zero, being like: “I don’t know, how about common sense???”

Literally, though, getting together with Zero must have been the least sensible decision he ever made in his life, and that’s after he tried to fight Hajime (I'll never let go of that one scene, oh my god, Liang, the idiot that you are...).

1. First of all, it’s a known fact that Zero will never leave this jail (supposedly…) This relationship is going nowhere.

2. After that, Liang is genuinely not sure if he would be able to handle whatever expressions of love Zero could possibly try to inflict on him.

3. He’s still on the fence whether he wants to tie his life with a human-eating monstrosity who doesn’t differentiate right from wrong.

4. He already started letting go of his prejudices, but he still has no idea how to court and approach relationship with women. He knows that there are some expectations. But what exactly is he supposed to do? (Luckily for him, Zero has no expectations and doesn’t give a shit about human dating customs)

5. Does he even want to get into relationship? Especially before he got his life in order? He’s not sure if it’s a good idea to form this kind of attachment.

So as you can see, poor boy went through a major crisis.

Meanwhile Zero was just chilling. She made her intentions and feelings crystal clear from the very start, so she was just waiting to see where it all goes with Liang. The fact that he was clearly going through such an inner turmoil amused her.

❌ did either of you ever try to get rid of your feelings for the other?

Liang tried to persuade himself, thinking about all the awful qualities Zero possesses and why it’s not going to work out, only to end up frustrated that even that wasn’t enough to convince his brain chemistry. Then he tried to simply ignore his crush, hoping that it’s temporary. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to act out on his unfortunate attraction, he will be shutting down any attempt Zero might make at being inappropriate, and he will be throwing hands with the next person who jokes about him and Zero being a couple.

Liang managed to keep up this attitude for a few years before giving up. And even then he calmed himself by thinking that everything will be over when he gets out of prison anyways (while at the same time dreading the thought of it being over and having to leave Zero).

Zero didn’t want to get rid of her feeling – on the opposite, it was something new and interesting that she wanted to study about herself. However, she did consider that, after she figures out the phenomenon and maybe gets enough of it, she might try to toss it away for convenience. But it’s just her speculations for the future.

❓describe a time one of you did flirt or make a move, only for the other to remain totally oblivious.

I think that for this question, it’s time to pay more attention to Zero. She knows how to flirt in the way humans do, BUT- This time she doesn’t need to hide what she really is. And since she’s aiming for a long-term companionship, it’s better to be herself from the start, right? It’s not like she would be disappointed if Liang doesn't reciprocate anyways.

Yeah, anyways... CANNIBALISM.

There was one time when a brilliant idea came to Zero's head. She told Liang that maybe, if they had a chance, she would have loved to share a meal with him. He doesn't have to kill anyone, obviously – Zero will hunt and bring the body herself. Then they can even cook it (after all, it's unsafe for humans to eat raw meat) and have a dinner together.

And listen, it's not that Liang wasn't able to understand that it was likely Zero making a move on him. However, he was too distracted trying to process WHY WOULD SHE OFFER SUCH THING TO HIM, and how he can avoid it.

As for Zero, her thought process was sound – perhaps if Liang tries her food for himself, they would come to a better understanding and a stronger bond. She wanted him to get over his "prejudices" and realize that "it's just meat".

I guess Zero views it as a cultural exchange of sorts. Meanwhile Liang is going through another crisis upon understanding that this creature really doesn't understand humans morals.

In the end, it all just turned into a long argument regarding the ethics of eating human meat...

[sunbeamedskies]

Life Changes/Writing/Romance/Spiritual Stuff

I'm at a time in my life where I need to journal. I'm going to start doing personal rants on here in addition to the usual stuff. They will only be lightly edited

I feel like I've put too much pressure on myself to have an amazing two months in London. This is the first time I've ever stayed in one single foreign city for so long. It's such a huge achievement and lifelong dream. I've mostly had a great time, but lately I haven't been doing a great job of getting enough sleep, haven't been seeing enough daylight, and haven’t been going to the gym as often as I want as a result. I've made some great friends and socialized a lot, but need to work on my book more

Writing is what I’m meant to do. I feel such a vast sense of personal power, confidence, and calm when I’m writing on a regular basis. Even typing this makes me feel like I’m wading into a cool pool on a scorching day, my muscles wondering why I didn’t bring them relief sooner. It’s tied to the self-sufficiency I need in order to live the life I want as well

It’s only in recent times I’ve really understood how not drinking fully affects my life. The choice not to drink was born out of wanting a more spiritual path unaffected by potential pitfalls. I wanted to rise above thought instead of fall below it, as Eckhart Tolle describes it. I don’t believe being a drinker would have been good for me overall, and if you would have asked me even a few years ago, I would have told you it has never had a negative impact on my life. However, I’ve realized it largely hinders my prospects for fun and romance

Most people are drunk or high by a certain point at get togethers. I can never just go up to anyone and try to kiss them because they’re probably drunk/high and it’s unethical for me to have my sober awareness while they’re out of their minds. If someone drunk/high tries to initiate something with me, I can’t accept it either

In the world nowadays, so many people meet at pubs/parties/clubs or on apps. The apps scare me, so I don’t use them. I never really expected romance within the short span of two months, but I can’t even have anything vaguely intimate with anyone. It would be fun to be friends+ with someone, but it seems unlikely because I haven’t made enough friends. I'm also just looking for a lot of nice, lifelong friendships in general here, so actively seeking out someone to be friends with benefits with would feel weird to me. I’m open to so much, but it seems like it will have to wait until next year when I have more time. I wish more people didn’t need liquid courage to say what’s on their minds

Most people dread situationships, but they intrigue me. What does it mean to explore something with someone that’s so open-ended and potentially messy, where feelings might or might not arise? Spiritual lessons can sprout from all kinds of connections with others- what could one teach me? Even situationships feel far away right now

The more I focus on my creative goals, the less anything else bothers me. But I do wonder how my past spiritual experiences will affect any future relationships. Everyone always talks about how lovely and miraculous profound spiritual experiences are, but not many discuss how isolating they can be. I’ve had several spiritual awakenings throughout my life- all without drugs- that shook me to my core. I remembered what I believe to be the place we go to in between lives, filled with unconditional love, understanding, and serenity that is hard to fully put into words. A multitude of awareness replacing muddied thoughts. I want everyone to be able to recall this love- it’s the essence of absolutely everything and everyone. I just feel like it’s hard for some people to understand, even though it’s inside of them too. It might take a very long time to find someone who’s going to do their best to try to spread that love on Earth with me. It’s one of my life goals to help others experience it, and I need a long-term partner to share that goal with me

Someone attempted to flirt with me tonight by saying I looked like Elisabeth Moss. It was very sweet and I thanked him, but I really don’t see it much. I wasn’t into him and that was the only time we spoke, but I almost wished I could say something thanking him further for being brave

I was the only one who went nuts when the DJ played Guess ft Billie Eilish tonight. London- you need to get your shit together! Charli XCX is your national treasure!!

Someone also accurately guessed my age range for once. It is a sign that my lack of sleep over the past week has been adding up. Time to get some beauty rest so I can look hot for my future situationships when I am a gazillionaire globetrotting author

Love,

J