#humans are so fragile man it's kind of terrifying

[mssorceressupreme]

Let The World Burn

——— Pairing: Hwang In-Ho (or Young-Il) x reader

Summary: In-Ho would let the world burn for you, developing a huge soft spot and love for you, once you die in his arms, he’s determined to make sure everyone pays for it

Warnings: reader!death, angst, mentions of gunshots, daeho has ptsd, violence, swearing, mentions of blood, deaths

a/n: reader doesn’t know he’s the frontman fyi

———

The arena was a hellscape. The air smelled of gunpowder and fear, screams mingling with the deafening sound of gunfire. Shadows darted in and out of your vision as frantic players pushed past you, some tripping over fallen bodies, others using them as shields.

Every step you took felt like a battle against the tide of selfish desperation.

You clutched the heavy bag of bullets to your chest, your heart pounding wildly. Somewhere out there, Young-il was fighting, orchestrating this mess while holding together the fragile remnants of control.

Dae-ho cowered behind the bunk beds, leaning with his legs to his chest on his bunk bed, his hands trembling as he peeked out.

You’d told him to stay put, and thankfully, he listened. You couldn’t blame him for being terrified—it was every man for himself now, and his fear was written all over his face.

“Stay here,” you had told him, squeezing his shoulder as the fear and panic grew in his eyes. “I’ll find Young-il and Gi-hun. You’ll be okay, alright? I'll come back for you, you just stay put here.” You comforted, he trembled with fear, clutching his legs tighter at every gun shot.

He nodded, wide-eyed, and you’d forced yourself to turn away before the weight of the situation could settle over you. Now, pushing through the chaos, your focus narrowed. You had to find Young-il.

“Young-il!” you screamed, your voice raw as you ran through the area, running up the stairs, dodging bullets and panicked players. “Young-il!” It felt like a never-ending maze of death.

He was there, standing in the midst of the chaos like a storm given human form. His sharp features twisted in determination, his dark eyes scanning the crowd as he dodged bullets and ran from the chaos. You called out to him again, louder, but he didn’t hear you over the deafening sounds of death and desperation.

Before you could reach him, a frantic player shoved you from behind. You stumbled, dropping the bag of ammo and as you bent down to pick it up, a sharp burning pain ripped through your side. BANG! The world spun as your knees buckled. The ground was cold and unforgiving when you hit it, the bullets spilling out of the bag and scattering across the floor.

It was a surreal kind of agony, blinding and consuming. You tried to breathe, but it felt like your lungs had been punched.

Blood was warm against your hands as you pressed them to the wound, your vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes.

You tried again, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Young-il…”

Through the haze, you saw him turn, his eyes landing on you. For a moment, time froze. His face- usually so unreadable, so carefully controlled, cracked with raw emotion. Horror. Rage. Despair. He saw you.

And then he ran.

“Young-il...” you tried to say again, but the sound barely left your lips.

When he reached you, he dropped to his knees, his hands immediately pressing over yours to stem the bleeding.

“No,” he whispered, his voice shaking as his eyes darted across your body, assessing the damage.

“No, no, no! NOT HER!” His voice rose as he turned his fury to the guards, his tone sharper than a blade. “She’s not a target for fucks sake!”

His words carried the weight of command, but the guards hesitated only briefly. Young-il didn’t wait for an answer.

His focus snapped back to you, his hands trembling as he cradled you against his chest.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please, you have to stay with me. I can fix this. Just hold on, okay? Please.”

You blinked up at him, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Young-il…” His name was the only thing you could manage, but it was enough to draw his gaze back to you, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Don’t talk,” he said quickly, his hands pressing harder against your wound. “Save your strength. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

There was a desperation in his voice that you’d never heard before, a vulnerability that broke through his steely exterior. It was almost enough to make you believe him. Almost.

A small, weak smile tugged at your lips. “You… always so serious,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted… to help.”

“And you did,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling. “You did more than enough. Just stay. Please stay!"

Your hand, slick with blood, reached up to touch his face. He flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring.”

“No, no, no…” His voice cracked as your hand slipped away, falling limply to your side. “Don’t you dare…” His words dissolved into a choked sob as he pulled you closer. "FUCK!" He cried aloud, rocking you gently in his arms.

The chaos around him seemed to fade into nothingness as he held you, now lifeless, his world crumbling in his arms. His tears fell freely now, staining your already bloodied clothes. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and uneven. "My Y/N..." he whispered. "My Y/N..."

And then, the grief turned to something darker.

When he finally looked up, his face was a mask of cold fury. He laid you down gently, brushing a hand over your face to close your eyes. Then he rose, his movements slow, deliberate.

The guard who had shot you barely had time to react before Young-il shot bullet which tore through his chest. One shot. Then another. And another. Now limp, the guard fell to the ground, dead.

“Young-il” Gi-hun’s voice called, but it was drowned out by the sound of gunfire as Young-il turned his wrath on the rest. He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. For a mere second, you had given him a glimmer of hope, he had reconsidered his actions for a short moment in time. He even thought about ending the games and running away to take care of you, and only you. But no, now, he remembered who he truly was. The man who had once orchestrated the games with calculated precision was gone, replaced by someone unrecognisable—a man consumed by amplified vengeance and grief. A man with no mercy. A man with no heart. Every last bit of empathy, washed away.

“For her,” he muttered under his breath as he fired another shot. “For her.”

Young-il had lost everything before. But losing you? That was a wound that would never heal. For you, he would destroy it all. Let the world burn. Let them all pay.

[lord-squiggletits]

A frustrating thing about media perceptions of violence is that there are a ton of ways I want to write Cybertronians experiencing war and violence in terms of "what are the physical limits they can take" but it seems less extraordinary than it actually is because media already tends to portray even regular humans in combat with improbable or impossible abilities.

Like, how can I say something interesting about "oh Cybertronians have more stamina in battle because they don't bleed [in my headcanon] which means getting cut won't inevitably take them out of a fight in a few minutes" except when was the last time mainstream action media ever took bleeding into account. What about the fact that Cybertronians can break limbs or lose them completely and just get a replacement put on, but human characters losing limbs or getting prosthetics are rarely shown getting physical therapy or anything that would come with losing a limb. Even something as basic as "Cybertronians can be in direct combat for hours without tiring" falls flat when so many media portrays human combat as this crazy thing where people have the stamina to do flips and shit for minutes on end which isn't accurate at all.

[pepprs]

like it’s VERY very important to not text and drive. and i understand how dangerous it is to do that and to be distracted at all in any way for any amount of time on the road. i know it’s important to learn about these stories and bear witness to them. but i just think. like idk. watching multiple of them every day for 10 days (with a two day break halfway through for the weekend) is realy… like idk. i think after seeing a couple you can get the point. i don’t want to sound dismissive or lackadaisacal and im scared im sounding like that but i just am so freaked out by all of this and witb every new horror they’re showing us it’s scaring me worse.

[betweenstorms]

Simon Riley was always leaving.

It was the only constant in his life, deployment after deployment, mission after mission, the door closing behind him with the weight of silence, like clockwork. It was as ingrained in him as breathing.

He’d told you from the beginning that he wasn’t made for relationships. He wasn’t the type to just settle down, not with the kind of life he led.

Simon Riley—Ghost was a soldier first, always a soldier before anything else. He was bound to the duty that pulled him into the abyss time and again. Because he was a soldier before a lover, before a companion, before a man. And yet, there you were, lying beside him, not quite lovers, not quite strangers, but something in between.

It wasn’t a relationship, but it wasn’t a situationship either. It was a careful balance. It lingered in the spaces where definitions blurred.

It had started as something undefined, a hookup, a shared space in the aftermath of violence, when the weight of the world seemed to press down on his chest. But somewhere between his departures and returns, something soft had taken root.

The late-night calls after deployments, the sound of his rough voice like a whispered poem in the dark, tethered him to you when he was miles away. His touch, when he was home, lingered longer than it should have, fingers brushing your skin as if searching for something he couldn’t name, something neither of you dared say aloud. And in those fleeting moments of reunion, when his hazel eyes found yours, you could see it—longing, a tenderness that spoke of something more, something that never quite fit into the boundaries of what you were, but hovered just beyond, waiting.

Still, he never stayed.

From the moment you first let him into your life, into your bed, there had been an unspoken understanding between you.

Simon Riley wasn’t the kind of man you introduced to your mother over Sunday dinner. He wasn’t the kind you built a future with. He had told you as much—not relationship material, he’d said in that low, gravelly voice of his, the one that always seemed to carry the weight of unsaid things.

But that didn’t stop him from coming back.

Maybe it was the way you laughed when you were trying to hide your nerves, the way you teased him lightly without ever pushing too far. Maybe it was how, in the silence of your shared moments, you never demanded anything more than his presence. Whatever it was, it tugged at him, an unfamiliar gravity pulling him closer to you when he knew better than to get too close to anything.

There was something about you that made him want to stay.

A pull he couldn’t quite ignore, an instinct deep within him that whispered it was okay to rest beside you. You made him feel human. And that was dangerous. That terrified him more than any enemy he had ever faced.

It was a cold winter night, the kind where the world outside seemed frozen in place, as if time itself had stopped. The two of you were lying under a heavy blanket, the warmth of your bodies a sharp contrast to the chill that clung to the windows.

Simon had a cigarette between his fingers, the soft glow of the ember casting a faint light across his scarred face. You were curled up against him, your skin pressed to his, naked and warm, though the intimacy wasn’t just in the closeness of your bodies, it was in the silence between you, the quiet acceptance of this fragile connection. You watched him in the dimness, the lines of his jaw sharp against the shadows, his hazel eyes half-lidded as he exhaled the smoke slowly, deliberately.

You’d asked him before to stay—jokingly, of course.

It had always been a game, a playful tease, because you knew he would never agree. He had always brushed it off, his silence the answer you always expected. He was good at keeping himself distant. However, something in the cold of the night felt different. You felt a shift in the air, a gentle tension that lingered between you like the first breath before a confession.

So, you asked him again, your voice soft but joking. “Would it be too desperate to ask you to stay? Just this once? Please.”

You didn’t expect an answer.

Usually, Simon brushed it off, deflecting with a grunt, a noncommittal sound, something that left the question hanging unanswered in the air. He didn’t do relationships, he didn’t do staying. It wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t built for it. So you thought he’d just ignore you, like he always did, maybe pull you closer and kiss the question away.

But tonight, he didn’t do any of that.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke slipping from his lips like a secret too heavy to keep. His eyes, usually so guarded, so unreadable, turned to you, and there was something different in his dark gaze—something softer, something almost vulnerable. His hand, rough and calloused, reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine. He looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing his next moves carefully.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he answered you.

He was going to stay.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, not a sweeping declaration or an outpouring of affection. It was Simon Riley in his purest form.

A simple nod, small but extremely significant, heavy with meaning that stretched far beyond words. It was a promise unspoken, a shift in the very foundation of who he was. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, and in that quiet acknowledgment, you felt the pressure of it settle between you.

For the first time, you felt the weight of his presence in a way that wasn’t heavy with the threat of departure. He was here, and he was staying, not because he had to, not because you asked, but because he wanted to. And that, more than anything, filled you with a warmth that outshone the cold night outside.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[lumitoiile]

☆ ; neuvillette headcanons

falling in love with the hydro dragon. this one is very long, i do apologize... fluffy boyfriend imagines. gn! reader (no pronouns.) happy birthday mister iudex!!

oh dear lord

neuvillette is a very reserved man, and he's long since mastered the art of keeping his feelings to himself. not that this is by choice—even after living among humans for five hundred years, he still struggles deeply with expressing himself.

which is why he finds falling in love with you to be both a wonderful blessing and a confusing curse all at once.

he's very unaccustomed to the feelings that stir inside his chest whenever he's around you. he doesn't even fully recognize what they are. but he does notice the way his gaze on you lingers longer than it should, the way his mind strays to you in his moments of quiet.

it unsettles him, this unfamiliar tug on his heart. soft yet insistent, like the rhythm of rain against a window.

he tries to rationalize it at first. he tells himself it's simply admiration, appreciation for your kindness, your wit... or perhaps the way you treat everyone with a warmth he's yet to master.

neuvillette is a logical man, after all. feelings like this aren't meant to exist in his framework of thinking.

yet despite his best efforts, the thought of you refuses to fade. he starts noticing other things, too: the way his chest tightens when you're near, how he can't quite meet your eyes without feeling an odd wave of vulnerability. in these challenging moments, he finds himself clutching his cane tightly; what's going on?

only after weeks of struggle does he finally understand these complex emotions of his. the realization, when it comes, is quiet yet profound. there's no grand epiphany or cinematic moment of clarity. it hits him like the gentlest rain, seeping into him so gradually it feels as though it's always been there.

he's in love.

and it's terrifying.

not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't know how. neuvillette has lived lifetimes without such a need for attachment. he's seen the fragility of human bonds, their fleeting nature, and he worries his feelings will only end in heartbreak.

but even with his fears, he can't find it in himself to step away. you've become part of him now, woven into his thoughts like the fabric of a tapestry.

neuvillette's silent admiration is subtle yet persistent—the prolonged stares, the way he finds excuses to be near you, the gentleness in his voice whenever he speaks your name.

this doesn't go unnoticed, of course, but it's still hard to tell exactly where you stand with him.

you spend countless nights second-guessing and wondering if you're imagining things. is he simply being polite? or do his gestures mean something deeper? the uncertainty becomes unbearable, like a storm you can't escape.

though there's no denying that it definitely feels like something, and it's not long before you decide the ambiguity is too much.

the confession is nerve-wracking and unsure, but your distress all but melts away when you see the look on his face. his breath hitches, his eyes are wide, and he stares at you like you're the most important person in the world.

you feel the same. and he's never felt more thrilled in his entire life.

neuvillette is horrendously awkward during the development of your relationship. he's very careful, and thoughtful to a fault, but very nervous and unsure how to navigate.

he spends an unreasonable amount of time constantly worrying about doing things right. he's always asking if he's being too distant or too clingy, if he's giving you too much affection or not enough. he's scared he'll overwhelm you or say the wrong thing.

but after some gentle reassurance on your part, he starts to warm up little by little. it starts slow; walking you home, leaving you little hand-written notes, his hand brushing against yours when you walk together.

but as he grows more comfortable, his gestures become more natural, and its not long before he's all over you. always holding your hand, pressing his lips to yours softly, holding you from behind when no one is around.

his love language is acts of service. while his vernacular is off the charts, he has a hard time finding the right words to express just how much you mean to him. so he finds ways to make your life more comfortable, even if it's just brewing your favorite tea or simply just listening to you talk about your day.

he's a busy man, but he still puts in an effort to set aside time for you. whenever there are days the opera epiclese is free of trials, he'll you out on romantic outings—whether it be a serene walk along fontaines picturesque beaches, or a quiet afternoon in a cafe, it's nice to spend these extra moments with you.

he definitely 100% makes sure you stay hydrated and often offers you a wide selection of his favorite types of water.

PDA is a no... he's fontaines honorable iudex after all, and he has an image to uphold. but he can be very touchy behind closed doors. his affection is featherlight and sweet, always sure to make you feel cherished and cared for. he loves holding your palms, leaning himself against you, cradling you close, anything as long as he gets to be near you.

he's obsessed with running his fingers through your hair.

as chief justice, neuvillette carries immense responsibilities. but emotional vulnerability doesn't come easily to him; he has a tendency to internalize things that are troubling him. but he tries his best for you, even though you often have to coax him into sharing.

he treats your happiness like a personal mission. he likes to do anything he can just to see you smile, and while gift giving isn't his area of expertise, he's not above leaving you fresh bouquets of romaritime flowers before he has to head off to work.

neuvillette isn't overbearing, but he has a natural instinct to shield you from harm. whenever you walk together, he always positions himself on the side closest to the street, and his hand hovers near your back in crowded spaces.

if anyone dares insult you or cause you harm, his polite veneer is quickly replaced by something much colder and more commanding. his voice sharpens, his eyes narrow, and he ensures the offender knows exactly how out of line they are.

sometimes he worries about the differences between you two—his immortality and your mortality—but he makes it clear that he deeply cherishes every moment he spends with you. "time is fleeting," he once told you. "but my love for you is not."

he just adores you, and cares for you intensely. the way he listens, the way he holds you close... his love is steady and endless, like the rain that sustains fontaine.

© lumitoiile. please do not copy, steal, or edit my work.

[multific]

All He Wanted

Assassin Predator x Reader

Warning: Smut

Part 2

Summary: Being at the wrong place at the wrong time was your speciality, however, you never imagined that a creature like him would take you.

He was a bad blood.

He killed his own kind.

Yet, he never even imagined hurting you.

His small, vulnerable human.

You were his prize. He won you after his completed mission. He not only killed the fugitive, got the weapon but also a little human.

You didn't even mean to be there.

But the huge alien got you and into a cage in a matter of seconds. You were on its ship as it started the engine and off he went.

You were terrified. This being was huge and ruthless. You could only imagine the things it would do to you.

When you arrived back at its home, it made you wear a collar. Which it showed you, it could shock you with. It was similar to the one the dog creature was wearing. You nodded, you understood what it might do if you don't follow its rules.

Why would it think you would run anyway?

You didn't know how to fly their ships. You didn't know what to do or where to go anyway.

With the collar around your neck, you stayed in its home.

The dog creature had an eye on you at all times. Even when its owner was out of the home.

---

He was made to kill.

A creature born to destroy and conquer. His purpose was to carry out the missions he was sent on.

Missions no one else wanted to go on. Which meant a lot given Yautja was a fearless kind.

And yet, he had a conscious of his own. A character.

He liked his dogs, well now he only had one, he liked to hunt and he liked to eat. He liked his bed even if it was a little small for his size. And he liked you.

His little human.

He was always very curious about you. Watching you as you moved around his home. He knew if you would try anything, his dog would stop you. Not like you were strong enough to do anything to him, but the idea still made him watch out.

It made him look up humans and behaviours, he learned a lot.

And if he had to be honest, many aspects excited him to no end.

One was that he learned humans were fragile. Which he saw when he was sent to Earth. But females were said to be able to handle pain a lot better than males. This caught his attention, so perhaps, because you were a female, you handled this situation a lot better than any man could.

It made sense why you didn't do anything to him when he was sleeping or why you didn't try and escape.

Another interesting thing he learned was that when he looked at your biology and his, he could easily deduce that you could potentially carry an offspring of his. Although it was never done before, and he thought you might die due to the infant, it was something that still interested him.

Possibly an issue would be the act itself, you were so small compared to him. Another would be the child itself, it could be that your body would attack his DNA.

It was so interesting, but he didn't want to test these things without knowing it was safe for you.

Then, something that people called, making love.

In his world sex was more like a fight. Yautja males fought females to prove they were strong.

In yours, sex was more like a pleasurable thing. Something to do when you were bored even.

And he liked that. He preferred this idea over the claws.

He also learned that human females were hard to charm. He learned about gifts, and courting techniques.

If he was honest he rather fight a female to bare a child than get those chocolate things... but if that is what you liked. He can create his own version.

And he also knew that because of how he was born no Yautja female would want to carry his child. He tried courting before, but always failed.

---

You had a love-hate relationship with your new life.

You liked that you weren't dead, and you got used to the huge alien's presence but you hated the fact that you were a pet.

Much like the dog you spend every night looking at, fearing it might eat you.

You were sure that if you let your guard down for a second it would attack.

You weren't sure how long you were on this planet.

You would say months, but time was different here.

The huge alien sometimes left for days, only leaving food behind.

During this time, you always ate silently in a corner. Then the dog-like creature decided one day, that he would sit down in front of you and watch you.

It didn't leave, but you slowly gave him the bones, which he appreciated.

You two started to grow closer.

---

Assassin arrived back at his home from yet another successful mission.

And the scene he found was burned into his brain.

It was you and his dog.

Sleeping.

You had your back against the wall as the dog's head was in your lap, one of your hands on its head as you both slept soundly.

This vicious killer tracker dog of his looked like your lap dog right now.

He didn't know if he should be amazed or not.

After all, the dog was to keep you in check when he wasn't around and yet, here it was, cuddling you. And in a weird way, this still counted as keeping you in check.

How did you manage to do that?

After that day, the dog became your protector. He watched as it moved with you.

Also, it didn't take long to figure out how you did it.

Food.

These creatures were easy, of course, you lulled one in with food.

But somehow, he didn't mind it.

Lately, there had been an uproar amongst the tribe against him.

Telling him how he wasn't natural, that he was made and so he doesn't deserve the Yautja title.

Others didn't like the fact that he killed another, calling him a bad blood. Even if he was only carrying out the mission he was told to.

So, he expected others to try and get into his home. Possibly to kill him or to kill the things he kept. He wasn't sure, but if the dog stayed with you, that meant at least you had some little protection if others were to come.

---

One morning, he gathered all of his things and left for another planet.

He choose a rather scary one but it was to keep the others away.

And they stayed away.

He had been there for a week, yet no one came looking for him. And he built a house, mainly staying on the ship to sleep, soon you were able to move into the new home.

This planet was different but not in a bad way.

He showed you many things to avoid, without words proving just how dangerous this planet was.

This planet had different seasons as well.

You realized it soon when after a warm day, winter hit. Or at least it was something you would call winter.

The wind was blowing and you noticed something that was like rain.

It made the home extremely cold. The fact that besides his bed everything was made out of metal didn't help your situation.

Your sleeping place, a single fur on the floor, was now wrapped around your shoulder. You were really really cold.

Freezing.

But both he and his dog were sleeping soundly while you were shivering.

You looked at him, sleeping in his warm bed and you were jealous. Extremely jealous of the furs and also for his thick skin.

He must have noticed you watching because the next thing you knew, he clicked, making you jump a little.

"I-I'm cold." you explained as you watched his eyes in the dark. He didn't move.

You started to turn away, deciding to find a corner and try to sleep. But a huge hand stopped you.

It pulled on the fur you had wrapped around yourself and made you turn back.

You locked eyes with him once more as he was now very close. He started to pull you closer until you were kneeling on the bed, the fur fell from your shoulders as he pulled you in.

He laid down and made you lay next to him.

Very awkwardly, you laid with your back against his side as his arm was under your head.

This truly made you realize just how huge this being was.

He could rip your spine out with one movement, and yet he didn't.

He just let you lay there as he placed multiple furs on you.

His body heat and the warmth of the furs soon lulled you to sleep.

Before you fell asleep you couldn't help but think just how strange he behaved.

A being as huge as him, yet he was careful and soft with you. Then he moved a little, making your head move up his arm onto his biceps, as his forearm was now resting on you, his hand grabbing at your thigh. He caged you in.

But if you were honest, never in your life have you ever sleep as well as you did on that night.

Next morning, you woke up in the same position.

You were even more scared to move. You though possibly he was in a haze last night so he pulled you in, but reality might set in now that he will wake up soon.

You didn't realize that he was awake for some time now.

He listened to your soft snores as you didn't even move an inch, you slept so well and so deep. He didn't even dare to move an inch, afraid he would wake you.

He just knew, from that day on, you would have to sleep with him always.

But he didn't communicate that, so that evening when you got ready to sleep on your usual spot, he scooped you up, as if you were a baby and put you into his bed.

This time, he slept on his stomach with an arm on your stomach. You felt like a stuffed toy.

You noticed he didn't mind you touching him. So, your fingers found his scales as you started to run random patterns on them. You enjoyed his slightly cold skin against yours.

It became a routine, you tracing his scales as he was falling asleep. He often made a noise, something that reminded you of a cat purring as he fell asleep.

How interesting was he.

A completely different species, and yet, you had a feeling he could be more human than some of the humans on Earth.

Sure, you were only a pet for him, sure he killed everything in his path as he pleased. Yet, he never hurt you.

Not even when he forced you into a cage so he could take you from Earth.

You fully expected him to hunt you or torture you, but he never. He treated you as if you were his most precious trophy he had.  

The next morning, you woke up and he was missing. Something that never happened so it made you worry a little.

You got out of the bed and walked over to the door. He stood outside, this is when you noticed a ship was about to land. He growled and it made you lock yourself inside the house you got the dog and crouched in a corner.

He will deal with this. He will deal with them.

He will keep you safe.

You heard growling outside, you heard the audible sounds of fighting.

He will have to win. He was big and strong right?

He can take a couple of them at the same time, can't he?

He could, but not without injury.

He sent back word, and asked them to leave him be if they plan on living.

He hoped it would scare the others enough to not come again? He couldn't risk it.

Once inside, he noticed you were in a corner, the dog in front of you protecting you. Exactly how he was supposed to.

And once again, he was on the run.

You were a bit sad to leave that house behind. You started to get used to the layout and the surroundings pretty well.

But you understood the situation.

During the flight, he moved you to the screen.

'We go, they followed. I will make sure this time they won't find us.' it read. You nodded at him, he handed you a device. 'Translator' he said.

"Thank you. For keeping me safe."

This time he nodded.

"Eat." said the robotic voice later when he handed you a bowl. You accepted and ate without any further questions.

Finding a new planet, which was mostly not filled with dangerous creatures was difficult, he knew he would be fine, but he couldn't chance you getting hurt.

But he managed to finally find one. After weeks of looking.

A new planet a new start.

---

He spent months on this home.

He made it bigger.

Which you noticed. He added more rooms.

"Why did you add so many rooms?" you asked one late evening.

"Offsprings." the translator said, it made you freeze. Of course, he would want to take a female. You should have expected this, after all, you were only a pet for him.

He noticed the sadness in your eyes.

"Why sad?"

"I'm not. Should I cook?" he nodded.

Of course, you would be sad. You were his pet, sure but at the same time, you wanted nothing more than to be his. So, to hear him talking about offspring you were sure he wanted to take a female now.

You cooked the meal and ate in silence.

"Are you not ready for offspring?" now this made you super confused.

"Me?"

"Yes. Do you not want offspring?" you blinked a couple times before moving a little.

"What do you mean?"

"I can prove I'm worthy male for offsprings with you. I hunt, I protect."

"What do you mean?"

"I want... baby with you. Do you not?" you looked at him as if he grew a second head or something. Confusion was a light word.

He wanted a baby with you? Would it even work?

"I don't think we can."

"I checked. Our biology can be combined. You can survive birth. I checked."

"Has it been done before?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that either me or the baby won't die?"

"I checked. I played scenarios, in each, even the worst, I could save you."

"Both me and the baby?"

He nodded.

Was it truly possible?

"I gave gifts, courting gifts. Hoped to win you over." Sure he did give you a lot of bones but you thought those were... toys for his pet?

Did he not see you as a pet? Did he really see you as an equal? As a female who can bring his children into this world?

Was that even possible?

Or were you just too hopeful?

Too naive?

Was he serious?

He was, you didn't know but Yautja didn't joke.

You nodded at him.

"You won me over. But but WAIT! WHAT?! How big are you?! You wouldn't fit me!"

"I checked."

"How did you check?"

"Human biology."

"How would your... thing fit me?"

"My...thing... not fully. But it could bring you pleasure if you practice." your head was spinning. Was he really saying this. "We need to stretch you so I won't hurt you, then you can take me and we can have baby."

"Fuck it, let's do it."

After all, what did you have to lose?

---

Of course, he had done his research. Every movement was calculated, and the main goal was not to hurt you.

You didn't dare to ask how he found the... stretchers.

You were no virgin but even so, as the size got bigger and bigger, you were nervous.

After a couple of tries however, you were surprised just how easily a size could fit you.

And soon, he was able to be inside you. Opening you up as you moaned in pleasure. He never made a wrong movement.

He was so gentle.

It made you feel as if you were made out of porcelain, he was so caring and kind.

He did bite your neck and back. Saying they were marks.

Not like you had others to show your mark to. But he liked to cover you in them.

Unfortunately, your baby had other ideas. While you couldn't wait to carry a little one, no baby.

You wanted to give up trying and just accept that it won't happen but your Mate had other ideas.

He blamed himself while you blamed yourself.

He thought the issue was the fact that he was created not born. But then why did all his scenarios all end with a baby?

He slammed the table, making you jump at the loud noise. He looked over at you from his screen.

You knew why he was agitated.

You knew how much he wanted a baby.

"On my planet... if a couple can't have a baby, they say it wasn't meant to be. It will happen on its own. We just have to keep trying and hope for the best." you said into the translator as he listened to your words.

"It is meant to be. I checked every scenario."

"Yes, but you didn't check the scenario in which the baby isn't ready."

"Infants don't have conscious. Can't make decisions like that."

"I'm aware, but as I said, we just have to keep trying, it will happen once. Would you be disappointed in me if I couldn't give you a child?"

"Mate can provide. Checked. You are able to provide. You cannot disappoint me."

You reached over and placed your hand on his.

"We keep trying. It will happen I know it." he nodded once.

---

Keep trying you did.

Then another wave of winter hit, and this planet was worse a lot worse than the one before. You were so incredibly cold, it ended up with you getting sick.

You couldn't hold anything in your stomach.

Your Mate had to check you with his devices and this is when he saw it.

A fetus.

Undeniably.

You looked at the screen when he froze and saw the baby yourself.

You finally did it!

You finally got pregnant!

But... why wasn't he happy?

You looked at him as his golden eyes looked back at you. He leaned over turning the screen to you. You nodded before he grabbed the translator.

"This is why you are sick."

"Yes, pregnancy tends to do that, but why are you... not happy?"

"Baby made you very sick. I don't think you can keep baby."

"What? WHY?" he didn't need a translator for that one.

"Baby makes you too weak. Both of you in danger."

"I'm NOT letting you kill my baby! I want this child, you wanted this child! You said you checked every scenario, every solution! How come you didn't know then?"

"Because in my scenarios, you were healthy, not ill."

"I just have a cold. It will go away in a couple days. Please don't... give me time, give me medicine."

"You could die."

"We tried so hard for this baby. I cannot lose them just because I'm ill."

"If it becomes too dangerous..."

"Give me a week." he nodded.

A week to get better, you cannot lose this little one. Your eyes were glued to the monitor in front of you. Admiring this little alien baby that you had inside you.

You must have gone insane.

No, you went insane when you realized that you actually had deep feelings towards an 11foot tall alien.

In a week's time, you did start to feel better.

But the Predator was surely disappointed in himself.

He was ready to get the fetus out of you the second he realized that it was making you more and more sick. Without thinking he would have done that.

He could have many children in the future, but there is only one You.

He checked you daily. He noticed you were getting better. And he also noticed that you smiled a lot more. You looked at the screen which he paused on the fetus.

No distinguishable features so far. But the little bean on screen already had you wrapped around their entire being.

Both literally and figuratively.

Your Mate kept a close eye on you. Even the dog became more protective as the baby grew.

Your small form changed a lot, he noticed. And he liked it very much. It was his greatest pride.

He always watched you on the bed, sleeping with your belly round, he felt like the proudest Yautja. He would stay up and just watch you, never once touching you, just observing as you slept. Ever so often you moved a little.

It was still winter, the harsh weather making you curl under the furs. He watched as one fell off of you, causing you to get cold as you soon woke up to get your warmth back.

You spotted him sitting in the dark. Although it wasn't unusual, you were very cold. You held your hand out to him as he stood up and walked over. laying down next to you on his side while you glued yourself to his side. You placed his arm on your belly.

He was huge, scary, murdered man and his own kind. And yet, this is what he wanted, a female and a child.

Part 2

More Yautja

Taglist: @fleursirvart​ @greenarrowhead​ @thisismysecrethappyplace​ @sincerelyfan​ @theoneanna​ @aestheticsandmarvel​ @rororo06​ @castellandiangelo​ @destynelseclipsa​ @spilledinkindumpster​ @capsiclesdoll​ @puknow​ @alwayshave-faith​ @alex12948​ @lxdyred​  @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl​ @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek​ @praline357​ @trshngyn​ @avengers-r-us​ @violet-19999​ @top1bbgloak​

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

             DO NOT REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS

[piratefishmama]

Just ONE chance | Part 1

Eddie Munson was only certain about one thing in his life, and that was that it was supposed to end in his twenties.

But it didn’t.

Thanks to a very dedicated swimsuit model with first aid training, a kick up the backside from Wayne, and a solid year long stint in rehab, Eddie Munson did not die at 23 years of age, when he fell, system full of drugs, into a pool head first from the pool house roof and didn’t QUITE stick the landing.

His head hit the edge of the pool, dyed the water a sickly red.

He still had the scar, he knew he was infinitely lucky that that was ALL he had, but that scar remained forever, buried beneath the mass of curls atop his head where they’d had to operate to reduce the swelling. A terrifying reminder that life was fleeting, and fragile, and god he could have died.

He could have wound up paralyzed, he could have wound up permanently disabled needing round the clock care, could have wound up as ANYTHING but perfectly healthy. Doctors said he must have had some kind of exhausted guardian angel looking out for him because a miracle was really all they had to describe it as.

Eddie gave a toast of apple juice to the terribly drab ceiling of his private hospital room, thanked his mother who’d long since passed for her life saving help because honestly who else would it have been, and then, after that kick up the backside from Wayne, not that it was needed but it was appreciated, he proceeded to fix his life.

Of course, the rockstar life wasn’t easily fixed, but he was a man on a mission. A man with a life he realised that he actually wanted to live.

Corroded Coffin hit fame early, they struck what initially appeared to be gold at some back ally dive bar in Indy, a guy, a fancy embossed business card, a label, words of promise like roses hiding thorns. It was all flashing lights and good times at first. They were thrust upon massive stages to crowds mostly paid to be there to make it look ‘packed,’ label never told them that, they’d told them they’d put their material out on the air and people had responded well, half-truths really. They had gotten the music out there, but the people hadn’t really come until those packed venues hit the magazines.

Everyone wanted to be part of the next big thing. The up and coming next big name in the music industry, already selling out shows!

They were stars, they were famous, they were puppets on strings being pulled this way and that, given alcohol and drugs and thrust into the limelight to dance a jig that’d keep them relevant, not for their music but for their mess.

How very entertaining a human can be when they’re not fully coherent, when they exist purely to make a mess of themselves.

He’d lost himself, his bandmates lost themselves, and only through him not dying did they finally realise that somewhere along the way things had gone so terribly wrong, only then did they finally realise that those perfumed words said in a dank bar back in Indy those years ago, were just well masked poison all along.

They spent two years of their lives after Eddie emerged from Rehab, two years and frankly way too much of the money they’d risked their very lives to earn, to free themselves from the web of legal bullshit their label had ensnared them in.

But they were free. Sure, some of their old material was lost, claimed by their old label, but a quick rerecord, few changes here and there and a solid re-release under their own, self-made label, Corroded Records, well. They weren’t too worried about the future after that. Sure, their old label attempted to slander them online, tried to spread awareness of how they’d paid their earlier audiences to attend shows, but the real fans didn’t care.

The real fans hit back just as hard.

Used that fancy lil internet gizmo everyone now seemed to have to spread awareness on the frankly abhorrent practices their old label had engaged in, practices they hadn’t only used on Corroded Coffin, but several other smaller, younger, vulnerable members of the entertainment industry.

It was a long hard slog to the top full of pains, addictions, rehabilitations, and recoveries. But finally, they had their footing. They were making new music. They were comfortable. They were happy.

It was a brand new, quickly evolving world, and thanks to those new world advancements, thanks to home computers, laptops, smart phones, tablets… the internet, they very quickly found they had a way to get their creations out to everyone from the comforts of a  home studios while they figured themselves out post nightmare. Dove into their roots, rediscovered themselves, thrived.

But survival didn’t come without its downsides.

Eddie Munson… hadn’t died at 23 years of age, but that didn’t mean he’d gotten to live straight away afterwards. Even as a clean and sober man, there were things he hadn’t done, things that’d just… taken a back seat on the list of priorities while the years had ticked on by during their long haul trek to creative freedom.

Life had taken a backseat. For him at least.

Gareth had found himself a girlfriend, and now fiancée in a girl they’d known of back in high school, but had only recently reconnected after they found out she was a back up dancer in one of their new music videos. Once Head Cheerleader, now professional dancer Chrissy Cunningham, the reunion had been adorable, and aired on TV in ‘behind the scenes’ footage.

Jeff had had an ongoing thing with the backup drummer they’d taken up at a gig when Gareth had broken his arm a few years back. Never having been able to talk about it publicly thanks to their old label.

And Dougie was engaged, fell ass over tit for their lawyers assistant, thankfully it was mutual. Their relationship was a whirlwind but soulmates were supposed to be like that.

Eddie was thrilled for them all, really he was but no matter how much he’d realised he’d wanted to LIVE after nearly dying… he still hadn’t really lived at all. He was still just… Eddie Munson, now thirty something rockstar. Single, sober, and honestly kind of sad.

So sue him if he watched a few slice of life things on the internet every now and then.

The bands accounts were thriving nicely with him at the helm, he got the hang of itquickly enough, adapted well as the technologies advanced, so much so that people accurately guessed very early on that it was him running the channel himself, rather than a social media professional. It was a nice distraction! Kept him busy, allowed him to watch silly little videos and find the occasional fan being adorable in their mentions, he loved his band accounts.

But his private account was his favourite.

Because of her.

He’d found her videos on the camera app within a few hours of signing up the bands account, and very quickly made a private one just to follow hers.

Was it weird? Was it a little stalkerish? From the experience could he possibly understand where some of his own fans were coming from when they stalked the bands socials? All of the above, yes.

But he’d found a goddess on his very first real adventure into the internet. He figured he ought to be cut some slack!

Stevie was her name, or Stephanie, but she never went by Stephanie. He found out very quickly that she was a mother through her morning makeup videos where she ranted about PTA mothers, from what he heard, Sally was evil and her potato salad was garbage.

He would have been more than happy to just watch. He followed the account on his private one very early on, and he’d have been content to just simply watch, swoon in silence, appreciate every little mole he could see on her without ever doing anything about it. He’d had crushes as a kid, he wasn’t a stranger to unrequited attraction, or even completely one sided attraction cause the other person didn’t know you exist, so it didn’t matter to him that she would never really know he existed.

He didn’t even comment on her videos. Liked them sometimes, but he’d never commented. Even on the one where she let slip that she’d been single for a while. He remained respectful.

That was… until the lunch videos.

Specifically, the little teddy bear thing she did with the rice.

He didn’t know what it was about that specific video, he’d watched a few of her cute lunch videos before, the sushi was adorable although not to Eddie’s taste, the ramen pots? Genius, Eddie had even tried to do that himself a few times, although the ‘soup’ never tasted half as good as hers looked like it would be, the little fruit animals? He actually, for a moment, genuinely wanted to eat fruit!

But he still kept his words to himself.

But that little teddy bear… nestled in a cushion of healthy greens with a small pot of home-made sauce on the side, it hit Eddie in a way he couldn’t really explain, he wanted that. Wanted someone who loved so hard that they went out of their way to make cute lunches for the person they loved the most. He wanted… the domesticity of it all. She didn’t just have what he wanted. A life. A lived life. She was what he wanted.

Everything about her, that he knew at least, that she was smart, creative, full of love, beautiful, but also pretty damn feisty if her inspired rants about Sally and her potato salad were anything to go by. He wanted her.

He typed a comment, hit send, closed the app, and turned off his phone. Certain that that would be it, she’d ignore his personal account, as she ignored everyone else, he’d get the urge out of his system, he’d feel sad for a little while after the inevitable ignoring, and all would be well.

If only he’d have just looked at the account he was on, before he pressed send.

Maybe it’d have protected his poor front door from the abuse it suffered a few hours later when Dougie finally realised he was at home, because really out of all four of them, Dougie really was the only one with the solid arm strength to really beat the shit out of his front door.

“EDDIE, OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!” Or the vocals to reach him all the way up in his bedroom where he’d very maturely burritoed himself after turning his phone off.

It’d been up for hours. Had he not turned his phone off, he’d have known immediately, because it wouldn’t have shut up, there were over fifty thousand likes on his comment already, over six thousand replies to it.

And the first video on his for you page was someone REACTING to it.

There were screenshots circulating. Stevie hadn’t replied to it, everyone ELSE had, but she hadn’t, deleting it wouldn’t do anything, but he did it anyway. The damage was done, the spotlight was lit and aimed. It was only when the others managed to get to his place and get him seated on his comfy couch, that he finally asked the most important question. “What should I do?”

“Well… we could blame an imaginary social media guy” Gareth offered, already expecting the following, “tell everyone it was just an oopsie?”

“Nah, everyone knows Eddie mans the account” from Jeff. “Maybe we just… silent treatment it, let it blow over?”

“That’s not exactly fair on Stevie though, is it?” Chrissy piped up from where she’d perched herself on the arm of the chair Gareth was sat on. “She’s been thrown into the spotlight here and some of your fans can be kinda… intense.”

“She’s an influencer though, being in the spotlight is like her job.”

“Uh, no, Dougie. She’s not.” Chrissy argued “nothing she does is sponsored, she’s just… popular, and Eddie’s just given her a lot of unwanted attention. Eddie… you really should address it. Either say you were joking if you were, or… I dunno, own it. Be serious about it.”

“Were you joking?” Jeff stepped a little closer, into Eddie’s space, crouching down a little to his level. “Was this just little Eddie talking? Or—or were you serious? Like, she’s hot, don’t get me wrong—”

Gareth snorted, cutting him off “you think she’s hot?”

“I’m gay, Gare, I’m not blind. Eddie?”

“…An if I were serious? Would that be okay? I could hear a but before Garebear interrupted.”

“But, she does have a kid, right? She comes with a real little human being, kids are fragile, impressionable, opinionated, and rockstar lives aren’t kid friendly most of the time… I know we’ve cooled it down, and I know you’re great with kids, Ed but… are you prepared to like… have one? Like a whole ‘this is one I made earlier’ little kid with its own pre-built personality that you’ve made zero contributions to?”

“I made zero contributions to you shits too and yet you turned out alright” Eddie sniped right back, a little more defensive than he really had any right to be. “If it weren’t for me hunting this lil chubby cheeked fuck down after his first hellfire he wouldn’t even be here!” Eddie motioned to Gareth, who squawked in objection

“Hey! I’m neutral here leave me out of it!”

“Do you not think I could take care of one?” Eddie ignored Gareth completely, eyes on Jeff, who shook his head without any offense taken from the outburst.

“I think you’d be great at it, I’m pretty sure you’d be like, the first choice for godfather if any of us had kids, but I’m asking you… are you prepared to take one on right now, even if they might not like you very much at first, if she’s interested? Because that kid will come with her, there’s no ignoring that.”

He didn’t even have to think about it. Even though the godfather thing was something he’d undoubtedly circle back to later, his answer was an instant “Yes.”

“Then own it. You have our support to use the account to make a public statement, however you choose. See where it gets you.”

His public statement was a picture, a black square with big white writing on it. Just a big ol ‘WHOOPS’, captioned “I regret nothing. Just ONE chance, sweetheart, just one.” And then he opened their DM’s in the hopes that maybe.

Just maybe.

She’d message.

Part 3

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: (Reader x Nanami) In the aftermath of a disturbing dream, Kento enfolds you in the solace only he can bring.

Rated: T

Contents: Angst, Suspense, Romance.

Banner artwork: She Did Not Turn - David Inshaw (1974)

Dividers by: @rookthornesartistry

You dream that he is standing in a dried out field, far removed from anything familiar. The alien sun encroaches with terrifying proximity on the horizon, a red collosus, but you feel none of its warmth. It is as if no atmosphere exists around you here, nothing to carry minute traces of sensation from your skin to his across the quivering, paper thin stalks that stab through the earth.

Kento.

Yes, it's your voice, but you have no mouth with which to speak his name. Your presence is a muted one. It doesn't carry any weight here.

He stands, back towards you, and in spite of the chilling distance between your form and his, you can make out the tender part of his hair, which you've run your fingers through countless times when he lays his head in your lap. You can see the way he leans slightly to the left, his straight posture now and then giving way to an old knee injury that plagues him. You watch his hands clench and unclench, reflexively, as he does before setting his mind to a new task, a small gesture of readiness, of his eternal sense of duty.

Kento. What are you getting ready to face?

And why alone?

The stillness of the air is beginning to awaken a restless rebellion in your body. You need to be closer to him. You need to touch him, or that hungry, hungry sun will swallow him up, leaving no trace of him on this fallow ground.

No mouth. No fingers. No legs to carry you to him.

But isn't this how you've always felt? As if you're a powerless spectator, watching as the man you love above all others marches with steady inevitability towards a seething horizon that blows apart under any kind of scrutiny?

How fragile is the human form? How tender is the flesh? You can't help but think of such things, even when enfolded in the vital strength of his arms, even when the sweat of lovemaking cools on your skin and his, and the substantial weight of his body sinks against you, drawn in by the crushing gravity of your embrace.

At those times, you hold him close and wonder at how easily his strength could be shattered, at how frail the connecting web of bone, muscle and blood, everything that made up your Kento, truly was.

Was it monstrous to think that way? Was it so taboo to voice your fears, when you should be dwelling on the sunlit wash of his presence in your home, your bed, your arms?

Forward, forward, you must go further. Push yourself to your limits, as he always does.

The landscape is resolving into harsher shapes around you. Details creep along the edges of your vision, sinuous. There are floorboards beneath your spectral feet. You feel no sensation, but you know that the sun has hardened and bleached them with the same reverence it bestows to the bones of unknowable animals in a flat expanse of desert.

You are viewing Kento through a window, a stark rectangle in the wooden wall, framed in splinters. He is not moving, out there in that dry, dry field, and you wonder how he can bear the heat of that gigantic sun.

A terrible thought strikes you.

What if he is already gone? What if the skin has already been burned from his flesh? What if he cannot move as his muscles shrivel and scorch under that stupendous heat? What if he cannot turn to you, one final time, because he wants to spare you the sight of bone protruding from the remains of charred tissue?

No. No. You cannot let it be. You cannot watch him -

Tangible. Tangible is what you have become, through sheer force of will. You weave your own body into existence, because you must save him, you must reach him.

Kento hasn't moved, but the sun seems closer. It is closer. You have to do something. You have to act, and your helplessness will be no excuse when he is beyond your reach and that of everyone else he knows and cares for -

Your arm, or some half-formed semblance of it, plunges through the window. Something shatters. Sensation floods your mind, synapses flaring to life, their signals propelled with all the reckless fury of a charge on foot against cannon-fire.

It burns, it burns, it is pain, it is beyond anything you have ever endured, but endure it you will, because -

The answer comes to you, spoken somewhere in still-water depths that no sun can reach.

You will burn for him. You will swallow this agony for him. You will partake of this pain until you grow and grow and spread your incorporeal body across the horizon, too large for this flimsy room to contain. You will grow larger than the sun, even, swallowing all of his pain, even beyond the limits of any threshold you have known, because you -

Air enters your lungs in a frigid rush, and you sit up, chest heaving. Your thin nightdress stretches uncomfortably across your skin, and something trickles from your brow down across your eyelid. It stings, blurring your vision. You blink, once, twice.

Someone is calling your name.

There is a hand on your back, firm and grounding. Fingers sweep along your brow, removing the moisture that has collected there.

Kento.

You can barely summon the strength needed to turn and look at him.

There he is.

No scorched flesh, no red, cavernous eye sockets, the gleaming, white sanctuary of his ribs still encased in clean, undamaged tissue.

In the darkness of your bedroom, you can't make out the finer details. No otherworldly sunlight casts his features in stark lines on living canvas.

In spite of this fact, you know that there is a furrow carved in his brow. Even without touching him, you can feel tension radiate from muscles that are always ready to react. Those earnest eyes, always reflecting the dappled shade of a forest in the springtime, taking you in with a scrutiny that would produce the inevitable conclusion.

He doesn't ask you outright; he doesn't need to.

Instead, a hush descends over your senses as his arms come up and draw you close, so close, disregarding the sweat that still dampens your clothes.

Oh, to be wrapped in this steady rhythm forever, to listen to the pulse of the resilient muscle beneath the cellular fabric that forms this man you love above all others. How could your mind still creep back to that hellish place when this was laid out before you, the banquet of his all-encompassing embrace?

No fear can touch you here. No enemy can lay siege to him in this place, protected by the irrational and incontestable vow of sanctity that you have imposed on these four walls.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about?"

His voice stirs gently though your hair, each word laced with infinite tenderness. It almost breaks your resolve to retain control of yourself.

"I had a dream that you ... were far away."

His grip across your shoulder tightens. Kento has seen enough death and despair in the line of duty to fill in the shadowed spaces of that distant landscape himself.

You continue, voice loud in the hush of this room, the night so very, very still. Kento's heartbeat is the exception. It pounds with rebellious vitality under your palm.

"I had a dream that you were standing in a wide, open field. And that there was a giant ... sun in the sky. And it was about to burn everything up, including you. And me."

There is a heavy pause in which the tick of the clock on the nightstand strikes each second with a steel-clad fist.

When he does eventually speak, Kento's voice is low, his words unhurried, as if the reassurance he offers will embed itself in the eternal strata of his world and yours.

"And was I facing you, in this dream? Was I close to you?"

"No. You were ... turned towards the sun."

"Hm. Then that dream means nothing."

"Tell me why."

"If what you dreamed about really happened, and I was in a place you couldn't reach, then I would make sure that I would only ever think of you. If the man in your dream couldn't face you, then he wasn't me. It's that simple."

You can't help the way your lips curve secretly, hidden against the firm heat of his chest.

"Just a dream, then?"

"Hardly worth a single thought."

"Then it was a strange one. Especially that sun."

His head turns, lips pressed lightly against your forehead.

"A brave sun."

"Brave?"

"To try and outdo you."

[rich1etozier]

On the ground is a bleeding man, a pair of mangled wings sprouting from his back.

Eddie gasps. A faerie. A creature with wings whiter than the silver moon.

The thing on the ground stirs.

Eddie is unable to move, not even when the faerie pushes to his knees, then to his feet, blood from the wound Eddie inflicted spilling down his back like paint.

The thing looks like a man rises to his feet and retreats to the trunk of the willow tree. The white wings shift around him, tensed and flat like a wrinkled shroud. After a moment of deliberation, the faerie finds a suitable perch amongst the roots and settles on his haunches.

Eddie thinks for a moment he’s trying to hide himself like prey, seeing the broken wine bottle and knowing what they’re here for.

But then the faerie fixes his gaze on them, and Eddie’s blood runs cold.

Those eyes. They’re black like Father’s, dilated with too much drink. No white at all, just two black pearls in a sharp, pitiless face.

Eddie shakes on the ground, can't find it in himself to speak. Though, in reality, he knows he should say something. Faeries stand on ceremony. Faeries demand respect. But all Eddie can manage is a cotton-mouthed gasp.

This creature is beautiful, and terrifying.

It’s Dustin who breaks the tense moment. He stands, and steps forward with the lantern, their shadows swaying inside the curtain of the willow fronds. Across the lake, the sun has begun its descent behind the tree line.

“Hello again, Master Raven,” Dustin says, bowing deeply, arms thrown out behind him like a courtier. “We mean you no harm. My brother and I are only appreciating the beauty of the Blackwood on this auspicious night.”

“Yes, yes!” Eddie quickly agrees. He rises finally to his feet, shifts so he’s beside Dustin, playing along with his brother’s half-truth, “We were told of the equinox’s unique effect on the Blackwood, and… desired to see it for ourselves.”

Thick hair falls in the faerie’s eyes, the color of new hay after rain. The strands are long enough to trail around his shoulders, catching occasionally on the stark feathers. His expression remains an unchanged wall of apathy. Birdlike and unfeeling.

Eddie is unable to track where those black marble eyes are looking, but he has the distinct feeling that he in particular is being watched. He’s not sure how he knows it, only feels the gaze like a weight. Shivers move across his body.

“Who are you?” the faerie asks. His voice isn’t melodic. It’s deep and it grates, like scratching bone, like quenching hot iron in cold water.

Eddie staggers backward on his feet, nearly tripping on tall tree roots. “Eddie,” he stutters, before snapping his mouth shut. Don’t speak your name in the presence of fae. But it’s too late, he’s already said it. Eddie pushes Dustin behind him, blood cold. Nervous words pour from his mouth like a compulsion, "Our father is the village smith."

The thing that looks like a man points to the bottle in Dustin’s hands. “And you thought you could catch me? In that?”

Eddie lets out a shaky breath, chooses his next words carefully, “You graciously saved us from certain death. I would not reward help with betrayal.”

The faerie scoffs, emotion overtaking his face for the first time. Disbelief, indignation. “Reward? I do not seek the reward of a human.”

“A kindness, then,” Eddie corrects.

The faerie tilts his head, “But not your thanks?”

He’s trying to trap me. Trying to imprison me with words.

Eddie licks his lips, “No.”

A sound like raven-call escapes up the faerie’s throat. He’s laughing at Eddie. “I see you follow your rules well,” the faerie chuckles, shaking his head. “I do not care much for rules.” His wings unfurl, wide and magnificent—flapping once, twice, until he’s propelled himself within touching distance. He lands with a gentle step, tread so light he makes no prints in the fragile layer of moss. The ripped wings fold back up, limp and bloody, but he doesn’t shudder, doesn’t recoil in pain. He probably can’t feel pain at all. That seems like such a human concern, not something worth troubling over when you’re both more and less than a human.

The faerie closes the distance and suddenly he and Eddie are nose to nose, barely inches apart. They’re close enough that Eddie can see freckles on the faerie’s cheeks—They scatter down his neck in a constellation of dark stars.

“Would you like to play a game with me?” the faerie asks.

Even the horrible, teasing smile on his face is beautiful.

Oh god, don’t get distracted.

What had he suggested? A game?

Eddie wants to play, wants to stay just a moment longer in this creature’s presence. But. “We won’t have any dealings with you.”

“A game is not a deal. A game is for fun.”

“I don’t want to have fun with you.”

Inexplicably, the faerie pouts. It’s a grotesque arrangement of features on his wide, flushed face. Makes him seem both more and less like the faerie he is. Clumsily manipulative. Hatefully endearing. “I’m already having fun with you, whether you want me to or not.”

----

this is an excerpt from Chapter 4 of my Faerie!Steve x Blacksmith!Eddie fic, "The Equinox Game" | Read from the beginning here!

[happy74827]

All I Wanted Was You

[Thor Odinson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Thor had always been there to protect you, save you, and love you… Until he couldn't.

WC: 3540

Category: Heavy Angst, Some hurt/comfort, mentions of Loki, Hela, and Heimdall {TW warning: Thanos and “evil squidward” — I know his name but I think Tony’s nickname is too iconic}

So I recently rewatched Infinity War, and of course watching Thor cry over losing literally everyone else he cares for in the first 15 minutes of the movie sparked my writer heart {finally} and after listening to Paramore we have this hot mess of angst (also why are all my Thor fics so angsty when he’s the definition of fluff?? I live for the drama I guess)

And just for the record, we don’t talk about the fact that I have thousands of requests and this isn’t even one of them 💀😭

『••✎••』

They say fear lies in the unknown. In the absence of facts and knowledge, the mind creates a world of illusions. If you believe your own fears, they become reality.

So what happens when the thing you fear the most is taken from you? When everything else falls to nothing? When the world is turned upside down?

You're left with a feeling that can only be described as the deepest pain imaginable.

You're left with nothing but your fear.

Your heart was racing so fast, and your breaths were short. You could feel every single muscle in your body tense up as the unnamed alien man dragged you further and further into the unknown.

The trip back to Earth, back to your sanctuary of a home, was nothing but a blur. After everything that had gone down within Asgard, including Asgard's destruction, all you could think about was your lover. Your other half.

Thor.

He was in pain, and not just physically. You had been separated due to his secretive, power-hungry sister, to where he’d left you alone with his kind-hearted people to find his father, only to disappear and leave you alone with the slaughtering of the Asgardians.

The people you’ve met that very day ended up slaughtered by Hela. Some took you by the hand, guiding and shielding you for protection against the God of Death and her henchmen. Others, you could tell, were more than just scared; they were terrified. The ones that were too slow or the ones that decided to fight back were killed within an instant.

You were no warrior. You were a simple, plain human who somehow caught the eye of the mighty Thor Odinson, and for some reason, he was in love with you.

So, while everyone else fought against Hela and her henchmen, you ran. Thor had left you there in assurance of your safety, thinking the search for his father with Loki, of all people, would be too risky for you, but in reality, you would have rather been with him. At least then, if you were to die, you could have been in the arms of the one you love.

Miraculously, you had survived the fall of Asgard and the escape from Surtur. You had no clue how. Maybe you were just lucky, or perhaps it was the grace of the Allfather. Even Heimdall, the man who saw everything, didn’t see you making it out alive.

But, when Thor had found you in the throne room cornered by some henchmen, it became a fact that Heimdall couldn’t see everything; after all.

The moment your eyes had met, the moment you heard the sound of metal against flesh, the moment his strong, powerful, protective arms wrapped around your fragile, vulnerable, weak form, and the moment his lips kissed the top of your head, you were safe.

Safe.

The only time you felt genuinely safe was when you were with Thor. His mere presence made you feel at ease. Like nothing could ever touch you or hurt you because he wouldn't let it.

He would protect you no matter the cost. He’d die for you, give his life for you, and go to the depths of Hell and back for you. He loved you, and that was something you could never understand.

Why would such a mighty god, a king, and a warrior want to love a simple human like yourself? A clumsy one at that.

You weren’t special in any way. You were ordinary.

But Thor, he was extraordinary.

The God of Thunder, a king and a warrior, a prince and a protector.

He was everything you were not.

It wasn't just the physical things that made him great, too, but the things that were inside.

Thor was a good man. A caring man. One who always thought about others and not himself.

Thor had his moments, yes, but no one is perfect. Not even a god. But the thing that made you love him, that made you want him, and the thing that made you feel safe was his heart.

That was the only part of him you could understand. The way he cared. The way he loved. The way he could make anyone smile. The way he could bring light to anyone's dark.

That's what makes a man a man. And that's why you loved him.

Even now, with one eye, a missing hammer, and a lost kingdom, he was still your everything.

And now you were reunited after being separated again. The only problem was the circumstances.

You and Thor had been in an intimate moment. The relief of having you back in his arms, the adrenaline pumping through your veins from surviving such a tragedy, had you both desperate.

He had pinned you against the wall, his hands brushing your hair away from your face to get a better look at you before he pressed his lips to yours in a soft kiss. He was always so gentle with you. The teasing and playful nips at your bottom lip were proof of that.

But the sudden sight of a ship out the large window you’d stared out of moments before the kiss broke your concentration.

Thor had pulled apart almost immediately, the feeling of his beard no longer tickling your face, but the heat of his breath and the sweet taste of his lips was still there.

It didn't take long before Thor was following your eyes, seeing for himself what had pulled you from him.

A sense of dread washed over you when you noticed how he tensed and his grip on your waist tightened. This wasn’t another Asgardian ship; no, this was something far more dangerous. You could tell by the look in Thor's eye, his non-missing eye.

Then, within seconds, he grabbed hold of your arm and yanked you out of the room. Your heart was pounding as you started yelling questions at him, trying to understand what was going on.

But, when he hit the button that sealed the room you were once in and shielded you within his arms, the panic started to set in.

That's when everything began to blur.

You remembered the sound of explosions. The tearing of metal. The screams. The smell of burning.

It all came crashing down.

Loki had come around the corner, and seeing his expression, it didn’t take much to realize what was going on.

If Loki, the God of Mischief and Lies, was terrified, then that meant something big was going down.

Thor was yelling orders, shouting commands. You could barely make out what he was saying, but you knew he was telling you to stay behind him.

Stay behind him.

Always stay behind him.

Then it changed to get the hell off the ship.

Then, to run.

Run.

Run.

Run.

The last thing you remember was looking back as you sprinted down the halls, seeing your love, your other half, the king, the prince, the protector, your Thor, fighting some creature with his bare hands.

His face was so determined. He wasn’t going down without a fight. You ran to where he had told you to go, the escape pods where Val was helping others into. You got there and saw her eyes. They were wide and full of worry.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

The sound of an explosion brought you back to the present.

Val grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you toward a pod. You could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins and, your heart was racing so fast, and your breaths were short.

All you could think about was Thor. Where was he? Was he alright?

No.

He was not.

As soon as you entered the pod and Val had closed you in it, it was suddenly torn apart. The supposed sliding door had been ripped from its hinges.

The metal that you rested your back upon started to give, and the feeling of moving forward caused your heart to leap.

You were launched out and onto the floor.

It took a second to gain your bearings. You looked up and saw Val. She was fighting, and you were thankful to see her, but it was a short-lived relief.

The… thing she was fighting, the blue alien, grabbed hold of her and flung her across the ship. She landed somewhere near a pod and didn't move. You remembered screaming for her, but she didn't budge.

That's when the creature turned his attention to you.

You tried to move, but the metal that was supposed to hold the pod in place had you pinned.

You tried to pry the metal from your skin, but your weak and vulnerable body couldn’t break the bond.

The alien slowly moved towards you and, in a swift movement, had ripped the metal away.

He was so close, and you had no idea what was going on, who he was, or what his intentions were.

When you felt his large, rough, and cold hand wrap around the back of your neck, panic started to set in. You wanted to kick and scream, but all you could do was stare at the beast before you.

And thus, you were dragged away from the evacuation site and thrown into a separate area. You came to the conclusion that whoever this was, it seemed to be a metal bender or something similar due to his abilities.

All you saw was a demented blue face with squid-like features, staring down at you as he threw you around like a rag doll.

The fifth time he threw you, you landed roughly on the floor, causing your shoulder to make a loud crack noise and the pain to shoot through your body. Your hands landed on something soft, softer than the floor, and when you looked down, you realized the blue thing had thrown you into a room full of corpses.

But it wasn’t just any corpses. The one you had specifically landed upon had been the body of the man you had recently become close friends with, Thor’s friend, Heimdall.

Tears immediately pooled in your eyes, and your breathing became ragged. You tried to sit up and pull your body off of Heimdall in respect, but the pain shooting through your arm and back kept you frozen in place.

The lifeless eyes of the man who saw everything were open, and for once, he was staring at nothing. It was a haunting image.

The tears were now falling, and a sob escaped your lips. You wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. You wanted to scream and shout. You wanted to fight and claw at the alien that took until it bled. But all you could do was lay there, unable to move and weep.

Then, a voice caught your attention. It was deep, and it was coming from the alien that had brought you to this place.

His eyes were no longer focused on you, but they were somewhere else. He was talking to someone.

“Boss,” it spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. You couldn’t bear to look at the being. Not when you were face to face with the lifeless body of the gatekeeper. “There’s a human woman here. A pathetic one, no doubt, but one nonetheless. Should we end her? Or leave her to rot like the others?"

A silence filled the air, and you had no idea what was going on, who he was speaking with, or who was giving him instructions. You could’ve looked. You could have glanced up at the thing, and seen for yourself, but you too were afraid.

Your eyes remained glued to the golden ones that were once filled with light and wisdom.

There was silence, and then a loud, deep, thump. It had startled you, but it wasn't anything like the explosion of the ship, no, it sounded more like a boot or a shoe had come in contact with metal. But, it was loud enough to grab your attention.

You didn’t move. Your eyes didn't stray.

But, your body trembled in fear.

Suddenly, you heard his voice, and it sounded more terrifying than any sound that had echoed in the air prior. It was even deeper, and even more frightening than the other.

“I think not. We have use of her."

He had a deep and gravelly voice, but it was smooth. Calm. Almost friendly.

Then, a large, purple foot, appeared in your vision, and slowly, the purple being leaned down and stared at you. His gaze was strong, and piercing. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. You were too terrified to move, speak, or breathe.

Again, it wasn’t human. It was an alien. And a big one, at that.

He had no hair, only a helmet. His skin was purple and he wore strange looking clothing, including a golden glove that had both a bright purple stone and a blue one.

You’ve never seen such a creature before. You thought those dark elves were terrifying, but they were nothing compared to this man.

And for some reason, he was looking at you like you were an ant, and he was the boot that would crush you.

In fact, he was looking at you with pity, and it confused the hell out of you.

But, when his hand moved, and his fingers had touched the soft strand of your hair, you couldn't help but flinch.

The moment his fingers made contact with you, though, you heard a loud grunt. One that didn’t sound alienated or distorted. It was clear, and you could tell who it was, instantly.

Your head shot up, ignoring the pain in your arm, and the moment your eyes met his, everything stopped.

Everything.

It was Thor.

Your Thor. Your everything.

He was in front of you the entire time, and you had no clue.

The tears were falling. They were falling hard and fast, and you couldn’t stop them. And for once, it wasn’t because of relief.

Thor was encased with metal. His arms and legs were pinned by it. He was bleeding from his head, and he was covered in bruises.

He looked like hell and gave off the same energy.

He was struggling to free himself. That’s what the sounds were. The grunts, the heavy breathing, and the loud thumping. He was trying to get out of his prison to get to you. To save you.

The alien was staring down at you. His eyes were dark and intimidating, but his presence was even more so. He was the embodiment of terror.

Then, without any warning, he grabbed you by the throat.

It was an unexpected move. He had picked you up by the neck with just one hand. He had a grip so tight you couldn't breathe, and the pressure on your throat was unbearable.

You could hear Thor screaming. Yelling.

You could barely hear what he was saying. Your ears were ringing, and the pain of the hand wrapped around your throat was all you could focus on.

But, you could see him. You could see him perfectly.

You saw his blue eye and the patch that covered the missing one. You saw the stubble along his chin. The slight scar that was just below the patch. The wrinkles on his forehead.

You could see it all.

And the look of desperation and horror. It broke you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you felt release.

You fell to the floor and started gasping for air. It was like the moment the alien released his grip on you, everything began again. The world, your thoughts, the chaos.

It was all there, and you couldn’t keep up.

“I see it now.” You heard the voice of the alien say. Your vision was blurry, and your eyes were still stinging from the tears, but you could make him out if only a bit.

He was now standing, towering over you, but he wasn’t looking at you. No, he was looking at Thor; his eyes were focused on the god, which sent a chill down your spine.

When dealing with Hela, you find yourself recovering with confidence. She could’ve easily killed you with a snap of her finger, but when she demanded your name, you had spat in her face and gave a smile.

Even though Thor wasn’t there at that moment, you somehow knew he’d be coming back to put an end to her, and you would be safe. It was like a sixth sense that came and made you stop panicking and running.

And, even though he technically didn’t put her down, he still was your knight in shining armor. It was the same with the dark elves and even with Loki.

They were all terrifying, yes, but somehow, you knew that Thor would save the day.

Now, though, it was different. You weren’t scared or panicked; no, you were terrified.

The fact that Thor was trapped and was physically in pain, the fact that Heimdall and more innocent Asgardians were lying on the floor, dead, and the fact that Loki was missing and Val was knocked unconscious, it had all hit you at once.

You felt like you were suffocating, and it only worsened when the alien spoke again.

“I was questioning why a mortal was amongst a group of Asgardians, how such a fragile being could survive so long among gods. I wondered, but I see it now. You have been blessed by one, and the last, of Odin's children."

The alien's attention was back on you, and the intensity of his gaze had you trembling. He was staring at you, looking through you, and reading you like a book.

"What a pitiful yet fortunate creature you are."

It was like the oxygen had been sucked from your lungs, and when he moved, you found yourself flinching and scooting backward.

He had leaned down again, and his large hand had grabbed the side of your face. The feeling of his skin on yours made your skin crawl, and the urge to vomit was growing.

Thor wasn’t having it. He was thrashing about; the metal that was encasing his body was bending and stretching with each move.

His cries of anger and the desperation in his eyes were heartbreaking. And it was only shut up by the alien who had taken you. A piece of metal flew to Thor’s mouth and held it in place, preventing him from yelling.

More grunts and muffled noises could be heard from the god, but you could no longer see him now. The purple man was blocking your view.

But, despite that, he was still talking to Thor.

"It is a shame, Thor Odinson. I take pity on the both of you, and I apologize, for it seems that fate has not been kind to either of you. But, we must make sacrifices. It is unfortunate that your beloved had to be one of them."

Then, suddenly, the alien turned his gaze back to you, and his dark eyes bore into yours. He was staring directly into your soul.

"Fear not, small child,” he said, his voice sounding almost calm. “You will not have to endure the pain and suffering as I did.”

The words that left his mouth did not give you comfort. It was quite the opposite.

Thor came back into your viewpoint as the purple man had moved, and when your eyes met his, all you saw was a mixture of panic and despair.

Thor's expression had you feeling a type of way. You could feel your stomach sink.

You weren’t dumb. You were far from it.

You knew where this was going, and your mind was screaming, screaming for you to do something, anything.

Run.

Fight.

Scream.

Just do something.

But all you did was stare. Stare at the man that you loved. The man that loved you. The man who had saved you countless times.

But he couldn’t save you now, even when you cried out his name in a soft voice, that frail, humane part of you begging him with your eyes to stop this from happening.

To stop it from hurting.

He couldn’t.

All he could do was look at you, look as you were taken. Look as you were pulled away from him.

All he could do was stare and scream.

It was the loudest, most horrific sound you had ever heard. It was worse than the explosion.

It was worse than anything.

It was the cry of a man who had just lost the last thing that gave him purpose.

It was the sound of a god being torn to pieces.

And it was all because of you.

That was the last thing you heard. That was the last image that burned itself into your brain.

The sound of Thor and his desperate screams was the last thing you remembered.

Everything after that was darkness.

No memories, no thoughts, nothing.

Just darkness.

All he wanted was you.

All he needed was you.

And now, all he had left was the memory of you: that and his broken heart.

[bwabys-scenarios]

If reader was the sweetest person ever but started throwing low blows towards Kurapika (clan), acting sassy, being snarky, in an attempt to make Kurapika grow to not care about her, would Yan Kurapika forgive her? Would he be understanding/see through whats shes tryna do? I mostly wanna know how’d he “handle” blatant disrespect from someone he cares about or if he’d even take it and just let her go without being able to forgive her

warnings: choking, bruising

Kurapika is a smart man, he knows this isn’t how you usually behave. He’s studied you for months and spent so much time with you that he almost knows you more than you know yourself.

He’s read up on how humans react to captivity, knowing that you’ll have mood swings and bouts of depression or rage. Kurapika has planned for all of this, and prepared to eventually be insulted or degraded at some point.

Well… he thought he was prepared, but when you said that his clan was better off dead… he kind of lost it. Before you knew it, you were pinned to the ground with his hands around your neck, choking you.

“How dare you!”

His eyes were a harsh shade of scarlet, not the usual soft red you’d see when he let adoration get the better of him. No, now it was the color of blood red rage.

“You know nothing about my clan, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!”

You choked out an apology, tears pooling down your cheeks as you clawed at his hands, trying to take in air and failing.

Kurapika wasn’t present, he was so overtaken by rage he didn’t even realize what he was doing. It wasn’t until you stopped struggling that he snapped out of it, his eyes going wide with terror.

“N-no…”

He let go, and you immediately took in a shaky breath, your eyes hazy from the lack of oxygen. Kurapika’s hands trembled in fear and shame, tears forming in the corner of his eyes as he noticed the bruises forming on your neck.

Shaped like his hands.

“My angel… oh, my love…” he choked out, gathering your weak body in his arms. “I’m so sorry, fuck…”

He rocked you back and forth, sobbing into your hair. Kurapika knew, he KNEW that you hadn’t meant what you said, and yet he still attacked you.

‘I’m such a hypocrite…’ he thought, his grip tightening around you. ‘I took her to protect her… yet I’m the one hurting her…’

Kurapika wouldn’t let go of you the entire night, as if he was terrified he’d lose you. He was so scared, he had lost every important person in his life, and now he had almost killed you, the person he loved with his entire soul, his entire being.

You were so fragile, your life so easy to snuff out with just a little pressure to your throat. He knew that, he understood just how much weaker you were than him. And yet he still put his hands on you, nearly taking away your life.

It was enough to make him more unstable than usual. Kurapika clung to you desperately for the next week, carefully tending to your bruises and being much more lenient with your little requests. He spoiled and pampered you even more than he usually did, and you slept with him every single night.

You never tried that method again… you never wanted to make Kurapika that angry, it was the worst experience you ever had with him. Even if it meant staying captive, you would much rather see the soft side of Kurapika than the one full of rage and violence.

And Kurapika was more than willing to stay the gentle, sweet man you wanted. He adored you after all… and he would never hurt you again.

He couldn’t take the knowledge that his own two hands caused you pain and fear… so he made sure to control his anger better… and you never mentioned his clan again.

[blessedbygookim]

The Queen Of Busan.

Part one: the meeting.

Part two: defeated.

Part three: years.

This has been in my notes for so long, it was starting to collect dust. Had holes in it too like a fucking overused tissue. Took me way too long and way too much procrastination to do at least something with it. 😭

But here it is finally! Enjoy (pls.) Btw it’s s long, so make sure to grab some snacks and drinks and all before you begin. 🫶🏻

Three years.

Three, and perhaps a bit more has passed since then.

But who counts, right?

Well, not Nova.

Not in a sense that she marks her calendar, crossing out every day and counting down every minute with a sense of pride.

No, it’s a bit different.

She is a bit different now.

Victory has a way of leaving scars, even when the battle is won. For Nova, the echoes of her clash with Gun and Goo lingered like a ghost, haunting her in the spaces where silence should have soothed. She had defended Busan, saved her people, and reaffirmed her rule. But the harder she clung to the city she loved, the more fragile it began to feel in her grasp, as though the very act of holding it might shatter it to pieces. Paranoia crept into her like a thief in the night, curling its cold fingers around her mind. She began to see shadows where there were none, hear whispers in the cracks of laughter, and sense betrayal in the most loyal of faces. It wasn’t fear for herself—Nova had never feared anything when it came to her own life. But the idea of her people, her city, being destroyed by some unseen hand tore at her like a blade.

She became a hurricane disguised as a queen, her calm exterior hiding the growing storm beneath. Anyone who so much as looked like a threat, anyone whose loyalty seemed even a shade of gray, was erased from her world. She struck preemptively, not from malice, but from the gnawing dread of what might happen if she hesitated.

Busan remained alive, still thriving under her reign, but the warmth that had once defined her began to cool. The kindness she had wielded like a lantern in the dark was dimmed by the weight of her vigilance. Each decision made for protection, each life ended for the greater good, chipped away at the part of her that had once loved freely and trusted easily.

So, who is Nova now?

Nova had become something more than human, and less. There was a divinity in her now—something sacred yet terrifying, like the wrath of an angel carved in the firelight of old myths. She moved through Busan like a specter, her presence haunting and magnetic, commanding worship without a word.

She no longer sought connection; she had become untouchable, unreachable. People admired her as one admires a star—brilliant, distant, and wholly impossible to grasp. Beauty once made to disarm had become a weapon, sharper than any blade, the kind of beauty that made you question your own humanity. She was a marble nymph come to life, skin kissed by the moonlight, eyes glowing with the weight of a thousand secrets. Her lips could promise salvation or damnation; no one was brave enough to ask which.

Even her movements were a symphony of chaos and control, weaving between the earthly and the unearthly. She operated on a different frequency now, untethered by mortal logic. Her unpredictability was a blade that kept the city’s predators at bay, a dangerous dance of intellect and raw power that no one dared interrupt. Each step, each word, was deliberate yet chaotic, calculated yet mad.

The city felt her in its bones—her rage, her fear, her brilliance. In her, they saw something that outmatched even the chaos of Goo and the calculated terror of Gun. She had become a new breed of monster: fluid, unrelenting, and impossible to define. Busan was still hers, but it bore the scars of her transformation—the quiet streets, the muffled breaths, the lingering bloodstains in places she deemed necessary.

And yet, she knew this could not last. The whispers reached her like a cold wind. The King of Busan, the man who once ruled these streets, was returning. Released from his prison, where he had spent years plotting and waiting, his shadow stretched long over the city she had fought so hard to claim.

Nova had always been three steps ahead, but now the clock ticked louder. She could feel it—the shift in the air, the weight of her reign buckling under the possibility of his return.

“Well, it is what it is,” she murmured to herself, a short laugh slipping past her lips—dry, devoid of humor, like a hollow wind passing through dead trees. It wasn’t bitterness, nor resignation, but something quieter: acceptance.

No, Nova had never feared challenges. They were the marrow of her life, the thing that kept her alive in more ways than one. But she’d learned that some battles aren’t worth the blood they demand. Sometimes, the hardest choice is to let go.

Vengeance? She scoffed at the thought. The two boys, and Charles Choi—they were never worth the weight of her anger. Rot always consumes itself, she knew that, and rotten fruit falls from the tree eventually.

And fall they did. The news came in whispers and headlines, carried on the tongues of her network and glowing screens alike. Charles Choi’s empire, the colossus of corruption and greed, had crumbled under the weight of its own secrets.

And then came the final note in his symphony of ruin: his leap from a skyscraper, a plunge into the abyss broadcast live to the world.

She hadn’t smiled at the news. There was no triumph in witnessing the inevitable. Only the quiet hum of the universe in perfect order, like a thread tying itself neatly in place.

And Gun—the unshakable, unmovable Gun—had taken the fall, as if shouldering the sins of his master. His prison sentence was whispered like a legend in the making, the kind of story that would ripple through the underground for years to come.

The mighty had fallen, indeed. Life worked its strange magic, whether cruel or harmonious, and Nova watched it all unfold from the throne she no longer wanted to hold.

Let’s rewind a little though, back to the aftermath of their fall three years ago. Gun and Goo—two untouchable legends brought down by a woman who operated like no one they had ever encountered. Her victory felt like something whispered in the dead of night, a fairy tale spun from improbable threads. A queen who felled kings.

And yet, such defeats linger. They don’t dissolve into the air like smoke but instead carve themselves into the memory, stubborn as scars. For most, it might have meant retreat, or the slow, smoldering fire of revenge. But for Gun and Goo, it became something far more dangerous: obsession.

For Gun, it was the kind that sharpened his senses and fed the hunger he lived for. She was proof that power could always be pushed further, boundaries could always be broken. Her strength, her unpredictability, and the sheer artistry of her defiance—it was intoxicating. She became his unspoken benchmark, the ghost of a challenge that whispered, Wow, can’t you do better than this? Better than her?

For Goo, the fascination was… messier. He’d always been a man who lived for the next big thrill, the next shiny thing to chase. And Nova? She wasn’t just a thrill; she was an obsession wrapped in silk and steel. That face, those eyes, that terrifying grace—she was every temptation he’d ever entertained, tasting like every dark thought he ever had. More than that, she was opportunity personified. She was a future, a wildcard, a queen in the making who could flip the board in ways he hadn’t even imagined yet.

She lingered in their minds, unshakable. For Gun, she was the fight that got away, the opponent he hadn’t truly bested. For Goo, she was a door left ajar, the promise of something more. Maybe a love interest? Well–give or take–yes.

Her decree had been clear: Gun and Goo were never to step foot in her city again. The words, sharp and final, had left no room for misinterpretation. She had built Busan into her sanctuary, her dominion, and their presence was a nuisance she would not tolerate.

For Gun, the ban had become a ghost he could not exorcise. Not because he feared her wrath—fear was an emotion long absent from his repertoire—but because he was caged. Locked behind cold bars for sins not entirely his own, he now had nothing but time to replay the memory of her. The way her strength had shattered his expectations. The way her movements had seemed to defy gravity, reason, logic. She was his unbroken record, the one challenge he couldn’t replay, and that haunted him more than any prison cell.

But Goo? Goo had no such limitations. He was free, unburdened by Charles Choi’s schemes and Gun’s watchful shadow. No longer a pawn in someone else’s game, Goo had become his own master, a chaotic force of nature with nothing to lose and everything to gain. His Secret Friends were thriving, his plans were unfurling like a meticulously crafted symphony, and the world itself felt ripe for the taking.

And yet, amidst all the chaos he orchestrated, she remained. A persistent thought in the back of his mind, like a song he couldn’t stop humming. Her image, her power, the electric charge of her presence—it was an itch he couldn’t scratch, a curiosity too tantalizing to ignore. The thrill of her had never left him.

Goo had always been a creature of impulse, but now he was something more: refined chaos. Experience had tempered him, not into a calmer man, but into a more calculated one. He understood the value of patience, the power of letting the game play out before tipping the board. But with Nova, patience was a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore.

The idea of seeking her out again wasn’t just tempting—it was inevitable. He didn’t care about her ban; in fact, it amused him. The queen of Busan thought she could draw lines he wouldn’t cross? She had underestimated just how far he was willing to go for the thrill of seeing her again.

And so, plans began to take shape. Subtle inquiries, discreet movements, the kind of groundwork that would lead him back to her city without a single warning flare. Not for vengeance, not for power—simply for the exhilaration of stepping into her world once more.

For Goo, the anticipation was everything. It was the prelude to chaos, the moment before the storm, and he relished it like a fine wine.

Busan’s queen didn’t yet know it, but the game was about to begin again. And this time, Goo was playing to win.

Playing to win. Only playing.

For Goo, life was a stage, a grand and unpredictable theater where he thrived on improvisation, on stirring chaos and watching the pieces fall where they may.

That day they were in his apartment. The room, dimly lit and filled with cigarette smoke, was a chaotic blend of personalities that somehow orbit around Goo’s gravitational pull.

Samuel Seo sat in the corner, tapping ash into a small tray. He was quiet, listening with that unreadable expression of his, his eyes sharp and calculating. Samuel rarely wasted words, but his silence carried a weight that even Goo acknowledged—albeit grudgingly.

Taejin Cheon, a stark contrast, sat stiffly, his cold and precise demeanor radiating a silent judgment of everyone else in the room. His calculating nature was as intimidating as his reputation.

Logan Lee, however, was the odd one out, hunched in the corner, picking his nose with no shame, his oversized frame slumped in the armchair that creaked with every move. His presence was always a question mark, his attitude laced with bitterness toward anyone more attractive, successful, or likable than him—which was, frankly, everyone. Yet Goo kept him around, maybe for comic relief, maybe for the sheer irony of it.

Goo was in his element, as usual, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, juggling a golden pen between his fingers like it was a toy. He smirked as he spoke, his tone dripping with amusement and sarcasm as he laid out half-baked schemes and provocations, each one more outlandish than the last.

Yet deep down, he knew better. He knew when someone was several steps ahead, and even as he laughed it off, the thought of Nova’s face flickered through his mind.

She wasn’t playing. She never was. And that thought lingered, unsettling and undeniable, even as Goo turned back to his ridiculous plans with his mismatched crew.

Oh then there is Alexander, he was outside, “guarding the door”, so to say. He always been a man of pretense—bold when he could hide behind stronger shadows, and soft when the world grew too sharp around the edges. Goo’s plans—chaotic, absurd, somehow brilliant—had a way of infecting everyone with belief.

Then sound of heels—sharp, deliberate—echoed down the hallway like a metronome ticking against the silence. Each click reverberated with a weight that made his skin prickle.

He told himself it was nothing. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe someone delivering something. Nothing unusual.

But when he snapped out of his thoughts, a woman was already standing before him, like she just appeared out of thin air. Her frame cloaked in a sleek black coat that draped around her like liquid shadow. Her posture was relaxed, yet the air around her was suffocating.

Unsettling.

Alexander tried not to stare, but his eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She looked out of place, but not in a way that suggested she didn’t belong—rather, in a way that suggested the space was simply too small to contain her. Her presence expanded and pressed against the hallway walls, filling every crevice with an unspoken tension.

Her hair was tied into a high, slick ponytail, the strands catching faint glints of light like threads of silver. Designer sunglasses perched on her face, shielding her eyes, but Alexander felt them on him nonetheless. Or perhaps staring through him. The coat swayed slightly as she shifted her weight, and for a fleeting moment, the golden sheen of her heeled boots caught his gaze.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon a shred of authority. “Uh, excuse me, miss… Can I help you with something?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her head turning ever so slightly as if deciding whether to bother acknowledging him. When she finally tilted her face toward him, no words came. Instead, she simply tilted her head down a little to peak above her sunglasses to look down at him, her gaze cool and clinical.

Alexander felt his stomach twist. Her eyes weren’t cold; they were empty—a void that somehow managed to feel like it could see right through him.

“Is Joongoo here?” she asked, her voice low and smooth, unbothered and yet somehow impossible to ignore.

Her tone carried the weight of someone who didn’t ask questions often. Someone who didn’t need to.

Alexander blinked, caught off guard by her directness. “Uh… And who’s asking?” he stammered.

She didn’t flinch. If anything, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips. “It’s not important who’s asking. Is he here?”

Alexander’s confusion morphed into suspicion. She didn’t look like a threat—no visible weapons, no bruiser stance—but something about her was wrong. Danger oozed off her in invisible waves, subtle but suffocating, like smoke in an enclosed space.

He straightened his back, puffing his chest slightly, trying to muster some of the confidence that had carried him through lesser skirmishes. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Her lips twitched, and this time the smirk fully formed. She chuckled—low, dark, and amused, like a lion humoring a mouse before the pounce.

“Oh, trouble?” she echoed, her tone dripping with mockery. She adjusted her coat with a casual grace, the ponytail behind her bouncing ever so slightly as she moved. “No, no. I’m not looking for trouble.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “But it’s funny, isn’t it? What if someone is asking for trouble from me? That makes quite the difference, doesn’t it.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded so threatening, but Alexander’s throat tightened all the same. He swallowed hard, the gulp audible even over the weighty silence. And then she chuckled again, softer this time, stepping back just slightly to assess the door once more.

“You know what?” she said suddenly, the grin returning to her lips. “Hell yeah.~”

There was no malice in her voice, but something about the way she said it made Alexander’s blood run cold. He couldn’t quite explain why—it was as though the promise of something catastrophic lay just beneath her words, hidden in the velvet smoothness of her tone. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the spot as she shifted her weight, standing tall and poised, utterly unshaken by his presence.

And then, just as suddenly as the moment had started, she tilted her head slightly, letting the smirk linger for a heartbeat longer before settling back into her neutral, unreadable expression.

“Well,” she said softly, almost to herself, “time to see if he’s as amusing as he used to be.”

Three minutes. Who knows what happened outside under a mere three minutes.

It ticked by in near silence, punctuated only by the muffled shuffling of feet behind the door. Alexander appeared in the frame—a man who looks like they just faced death itself.

His forehead was wrinkled with a sheen of sweat covering it. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts, a twitching smile on his lips betraying an undercurrent of horror. His eyes were wide, unblinking, like he’d stared into the abyss and seen it staring back.

Goo, seated with one leg draped lazily over the other, narrowed his eyes, irritation blooming across his face. “Did you have a very uncomfortable shit or something?” he quipped, his tone lilting with mockery, though there was a razor’s edge of suspicion beneath it.

Alexander didn’t answer immediately. His mouth opened, closed, then finally worked to croak out a single sentence:

“Someone is here… to see you.”

Goo groaned, rolling his head back and gesturing dismissively with his hand. “Tell ‘em I’m busy.~”

But Alexander didn’t move. Instead, his body gave a subtle tremor, his laughter bubbling out in an uncomfortable, broken chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid that would be… useless now.”

The air in the room seemed to thin as he spoke those words. Goo straightened slightly in his chair, the laziness melting from his expression as something more serious replaced it. His mouth opened to question Alexander, but before the words could form, the familiar prickle of danger crawled up his spine like a whisper.

Nova entered like she was born to command every eye in the room. Her movement was smooth, deliberate, each step exuding a lethal grace. The air shifted as though it, too, bent to her presence. She brushed past Alexander with barely a glance, and he collapsed without a sound, crumpling to the floor like a marionette with its strings severed.

But the others couldn’t spare him even a glance.

Samuel, always sharp and calculating, adjusted his posture with quiet precision, his fingers itching toward the cigarette perched between his lips. His narrowed eyes gave away his thoughts—Why is she here?

Taejin shifted in his seat, his impassive demeanor betraying little, but his attention locked onto her like a predator sizing up another. He had the look of a man who could feel the temperature of the room plummet and knew better than to underestimate what caused it. Logan scowled almost instantly. His lip curled, his beefy form tense with distaste, as though the mere sight of her polished beauty offended him. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

And Goo… Goo said nothing.

He wasn’t the type to lose his composure too often, but something about the sight of her again—her presence, her ease, her smirk—momentarily knocked him off balance. The playful spark that usually danced in his eyes dimmed. His expression hardened into something that bordered on serious, a rare sight indeed.

“How the fuck did she find me..” He thought to himself.

Nova let out a slow, audible sigh through her lips, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. Her smirk widened slightly as she took in the scene before her: the four men frozen in place, each one trying to decipher the storm that had just walked into their midst.

“Mmm…” she mused aloud, her voice soft but sharp enough to slice through the silence. She inhaled theatrically through her nose, tilting her head back before wrinkling it in mock distaste. “It smells like male desperation in here.”

It definitely earned a few blinks of bitterness and disrespected confusion from the others. Bristle they did indeed.

She shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth like a disappointed schoolteacher. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her smirk fading into something unreadable. She reached up to slide her sunglasses off, holding them delicately between her fingers. She inspected the lenses with the same casual care someone might use when checking for smudges on fine crystal, before pulling a cloth from her pocket to clean them.

The tension in the room stretched taut as a bowstring.

And she wasn’t in a hurry either.

It wasn’t what she said or did—it was what she didn’t do. She hadn’t barked orders. She hadn’t made demands. She hadn’t thrown a punch or even raised her voice. And yet, somehow, she had the upper hand.

Goo’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, his brow furrowing as he studied her. She was like him now—but more. More calculated. More bloodthirsty. More dangerous. It was as though someone had distilled all of his charm, his chaos, his danger, and polished it into something razor-sharp and terrifyingly deliberate.

Red lights flashed in his mind like a siren, but he couldn’t help the faint tug of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

Nova, oblivious to—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the weight of the gazes on her, slipped her glasses into her pocket with the same languid grace. She finally looked up, meeting Goo’s eyes across the room with a knowing glint.

“I do have to hand it to you, Joongoo,” she said, her tone warm with mock amusement. “You’ve really gone and assembled quite the… crew.”

Her voice dipped just enough to make the word crew sound like the punchline to an unspoken joke.

She rocked back on her heels slightly, hands still in her coat pockets, tilting her head as if assessing her next move. The smirk returned, sharper now, her eyes glittering with something dangerous. She tilted her head slightly as she examined the occupants, her sharp gaze stopping on Goo. Slowly, her lips pulled into a faux pout, theatrical enough to rival any performance Goo himself has ever put on.

“But you know…” she began, her voice dripping with exaggerated hurt, “I’m kinda hurt…” she tapped her chest lightly, the feigned injury marked by a dramatic sigh. “Somewhere here, I guess.” Her perfectly manicured finger gestured lazily toward her heart, her expression shifting between mock surprise and wounded disbelief.

“How come I didn’t receive an invite to such an important meeting?~” She let the question hang in the air, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. Her tone was syrupy, her cadence playful, but every word cut like a well-sharpened blade.

“And this crew?” Her gaze darted to Samuel, Taejin, Logan, and then back to Goo. Her lips quirked into a smirk, her voice dripping sarcasm. “How come I didn’t get scouted? Wow… I can almost feel my heart crack…”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the mocking edge in her words loud in the silence.

It was so him. So much like Goo that it felt like someone had taken his own brand of chaos, wrapped it in silk, and handed it back to him with a sharper edge.

But then came the laugh—a low, rich chuckle that curled around the air like smoke. She waved her finger at him, her smile widening. “Joongoo-ya..~” she cooed, her tone carrying that dangerous, teasing note. “You made it big now, didn’t ya?~”

Her eyes shone with something unreadable, the undertone of her words enough to send a chill even through Logan, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, muttering something incoherent once again. Nova, unfazed, continued, shaking her head slowly as if she were in disbelief.

“Wow,” she mused softly, circling around him with the leisurely pace of a predator toying with its prey. Her sharp boots clicked against the floor, echoing through the room like a countdown. “I like what I see…” She paused deliberately before gesturing toward him, her hand fluttering in the air. “You. Polished and so handsome…~”

Goo didn’t say a word. His eyes followed her every movement, calculating, his signature smirk trying to hold steady but faltering ever so slightly at the edges. She chuckled again, the sound a deliberate contrast to the tension she was weaving. “I could just pinch your cheeks right now!~” She reached out as if to emphasize the thought, her tone sweet but dripping with mockery. Her fingers stopped just shy of actually making contact before she chuckled again, pulling her hand back and shaking her head.

Samuel shifted in his chair as Nova moved closer, stepping directly into his path. Her eyes slid over him like he was merely a piece of the furniture, and her smile widened playfully.

“Oops, sorry, hot stuff,” she said with a mischievous lilt, side-stepping with a deliberately exaggerated sway. “Step aside, please.~”

The casual dismissal of someone as sharp as Samuel was comical in a sense, designed to make its mark. And it did. His lips twitched slightly as he leaned back, choosing to observe instead of engage.

She grabbed an armchair with the ease of someone who had already claimed the room as hers. She dragged it across the floor, her strength apparent despite the soft scrape of the chair legs against the polished surface. It came to rest opposite Goo, right in the heart of their gathering. She sat down with an air of absolute entitlement, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back like she belonged there more than any of them.

It was a clear mirroring of Goo.

For a moment, she studied him. Her gaze was assessing, almost clinical, before she nodded approvingly. “Look at you…” she murmured, the mock sweetness of her voice still carrying that edge. “All grown up now…doing adult shit… playing big man games.~”

The others exchanged glances, clearly unsure how to process the scene unfolding before them. Nova wasn’t just commanding attention; she was demanding it.

“I am so happy to see you again.” She said finally, the words dripping with contradiction. The tone should have been warm, nostalgic, maybe even genuine, but instead, it carried a dangerous undercurrent. Her eyes, sharp and unforgiving, locked onto Goo, and in that moment, they weren’t just greeting him—they were dissecting him. Goo’s fingers twitched against the armrest of his chair, the first crack in his otherwise controlled demeanor. He wasn’t used to being on the back foot nowadays, and Nova seemed determined to keep him there. The smirk playing at Goo’s lips faltered for a heartbeat before he regained his composure, but by then, the power dynamic had already shifted.

Nova leaned back further, her smirk widening as if she could read the thoughts running through his head. “So…” she began, her voice light, almost playful, but carrying that undeniable weight. “Shall we get to the part where I tell you why I’m really here?~”

There were many questions brewing in their heads, but none dared to voice them.

Who was this woman? How did she find them? And, more importantly, why was she talking to Goo like they shared an infamous, bloody history?The answer was there, lingering like smoke from a distant fire, but none of them could grasp it. None, except Goo, whose eyes betrayed recognition and unease.

Nova let her head tilt to one side as she fixed Goo with a look that seemed equal parts mocking and predatory. “A little birdie told me,” she began, her tone playful yet deadly, “that you now feel bold enough to—not just make plans about—but actually step foot back into my city again.~”

Her words trailed off into a sharp, cold silence. For a fleeting moment, the air felt impossibly heavy, suffocating, as if the room itself braced for what would come next.

Then her expression shifted. The playful smirk melted away, leaving her face unnervingly blank, her sharp features cold and unreadable.

“I didn’t take you to be an actual idiot.” she stated flatly.

The air froze again, a tension that clung to the walls like frost.

And just as quickly, the smirk returned, disarming and unsettling in equal measure.

“I guess even I can be wrong sometimes, huh?” she mused, her voice light and teasing once more. She tilted her head, humming softly to herself. “This is the only defeat I’m willing to accept, then.”

It was the kind of emotional whiplash that left the room reeling, the kind that made it impossible to tell if she was moments away from embracing Goo like an old friend or popping his head off its place. Her tone, her body language, even the air around her seemed to shift with every word, keeping them all teetering on the edge of discomfort.

“Well…” She shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t.”

The word hung in the air, weighty despite its simplicity.

“It’s as simple as that, ya know?” She straightened her posture, taking on a nonchalant air, but her sharp gaze didn’t lose its edge. “Actually, hold that thought until the former King comes back.”

The words landed heavily, a thinly veiled reminder of who still stood at the top in her mind.

“I’m a woman who doesn’t like being bothered,” she continued with a sigh, her head tilting back as she fixed her gaze on the ceiling. “And, trust me, my plate’s already full, especially because not long ago Busan became a little divided.”

She yawned audibly, a casual display of disregard for the danger the others felt pressing against their chests. Craning her neck to one side, she let it crack softly, the sound somehow more unnerving than her words.

Finally, Goo broke the silence. His voice cut through the air, low and sharp. “You changed.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an assessment.

The Nova who sat before him wasn’t the same as the one he remembered. The woman from three years ago, the one who had once been all soft-spoken charm and warmth, was gone. In her place sat something steelier, something forged in the fire of whatever trials she had endured since then.

She opened her eyes slowly, her expression unreadable as she nodded. “No shit,” she said simply, her tone blunt. “Who doesn’t?”

Goo leaned back slightly in his chair, his smirk returning as he tried to read her. “True…” he muttered, letting the word hang for a moment. Then, tilting his head, he asked with a smirk, “So what makes you think I couldn’t take you now?”

It was a challenge, one that carried the weight of history and unspoken threats.

But Nova didn’t flinch.

Her sly smile returned, one brow arching slightly as if she were indulging in a private joke. “Take me in what way exactly?” she asked, her voice slipping into a tone that was deliberately suggestive.

The innuendo was clear as day, and it caught Goo off guard, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second.

She chuckled softly, her laughter like velvet laced with steel. “Ahh,” she said, waving her hand as if dismissing the very idea. “You never fail to not make me feel threatened.~”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with tension.

Her gaze shifted to the others, lingering on each of them in turn. She studied them as if they were pieces on a chessboard, her sharp mind calculating every move before it was even made.

“So…” she began, her tone light but her words weighted. “What are they for?”

The question hung in the air, almost rhetorical.

“World domination?” she mused aloud, her tone dipping into mockery. “Business ventures? Making a bank?—Shit, opening a bakery? One would never know with you…” She shook her head slowly, disapproval flickering across her features.

Then she paused, her expression sharpening.

“But then again…” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied Goo. “I have a weird feeling, ya know? Like you’re trying to replace a certain someone with these people.”

The weight behind her words were undeniable.

“Which he would certainly take as an insult,” she added casually, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Hell, even I would too…”

The room grew impossibly tense as her words sank in.

Goo’s jaw tightened, and his smirk disappeared entirely as he realized exactly who she was referring to. There was no mistaking it now—she was talking about Gun.

The air in the room had turned into an almost dizzying atmosphere, as if the gravity of Nova’s presence had sucked all oxygen out. Her sharp words were laced with biting mockery, the kind that left wounds more emotional than physical.

“I mean, you miss him, I get that, but…” Nova hummed softly, her tone almost considerate as she tilted her head in thought, gazing off like she was trying to solve a mild puzzle. “If my ex-partner in crime were to ever try and replace me with multiple Temu versions of me, knowing the reputation I have… ouh brother—I would be seething.”

She cringed to herself dramatically, her nose scrunching in disgust. “The absolute disrespect… ouhh!”

Her exclamation was almost playful, but the undercurrent of insult wasn’t lost on the others. The three men stiffened visibly, their pride simmering into something volatile. She wasn’t just mocking Goo—she was outright dismissing them as well, labeling them nobodies not just compared to Gun but even as a collective group.

Nova wasn’t done yet.

“Either way…” She shrugged with an air of dismissal, her eyes half-lidded in amusement. “Now that he’s on topic, I was actually thinking about visiting him, ya know? For old times’ sake.”

At the last sentence the other three’s eyebrows knit together momentarily.

Her tone was casual, almost whimsical, but it carried a weight that even Goo couldn’t ignore.

He audibly scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Good luck,” he sneered, voice low and laced with derision. “He doesn’t take visitors.”

It was true—Gun refused everyone, even Goo ever since he has been rotting away in jail. As far as he knows.

Nova merely hummed, seemingly unbothered by the obstacle. She crossed her arms, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “Interesting…” she mused, as if the revelation were some grand mystery unraveling. Then she tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing ever so subtly. “Doesn’t take visitors at all… or just doesn’t take visits from you?”

The blow landed hard, and Goo’s smirk vanished instantly.

“Truth hurts, I get that.” She continued without missing a beat, her voice light and conversational, though the blade of her words remained sharp. “I mean, my time’s almost up as the one who reigns over Busan anyway… It’s right around the corner. Hell, it even makes my heart beat a bit harder, so I get it!”

She gave a little nod as if she were genuinely sympathizing, though the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her mockery.

Goo, meanwhile, sat there brooding, her words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

Nova, ever perceptive, shifted her gaze to the other three, her expression softening into something resembling mild confusion. She leaned back slightly, one brow quirking.

“Why do they look so confused, by the way?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious as she glanced back at Goo. “Like they know who I am, but not really.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and Goo finally snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze sharpening.

“Especially when I said, ‘for old times’ sake. I definitely felt a shift in the room after my statement,” she added, her voice dipping into a teasing lilt.

And then, as if a realization dawned on her, she turned her entire body toward Goo, her expression shifting into one of mock shock.

“Don’t tell me…” she gasped, her voice dripping with faux disbelief. “They don’t know?~”

The silence that followed was deafening.

It was clear none of the three men—Samuel, Taejin, or Logan—knew what she meant. No one, except for her, Goo, and Gun, truly knew the history they shared. And Charles of course, but he already took this secret to his grave.

Nova pursed her lips, nodding slowly to herself as the pieces clicked into place.

“Oof…Now this is fucking awkward,” she muttered, rubbing her temples like she needed to process the absurdity of it all.

She sighed softly, lowering her hands and glancing back at Goo. “Well then, I guess I won’t run my mouth either.” Her voice was almost empathetic, as if she was doing him a favor. “You gotta keep your dignity intact? Understandable.”

And then, she slowly stood, her energy shifting once more.

Taking a step closer to him and ruffling Goo’s hair in an almost affectionate gesture, one that made him flinch slightly, and followed by two light pats to his cheek.

“I’ll leave you be then,” she said breezily, her tone as casual as if they were old friends. But just as she side-stepped him, she leaned in close to his ear, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“If I even sense you anywhere near Busan, you’re immediately a dead man. Yeah?~”

Her words weren’t a threat—they were a promise.

The chill in her tone, the sharp edge of her whisper, engraved itself into Goo’s very survival instincts. He stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

And with that, Nova straightened, her smirk returning as if she hadn’t just rattled the room to its core.

She waved to the others casually, like they were old friends she was saying goodbye to. “Be good, boys!~”

And then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

For a moment, no one spoke. The other three exchanged wary glances, each of them trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Finally, Goo let his head fall back against his chair, exhaling a long, shaky breath like he’d been holding it in for years.

“I love her so much it makes me wanna throw up…” he muttered, his voice laced with a mixture of admiration and dread.

Samuel crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. “Who is she?”

Goo didn’t answer immediately, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“She’s trouble,” he finally said, his tone soft and almost wistful. “The worst and best kind of trouble.”

The others didn’t know whether to take that as a warning or an understatement… or what he even meant by it at all.

“But we’re still going to Busan, right?” Goo asked, his neck suddenly straightening, his tone light and almost hopeful, his eyes darting between each men, as if he could somehow ignore the very real danger that Nova’s words had cast over the plan. His mind, however, was still replaying her threat on an endless loop. It gnawed at him, and yet, despite it all, his typical confidence found a way to resurface.

Logan immediately scoffed from where he sat, his massive frame tense with disdain. “Do I look like I want to die by the hands of a girl? Fuck no.”

Without another word, Logan shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stood up, his expression sour, and strode toward the door. His presence had already been tested more than enough today, and he wasn’t about to let a single woman undermine him further—yet he wouldn’t dare challenge her, either.

The door slammed behind him, leaving the room one body lighter.

Hah. Puns. (author’s note: I really don’t fw him, sorry.)

Taejin, for his part, remained still for a moment, his eyes cold and calculating. But inwardly, he felt like the entire foundation of his confidence had been shaken to its core. Nova had stepped into the room and shattered that image in a matter of minutes.

He cleared his throat softly, nodding toward Goo with his usual air of politeness. “I’ll have to pass as well. I’ve seen enough for today.”

With that, he exited quietly, his footsteps deliberate.

Goo’s gaze flicked to Samuel, who had remained silent throughout the ordeal. He raised a brow expectantly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “And you, Sammy? Don’t tell me you’re chickening out too?”

Samuel’s jaw clenched visibly, his pride warring with his self-preservation instincts. He knew better than to challenge Nova—especially after what he’d just witnessed. The way she carried herself, the sheer confidence she exuded, made it clear she wasn’t someone to trifle with. And the fact that she seemed to know things—deep things—about Goo and Gun made her even more dangerous.

“I’m not stupid,” Samuel muttered, his tone low and grudging. “If she says you’re dead if you go near Busan, I believe her.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Good luck with whatever suicide mission you’re planning.”

Goo pouted, his usual playful demeanor masking the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Y’all are no fun…” He crossed his arms, rolling his eyes, but he understood their decision. It was the smart choice. No one should be foolish enough to go against someone like Nova, not with how powerful and untouchable she seemed. “What do you think, Alexander?” He asked, his voice light and almost hopeful.

Silence.

Alexander, still sprawled on the floor, didn’t even stir, his body utterly limp.

“Oh—never mind, actually,” Goo muttered, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was clear that Alexander wasn’t going to provide any answers anytime soon.

And so, in the aftermath of her perfectly executed performance, Nova left behind an impression that even Goo—master of chaos himself—couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

Ladies and gentlemen, and/or nonbinary people, this is how you utterly annihilate someone at their own game without breaking a sweat. No swords, no fists, no flashy moves were necessary. Not even a hint of physical aggression.

After all, why would she need to swing a katana at him? For comedic effect? She didn’t like those things anyway. The scar Goo had given her in their last fight, jagged and deep across her abdomen, served as an eternal reminder. Not of defeat, no—but of her own resilience.

Besides, what was the point of clashing swords when you could cut deeper with words?

All she needed was to dip into that unpredictable essence Goo prided himself on, twist it with her own chaotic brilliance, and let him taste defeat in a language he could understand—one he excelled at but couldn’t keep up with when wielded by her.

She was, in short, playing him better than he could ever play himself.

Why did she go through all this trouble, though? A fair question. The answers, as usual with Nova, weren’t exactly clear-cut.

Maybe it was the thrill of it—the pure satisfaction of planting herself so much more deeper in their heads that they wouldn’t forget her anytime soon. Perhaps it was a subtle reminder of the transformation she’d undergone, a subtle jab at the fact that her growth—her evolution—was, in part, thanks to them.

But most likely? It was to hammer home a truth they couldn’t ignore: no matter how much they evolved, no matter their blood and past, no matter how strong or smart they thought they were, they would never surpass her.

She existed on a level above them. Intellectually, emotionally, physically—she was untouchable, and she wanted them to know it.

The correctional facility’s visiting room was as sterile and uninviting as one would expect—grey walls, a faint hum of fluorescent lighting, and a large motivational poster hanging on the wall:

“LET’S LIVE A HEALTHY LIFE WITH MORAL INTEGRITY!”

Nova barely managed to suppress a laugh as she took her seat on one side of the glass divider, leaning back leisurely in the chair like she owned the place. The guards stationed nearby exchanged uneasy glances, her presence radiating an almost suffocating authority despite her calm demeanor.

Getting in here had been surprisingly easy. The request for the visit went as planned.

Of course, he accepted.

Gun’s initial reaction to hearing about the request had been predictable. The moment the guards mentioned someone wanted to see him, he’d been ready to decline outright. After all, he didn’t take visitors. It was a rule he upheld without exception… except for Daniel but– does that even need an explanation?

But then came the addendum, delivered with a mix of hesitation and disbelief:

“The person has kind of alluded to the fact that even if you decline, she will appear in your jail cell instead… which was sort of a threat and a promise at the same time.”

Gun had paused.

The guard’s tone was nervous—borderline frightened—but what caught Gun’s attention wasn’t the warning. It was the pronoun.

“She.”

He knew exactly who it was.

There was only one woman audacious enough to make such a statement. One woman whose promises, no matter how outrageous, weren’t just empty words but inevitable outcomes.

And now, as he was escorted into the room, the guards unlocking his cuffs before gesturing for him to sit, he finally saw her.

The first thing that struck him wasn’t her hair or her striking eyes, but the sheer presence she carried. There was no mistaking it—it was her, but different. Stronger. Sharper.

The guards seemed to shrink under the weight of her gaze, and even the most hardened inmates passing by stole glances, their expressions flickering between confusion and outright fear. She didn’t look like a woman visiting someone in prison. She looked like a queen surveying her dominion.

Gun took his seat across from her, his face carefully neutral despite the strange sensation churning in his stomach.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “I wonder what your reasoning is for being here.”

Her response was immediate, and it wasn’t at all what he expected.

“Just wanted to see for myself how funny life can be sometimes.” She smiled softly, leaning forward slightly. “And this right here in front of me? Is the butt of the joke!~”

Gun blinked. Once. Twice.

He didn’t know what to focus on—her tone, her words, or the sheer audacity of them.

“…What.”

It was all he could manage.

He had been prepared for a lot of things when he walked into this room—small talk, a bit of mockery of his situation, syrupy words and kind advice. But this? This casual, biting banter mixed with an almost childlike sense of wonder? It had completely blindsided him. Nova simply tilted her head, her expression unbothered, almost amused, like a predator watching its prey squirm.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Nova’s voice was soft yet sharp, laced with mockery as she tilted her head slightly. “This is, like, the biggest joke I have ever witnessed in my 23 years of living!” she exclaims.

"And you know, real recognizes real...and you're looking pretty unfamiliar to me right now." She adds, looking him up and down while she reached into her coat, pulling out a slim pack of cigarettes. Gun noted the lack of reaction from the guards, their indifference as clear as day. They didn’t even flinch when she took one out and tapped it against the pack, settling it between her lips, even though smoking was prohibited inside.

“I mean, it’s especially funny that you’re the one in this predicament, not Goo… or at least both of you.” She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly as she patted herself down. “I can’t tell if I should be disappointed… or just resigned to acceptance. Either way, it’s not surprising at all at the end of the day… you had your head stuck up so far up Choi’s ass, you didn’t even see where you were heading in life.”

Her muttering was quiet, more for herself than for him, but Gun heard every word. She frowned, her fingers brushing over her coat.

“I don’t have a lighter with me…” she sighed in mild irritation, before turning her attention to one of the guards stationed in the far corner. Raising her voice slightly, she called out, “Excuse me, sir? Can I borrow a lighter? You seem like someone who smokes.”

Gun blinked. He was certain the guard would ignore her, brush her off, or at least tell her she was not allowed to smoke here. Instead, the man moved without question, walking up to her and handing over his lighter like she’d cast a spell on him.

With a quiet click, Nova lit her cigarette, taking a slow drag before holding the lighter back out. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice dripping with nonchalance.

Gun stared, his chest tightening for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

But she wasn’t done.

She gestured toward him with her hand, her cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers. “Can I also give him one? He looks like he needs it.”

Gun stiffened at the suggestion, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The guard, however, shook his head, his tone apologetic. “Apologies, ma’am. Inmates aren’t allowed to smoke.”

Nova sucked in a breath through her teeth, her nose scrunching slightly as she nodded. “Ahh… right. Inmate.”

The word hung in the air like a slap.

To an outsider, her behavior might have seemed nothing more than arrogant—a woman with too much confidence and a penchant for theatrics. But to Gun, it was something entirely different.

This wasn’t arrogance. This was a demonstration.

It didn’t matter where they were—inside this facility, outside in the real world, or anywhere else in the universe. As long as Nova existed in the same space as him, her power would always eclipse his. The room itself seemed to bend to her will, her authority turning even his once-feared presence into an afterthought.

He glanced down at the blue uniform he wore, its number tag glaring back at him like a taunt. Here, in this moment, he wasn’t Gun Park, nor Shiro Oni. He was just another prisoner, indistinguishable from the rest.

The realization stung more than any insult she could have thrown at him.

“What a tragedy…” she began, her tone softening into something almost sorrowful. “You could’ve gone so far in life by yourself. You’re a capable, strong, and intelligent man—no dickriding intended,” She raised an eyebrow slightly, as if daring him to challenge her words. “But no...”

Her voice hardened, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You decided it would be a better idea to devote loyalty to an old fart with one arm who, by that time, wasn’t ‘Elite’ anymore but just a nobody. A nobody who used you like a cumrag, puppeteering you around because he knew damn well that he himself had no power left.”

Gun’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

“And if that’s not enough…” She brought her free hand up to her temple, as if the thought physically pained her. “…you took all the blame for it. All of it. How stupid can you be?~”

Her voice carried an almost sing-song quality, but the edge in her words was unmistakable.

“I mean, what about Goo? Your friend? I heard you don’t even let him visit you for god’s sakes..”

Gun’s hands curled into fists under the table, his knuckles pressing against his knees.

“He’s not my friend. I don’t have any.” He says plainly, making Nova cringe visibly.

“Eugh.. okay edge lord. Your self-rot is palpable… and smelly.”

She shook her head, taking another drag from her cigarette and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around her like a halo.

“Anywho, now you’re here. In your stained blue coat…” Her lips curved into a smirk. “Looking like every peasant in there. Congradolances.~”

The word—a blend of “congratulations” and “condolences”—was the final blow, as fitting as it was infuriating.

For the first time in years, he felt utterly, undeniably small. Again.

Gun clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as he now forced his voice to rise again, though it came out low and taut, a simmering growl wrapped in defiance. “The world is all about results.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, the phrase bouncing around her mind like a loose bullet. The corner of her mouth quirked, her cigarette lingering near her lips.

“Is he for real?” she mused silently, taking another slow drag, her lips curling just slightly as her eyes flicked back to his face. His expression was dead serious.

“Ohhh, he isss.~” She chuckled inwardly, a soft sound escaping her lips as smoke twisted from her exhale.

“It’s okay, Gun.~” Her voice was soft now, a touch of something almost tender threading through her tone. “There’s really no need to keep clinging to delusions anymore.”

Her gaze softened briefly, but the edge was unmistakable, like velvet draped over steel. She tilted her head slightly, her platinum hair catching the light as she spoke again, her tone almost patient, as if explaining a basic concept to a child.

“You know, it’s actually called the consequences of one’s actions.”

The words were deliberate, every syllable an arrow hitting its mark. She leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed, a perfect foil to the storm brewing beneath Gun’s composed exterior.

Nova watched him, her pale eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as the reality of her statement struck him squarely in the chest, another crack in the fortress of his pride.

“But you know what? Let’s go with your little mantra…” She cleared her throat softly, still holding his gaze as she tapped ash from her nearly spent cigarette. Her voice dipped, taking on a smoother, more conversational tone.

“So… what kind of result is this one, then?” She gestured loosely around the room, the stark walls and buzzing fluorescent lights an unspoken testament to his fall from grace. “Or, better yet…” Her eyes narrowed, her curiosity genuine but sharpened to a fine point. “…is this the result you actually wanted?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the cigarette smoke that curled between them.

Gun stared at her, his jaw tightening as he fought the urge to look away. The weight of her words pressed against his chest, every syllable forcing him closer to an abyss he’d never dared to look into before.

Nova tilted her head again, her tone light but unmistakably victorious, as though she’d just played her winning hand in a game he didn’t even realize he was losing. “Hmm, no answer? That’s fine.”

She stubbed out her cigarette—on the back of her hand, no less—and not even a single mark marred her flawless skin. The act was casual, but the power behind it was palpable. She smiled faintly, her voice dropping to a murmur that was somehow even more cutting.

“You live, and you learn, White Ghost.~”

The nickname rolled off her tongue with the weight of air—light, dismissive, and utterly devoid of reverence. From her lips, it felt meaningless, stripped of the fear and awe it once commanded.

Gun’s chest tightened further, an ache building in a space he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Nova suddenly clapped her hands together, the sharp sound breaking the charged silence between them. “Well then!” she exclaimed brightly, her tone breezy, almost cheerful. “I should go now. I have a life to live.”

She smiled warmly, but the dagger hidden beneath her words was impossible to miss.

Gun stiffened, her parting statement slicing through him far deeper than he expected.

“Thank you for allowing yourself to see me,” she added lightly, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her coat as she stood. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece. Alive? Well… that’s questionable.” She shrugged, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

Flattening her coat, she tapped a manicured finger against the corner of her nose, like she just remembered an itch, pretending to think of her conclusion. “So, it was nice seeing one another, eh?”

She straightened, her pale eyes locking onto his as her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Ganbare!~”

She sing-songed the word as she turned on her heel, her hand waving lazily over her shoulder.

Gun paled. Talk about a white ghost.

The word echoed in his mind, more deafening than any scream.

‘Good luck.’

It wasn’t just a farewell. It was a reminder of his insignificance in her presence, a taunt that lingered long after her departure.

His chest burned, anger, shame, and something deeper twisting together into a knot he couldn’t untangle. His fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms as he fought to suppress the storm rising within him.

And yet, despite the fury coursing through him, there was something else—a pull he couldn’t deny.

Gun sat in the suffocating silence of the visitation room, staring at the empty chair across from him, his thoughts whirling in a chaotic frenzy. It wasn’t the kind of storm that came from rage—no, this was deeper, darker, and infinitely more disorienting. The silence didn’t soothe him; it mocked him, amplifying her words as they echoed in his head.

Who talks like that? Walks and acts like that?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the weight off, but it clung to him like a shroud.

Funny, though.

Because him.

He does.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, his breath stilled in his chest.

“Oh.”

The realization settled over him, heavy and unrelenting. He leaned back in his chair, the fluorescent lights above flickering faintly, casting his face in sharp relief.

It clicks.

There was no escaping the truth now. Her departure left him with a hollow ache that no fight, no broken bones, or bruised pride could compare to. He was utterly defeated by her, again, not just by her sharp words or her unbearable dominance, but by the sheer brilliance she held—a brilliance that mirrored his own.

Only this time, he wasn’t the one wielding it.

“This hurt a bit more than the previous ass-whooping I got from her,” he muttered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words tasted bitter, but they were undeniable as his fingers brushed against his own lips, almost in a manner of stopping it from more truths spilling out.

God, her presence was an inescapable weight. The way she carried herself, the way she knew—like she had stripped him bare without even trying. She didn’t need fists to hurt him; she didn’t need power or rage. She had cut him with precision, wielding her words and presence like weapons he couldn’t defend against.

He talks like that.

He could see her face, the faint smirk that wasn’t meant to mock but still stung all the same.

He walks and acts like that.

Her exit replayed in his mind, the lazy wave of her hand, the light delivery of his own words—a devastating parody that lingered like a ghost in the air.

“Good luck, huh?…” he repeated quietly, his lips twisting into a grimace.

His own mantra, thrown back at him, stripped of all meaning.

“Goddamn.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. No matter how much he wanted to hate her for this, he couldn’t. Not fully. Beneath the bitterness, beneath the anger, there was something else. It was the way she spoke with such clarity, such precision.

He hated her for it.

And yet–

He respected her for it.

No—more than that.

He craved it.

Her power, her brilliance, her ability to command a room without lifting a finger—it was maddening, infuriating, and utterly intoxicating.

Gun leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cold surface of the table, his fingers clasped tightly together. The burn in his chest hadn’t faded; if anything, it had intensified.

“God damn,” he muttered again, the words heavy with a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration this time.

She had walked out of his life just as quickly as she had entered it, but the mark she left behind was seared into him, impossible to erase.

She had been right about everything, of course.

That was what hurt the most.

And Nova strode through the bustling streets of Seoul with the kind of elegance that couldn’t be taught—only possessed. She moved effortlessly, a living enigma who didn’t seek attention but commanded it nonetheless. Her silhouette danced between the glow of city lights, her platinum blonde hair gleaming like a beacon under the neon signs.

“Today was very stimulating…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, laced with satisfaction.

Her gaze flitted across the passersby, their heads turning as if drawn by some unseen force. Men and women alike stole glances, their curiosity piqued by her undeniable presence. But Nova didn’t care for their stares or their admiration. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

The countdown was over.

Three years and some change since she had last stood face-to-face with either of them. Gun and Goo—two men who thrived on dominance, control, and a touch of chaos.

Today, she had proven them both right and wrong in ways neither could have anticipated.

Nova smirked to herself, the corners of her lips tilting upward as she exhaled deeply. “They’ll get over it,” she mused, kicking some rocks.

She cooked, ate, and left no crumbs, as today’s generation would so aptly say.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, the sound a rhythmic reminder of her triumph. She inhaled the cool night air, savoring the freedom of the moment. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in knowing she had set something in motion—a shift, a ripple in their otherwise unshakable lives.

“Three years,” she muttered, her tone reflective. “All for today.”

And it had been worth every second.

[separatist-apologist]

We Could Call It Even

Summary: Newly made and terrified, Elain Archeron's human fiance tells her of a creature that could turn her back and keep them together and Elain will stop at nothing to make rumor a reality.

There is no force that can undo fate. No magic that can unmake a mating bond. And Lucien Vanserra isn't about to let his mate throw herself in the path of certain death on a fools hope. Lucien will be forced, instead, to watch her love another man for eighty brutal, miserable years.

While Elain Archeron will have to contend with a life she hoped to never live…and a mate she never wanted.

Thank you @shadowisles-writes for the moodboard!!

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

It was Elain’s ticket to the continent, shoved in his hands with such hatred, such force, that Lucien nearly ripped it into pieces. Surely some of her fury had transferred into the little slip of parchment and would curse him should he attempt to use it.

And yet, death at sea didn’t sound so bad to him right then. When she stormed off, tears streaking down her face, Lucien hadn’t felt anything for her at all beyond irritation. He didn’t believe anyone had ever tried to hold her accountable for even a moment in her life. It wasn’t entirely Elain’s fault she was spoiled—no one saw anything of value in her and viewed her as little more than porcelain. Fragile, broken easily, in need of constant protection.

Lucien hoped she took a tumble from the shelf she’d been placed on. Maybe, if nothing else, it would make her a little more interesting. 

She had a first class ticket, as it turned out, and her cabin was spacious. “Thanks, darling,” he muttered sarcastically before flopping himself down on the bed. He dozed off again, his dreams too bright and loud to be remembered when he lurched awake. It had been the stress, he realized, that had prompted this spontaneous, poorly considered plan.

When he peered out the rounded window, all he saw was blue water in every direction. Oh, Feyre was going to be so angry with him. Lucien considered, for a moment, turning himself around when he got to the continent.

His mind was cruel. Stretching over decades, he imagined himself finding Velaris a new home, making friends. Growing closer with Feyre, whom he genuinely loved and adored the way he might have loved a younger sister. It was a soft, easy sort of life. He and Feyre up to their same shenanigans. She could show him all the best places, they could gossip without someone hanging over their shoulder disapprovingly.

And just when he’d gotten comfortable and believed it was forever, he knew Elain would come crawling back, tail between her legs. Still bitter, but now stricken with grief, she’d want her family to care for her while she mourned. And Feyre, with her too soft, forgiving heart, would take her back without question. 

She’d meddle. Feyre simply couldn’t help herself. He didn’t blame her for it, but Lucien knew in a century, Feyre would be trying to shove Elain back into his life now that Graysen was dead and she had no other options. Feyre was incandescently happy with her own mate—she’d want the same for her sisters.

But Lucien…oh. He couldn’t forgive Elain for this. He didn’t care if she didn’t understand and was hurt and angry. They were mates and that meant something. Jesminda had died for it. And Elain didn’t even have the courage to tell him she didn’t want him without him forcing her hand. What kind of life was it, always playing second best to a ghost, besides? 

Maybe leaving was for the best. He’d write to Feyre—they could keep in touch—but he could start over. Prythian had never been his home, anyway. He’d only ever felt like it could be when Jes had been alive. After her death, he’d been merely existing. Everything reminded him of her.

Now there was Elain, complicating everything. What if he lost his mind one day—what if something slipped down the bond that shredded the last remnants of his sanity? Or what if merely became curious and went to see her, only to find her surrounded by children and happiness and love? What if she got everything he didn’t? It was better to have an ocean separating them. Better to just try and start over. Who cared if he was a High Lord son anymore? He could just be Lucien, for once. Maybe he wouldn’t work in courts or be involved in the inner workings, guiding policies and keeping rulers from being beheaded, and maybe, just this once, he wanted that. 

Lucien spent a week on that ship, mingling casually with others who, like him, were looking to start over. Some were visiting family or returning home and others had struck out in Prythian, their homes destroyed, and were hoping to get further away from the wars the suspected would keep coming. 

He talked to some of them casually, but mostly kept to himself. Lucien regretted, if nothing else, not bringing a change of clothes. He did his best, but by the time they arrived on the shores of Vallahan, Lucien’s clothes had a very particular smell to them. 

The smell of salty air was a balm for his still wounded soul. Lucien drank it in as he stumbled from the rocking ship onto solid, unmovable ground. He swayed for a moment, arms thrown out to regain his balance, and when he took those first confident steps, he leaned to one side like a drunk. There was simply no helping it, and so he tried not to let himself feel too self-conscious about it.

Lucien drank in the small port city he’d been dropped in. Already, he knew he wanted to move further into the interior—whatever the city was called was a little too small for his liking. He wanted to lose himself somewhere. Just be Lucien. He’d drop his last name if he had to, or invent one entirely. 

He was charmed, all the same, by the architecture that surrounded him. Everything was constantly being torn down and rebuilt in Prythian, their own styles often declared to be outdated. You’d find homes dated three centuries before in a particular style just down the road from palatial estates remade in the newest fashion. 

Here, everything had a more cohesive feel, which lent to an overall sense of community. Buildings were two or three stories made of red or sometimes white bright and typically steepled rooftops. Temples were taller, ominous buildings that loomed light over the rest of the city with spires that stretched like spindling fingers towards the heavens. 

Lucien was entranced, walking down streets of smoothly laid cobblestone. Brightly painted doors were thrown open, inviting people to come inside shops to browse. Patrons at local eating establishments sat beneath awnings, drinking and eating and talking with cheerful enthusiasm. Children played a loud game of ball nearby, kicking it around with their feet and yelling foul if someone used their hands.

“Looking for work, mister?” A voice cut through his wonder. Lucien turned to find a rather dirty looking man wearing a bloodstained apron. The local butcher, then, he surmised based on the smell and the large cleaver held loosely in one hand.

His father would die to see one of his sons engaging in peasant work and yet… “I am,” Lucien decided. “Though, I have no skill in butchery.”

The burly man, no older than four hundred if Lucien had to guess, eyed Lucien up and down. “You look like you swing a sword well enough. You’ll pick it up. Do you want work or not?”

Lucien glanced up at the building shrewdly. “Does it come with lodging?”

“You can have the top apartment to yourself. Pay is whatever you can sell after everything else is square—a fifty fifty split.”

That was far more generous than Lucien expected. Besides, work was work he told himself with an incline of his head. He had plenty of money, of course—he could have paid for somewhere outright and lived a more casual existence.

Working in the community would make it easier to live among them. They’d learn to trust him while he learned the customs and culture. He could fit himself in better before moving on. Lucien had time, he reminded himself. There was no rush. He’d live a dozen centuries more before his thread was cut. Why not, he decided? He followed the burly male in doors where the pristine shop awaited. 

“Since my wife died, I’ve been doing this all by myself,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his beefy neck. He was a solidly built man with a barrel chest and a thick, black beard. Piercing blue eyes took him in, as if reading the measure of Lucien and finding him worthy. 

“Tell me what you need,” Lucien replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m a quick study.”

In retrospect, after a day of trailing Bernard the Butcher, a name that made him chuckle just loud enough to earn a scowl, Lucien found he’d been well primed for this kind of work by his older brother, no less. Eris, who had never cared much for him, had occasionally taken him out of the house when their father was in one of his rages.

In the forest of Autumn, Lucien had learned to skin fish and deer. He’d learned how to cleanly get meat off the bone and which pieces were the best. He’d learned to render tallow from the fat and sharpen animal bones into tools or instruments or, when he was really young, little toys he buried outside the Forest House so Beron wouldn’t take them from him. 

Here, at least, the animals were already dead. Bernard contracted with a farm just outside of town that belonged to his sister-in-law and her husband. They came twice a week with hogs and beef mostly, and on fridays they brought chicken. On the weekends there might be fish, though Bernard said he left that to the fishmongers unless he had something particularly valuable, if only because he hated the smell.

Lucien thought that was fair. 

He spent the evening cleaning the back, scrubbing up blood with a long handled brush and then, when he wasn’t quite satisfied, on his hands and knees with a little scrub brush. Bernard was impressed.

“I’ve never seen this place look so clean,” he admitted. Lucien was a little disturbed by that given the stained, wooden counter and the lingering smell of rotting blood in the air. There was nothing that could be done for some of it, though in other places he found that a little injection of gold might make things just a little nicer.

He’d worry about that later.

Lucien was given the keys to the apartment on the third floor, which he could access directly from the shop. He simply locked up for the day and walked the five steps to another door, slid the key into the lock and tramped his way up. Bernard was on the floor beneath him which Lucien half liked, though he supposed if they ever had a quarrel, it would make his down time deeply uncomfortable.

The apartment was empty save for a lopsided certain hanging from the living room window, once white but stained brown from dust. It was good, though, he decided. It had solid, sturdy bones. It struck him, right then, that this was home. The enormity of his decision suddenly settled in his stomach, filling Lucien with a mix of panic and excitement. He’d left. After years of thinking about it but never having the courage, Lucien was gone. His past was nothing more than a ghost haunting the edges of his memory rather than a monster with vicious teeth always hovering just behind him.

Lucien took a breath before making his way back down the steps. It was mid-day, closer to dinner than the evening, which meant just enough places were still open. He made purchases, having drawn a promissory note on the gold back in Prythian. He’d need it all transferred which would take time, but most stores allowed him to purchase items on credit. That was a relief because he needed a whole new wardrobe, though perhaps not as fine as he was accustomed to. Lucien purchased one nice outfit, just in case, and left everything else for the everyday wear. He made orders for furniture to be made and cosigned himself to sleeping on the hard floor until it could all be delivered.

And as he walked, he noticed an empty store front at the corner of the block with  peeling white letters that read The Fox and The Fawn. Peering through the dirty window, he saw it had once been a pub of some sort before it closed.

A strange yearning surged through him. He wanted it, though he couldn’t say why. While Lucien had experience with butchering, he had none with operating his own business. Standing there, nose nearly pressed to the glass, Lucien promised himself if he were still around in six months, he’d damn it all and take on the lease. 

It was too soon, though. Lucien decided to put it in the hands of fate—though fate had never been terribly kind of him. If someone else scooped it up, well, that was his answer that he wasn’t meant to stay and continue on with his original plan.

Lucien slept on the floor that evening after cleaning the interior of his apartment. He woke well before dawn, exhausted and aching, and made his way down just as Bernard did.

“Ready?” the man asked, looking as well-groomed as he ever was. Lucien rolled the sleeves of his black shirt and took a leather apron from the hook in the back once they were inside. They worked before they opened, cutting the meat they’d hung the day before now blessedly drained and ready to go. 

Some of Lucien’s cuts were sloppy—too much fat or too slim—and it took him the better part of that early morning to get good at it. He learned that in Vallahan, tea was more of an evening drink and here, everyone drank coffee grown in the warmer parts of Rask. It could be sweetened much like tea with milk, sugar, and cream, and a whole industry had sprung up around it. Lucien learned the bakery a block down sold coffee in every form imaginable, with flavored syrups to match the seasons. 

Lucien found himself obsessed with it. Every morning he’d wake up twenty minutes early and make his way down before the lines got too long. He ordered everything, one at a time, so he could try a variety of drinks before settling on his favorite. He learned he liked it a little darker, though still sweet, and hot even if the weather was warm. 

He also liked the lemon and coconut muffin they sold, and by the time Lucien had been there a month, the pretty, red haired barista had his order waiting for him before he got to the counter.

“Good morning, Lucien,” she said, flashing him a lovely grin.

He’d wink back. “Good morning, Odessa,” he’d say in response. He liked her—he wanted to take her out. 

And he didn’t want anything serious. Lucien couldn’t offer any female anything because he knew the moment they learned he had a mating bond, they’d scurry off. They’d assume that the female was going to come back eventually and he’d leave. No matter how Lucien argued that Elain was never coming to claim him, he knew, all the same, that they’d prefer a male without as much baggage as he was dragging around. 

He’d always wanted a wife and children. That was, perhaps, the most cruel part of Lucien’s reality. He’d dreamed of it as a boy—how he’d do it all differently. How his children wouldn’t cower when he walked through a door, how his wife would smile brightly, unbruised and in love. All he’d ever get were the fleeting moments in between. Casual, and little more. When he closed his eyes, he used to picture Jes in that role of wife and mother. It seemed a betrayal of her sacrifice to choose another female. 

Now, though, his mind betrayed him. When he closed his eyes at night, he saw Elain in that role. Smiling as children tugged at her skirts, watching him with a bemused expression while he chased after a newly toddling babe ambling toward the street. 

He hated her for that. Hated her even more than he’d hated her after her cruel words because she’d be someone's mother, certainly, just as she’d be someone else’s wife. Not his, though. Never his.

And despite everything, instinct made him want her. Some nights his teeth ached from it, mouth flooded with blood as he bit down to keep himself from roaring like an animal. His nails would bite against his palms, legs shaking from the urge to rectify what was happening between them. Sometimes he played out vivid fantasies in which he kidnapped her and took her to some secluded cottage where no one would ever find her. 

By the time Lucien had been in Nidraos for six months, the impulse had lessened. Sometimes it still pulled him from sleep, but it wasn’t such a battle to get himself back into bed. He simply forced himself to relive her final words before he went back to sleep. 

After a while, he stopped thinking about her day to day at all. He no longer cared how she spent her time or what the human lord did to her. Lucien had slipped back to a place in his mind where he could simply be. He found himself in a place with true seasons not dependent on the kings magic. The whole system seemed to function much like the solar courts in Prythain, though those here seemed to pass the magic along via their very lineage and not the chaos of the land. There was no Calanmai—though a host of other holidays often delighted Lucien. So many were centered around the joy of children and family, which should have made him miserable.

Bernard, who must have known Lucien didn’t intend to stick around forever, brought him to his family’s Solstice Gathering where everyone had a gift for him. Lucien hadn’t expected that and, upon realizing there were gifts for him, wrapped in pretty gold paper, had caused him to choke up though he thought he did a decent job swallowing his emotion.

Lucien couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him a gift. 

The empty storefront remained empty for six months, and then a year. Lucien had hesitated at the six month mark. He was comfortable. Happy, even. He should have known, then, that someone from his old life would come calling.

And call she did in the form of Feyre Archeron. He saw her one morning on his way out of the bakery, steaming cup in his hands. Snow had begun to fall gently from overhead as another winter came to the small, seaside city. He’d bundled himself in a warm coat and hat and was thinking about the chickens waiting for him when he saw her, looking strange and out of place in the middle of the city square. Lucien was certain Feyre hadn’t come alone, though it certainly looked as if she had.

That meant Azriel was lurking somewhere, just out of sight to give Feyre the illusion of privacy but close enough that he could slaughter anyone who threatened to harm her. Nevermind that in his year living in Niadros, the worst crime he’d seen had been a child stealing a neighbor's cat and refusing to return it. The local mayor had been forced to step in, providing the girl with a new kitten in exchange for the grumpy looking thing. 

It struck him right then at how militaristic Prythian was.

Lucien didn’t miss it.

Feyre saw him, face splitting in a blinding, beautiful smile. Lucien’s chest ached at the sight. “Fey?”

“There you are,” she said, jogging over as her blue cloak trailed in a puddle of water. “I was starting to think I’d never find you.” She threw herself against him, typical Feyre-style, for a bruising hug. Lucien didn’t mind, burying his face in her hair. “Missed you,” he grunted out, the words not beginning to cover it.

“I got your letter…and the request for your gold to be sent over. Rhys did all that,” she told him, slipping her arm through his. A few folks watched curiously, and he knew there’d be rumors about yet another female. He’d have to explain Feyre was truly just a sister—he couldn’t let those sorts of rumors swirl around, even if they bolstered his reputation as an unapologetic rake. 

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s the same,” she replied, which eased some of his worry. “I saw your mother just the other day.”

Lucien had done his best not to think of her in the last year. “Is she well?”

“As well as she ever is,” Feyre murmured gently. “I told her you were happy, and that seemed to lighten her mood.”

Some of the grief he felt eased. “Good.”

“Will you tell me what happened?” Feyre asked suddenly, pausing in front of a frozen statue of a mermaid. In the summer, water poured upward from her fingertips, causing it to rain against her bronzed hair. Local children would dart away from their parents to splash inside while others tossed in coins hoping a wish might be granted. 

“Ask her.”

“I tried, but she and her husband,” Feyre sneered the word, unaware of how the word stabbed Lucien right through the stomach with jealousy, “have forbidden all faeries on pain of death.”

“They could try,” Lucien mumbled, wishing they would, if only so Rhys might mist the bastard laying with his mate. 

“She’d decided to play out some fantasy in which she’s still human, I suppose. She was apologetic in her letter, true to form, but she won’t go against him. What happened?”

Lucien desperately did not want to rehash it, so he shrugged his shoulders. “We exchanged some words. They were unpleasant.”

“And then you left.”

“And then I left.”

“Lucien, if she said something—”

“It was more than just her words,” Lucien told Feyre with a sigh. Snowflakes had begun to gather on her lashes, sparkling softly in the early morning light. “One day she’ll come crawling back and you won’t have it in you to hold this grudge.”

“I hold grudges just fine,” Feyre disagreed. “She never had to love you to stay with us but she chose…I don’t know what she chose, honestly. But it hurts me.”

“I know it does,” Lucien replied, not needing to tell Feyre it hurt him, too. What more could he say on the subject? Elain was selfish, he’d told her to her face—he was certain she’d framed it as some revolutionary act of putting herself first without acknowledging that her whole life, Elain had always come first. 

“I wanted you to stay. I was hoping for a friend who was only mine. Things…” Feyre took a breath, looking around.

“Feyre,” Lucien all but whispered as he stepped closer, “did something happen?”

She bit her bottom lip before smoothing out her expression. Liar. She was such a liar. Lucien knew it because he was a liar, too. “No, nothing happened. I just miss being able to talk to you, that’s all. Everyone else—I love them, of course, I love them so much, but…they’re Rhys’s friends and family first. And every once and a while I remember that.”

“What happened?” Lucien asked her, holding her by the tops of her arm.

She wasn’t going to tell him. Whatever had happened that had brought her to him, she was remembering that he’d left her, too, and only sent a letter as an afterthought. 

“Nothing,” his sweet liar told him, as if Lucien hadn’t spent a year living with her while she practiced lying to his face. “I just miss you, that's all.”

“It’s driving me crazy,” Lucien confessed, still holding her still. “I can’t…I can’t be that close to her. Some nights, an ocean doesn’t feel far enough. She made her choice and I’m trying to live with it.”

“He’s going to die—”

“Could you forgive Rhys?” Lucien asked, catching how Feyre winced. Maybe Feyre could. Maybe she’d overlook it, but Lucien didn’t think he could. 

“Are you happy?”

“I am,” he admitted, looking around him. “I didn’t mean to stay, but I like it here. I have friends, a life, I…I’m happier than I was before.”

Feyre took a breath. It was clearly the opposite of what she’d wanted to hear.

“I’ll go back if you ask me to,” Lucien added, because he would. “If you need me, just ask.”

She shook her head. Selfless to the very end—no matter how badly she missed him, Feyre wouldn’t make him go. “Stay. You deserve something good, Lucien, even if it means I don’t get to see you every day.”

She flung her arms around him, squeezing so tightly his ribs groaned in protest. “Don’t come back.”

“You have a place here anytime you want it. High Lady be damned.”

She laughed, and Lucien swore a shadow slithered over those clear, blue eyes. He doubted governing was what Feyre truly wanted in life, though he wasn’t going to say it to her. She was young and, perhaps more tragically, a people pleaser. Her mate wanted her to be his equal in all things and so she would be—without complaint, even if it made her miserable.

Lucien had seen it all before. How long before she was here with him and they were running away again? Never, likely—she’d make it work. Still, Lucien wondered what Rhys could have possibly done to bring her all the way out to him hoping he’d come back.

“Whatever it is you’re waiting for?” Feyre said as she untangled herself from his arms, her expression resolute. “Don’t wait.”

Lucien pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Tell that mate of yours I’m watching him.”

She smiled, well aware it was an empty threat. Still, he knew it made her feel a little better. He promised to write more often, and maybe visit the next Solstice, if only to see her for her birthday. And Feyre wished him well again before she vanished into the crowd.

And Lucien turned to that still empty storefront.

He signed the lease that day.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Series Masterlist

Chapter 6

Warnings: Allusions to abuse, Reader’s poor mental health

It was nearly dusk when the three of you finally reached the prison gates. You had awoken a few hours earlier but remained quiet, only taking breaks when the men did. You didn’t want to bother them, especially Daryl, with anything trivial. Everything already seemed so fragile. 

Your first experience with a walker had been terrifying. You didn’t know what you had been expecting but seeing a rotting human face beneath the water’s surface just as its slimy fingers had wrapped around your ankle was not it. You had been so scared that you hadn’t had the sense of mind to watch it being handled. 

Now, still cradled in Daryl’s arms, you had a front row seat. There were several of the dead shuffling around the gates, making sounds that had the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. Rick was carefully circling Daryl, making sure none of the corpses managed to get too close while the gate slid open. You assumed the archer didn’t set you down because you were unable to defend yourself. You did feel mighty safe where you were. 

Once the gate was closed and locked, your legs were lowered until your feet touched the ground. There were a few people there, and every eye was on you. Absently, you took a step back and placed yourself just behind Daryl’s shoulder. 

“Who’s this?” A woman with shorn silver hair asked. Her hand was on the handle of a knife on her belt, but her expression was kind. 

“This is Y/N.” Rick supplied, hugging a young boy against his side. The action made the large hat on the kid’s head tilt, and he gave a look of annoyance as he corrected it. “Daryl did some—bargaining at one of the places we visited so she was allowed to leave.”

“Allowed?” The kid asked, watching you with a curious expression. 

“S’a long story.” Daryl huffed, beginning the trek up toward the main building with you right on his heels. There were people in the tower you passed, mere silhouettes in the dimming light, but Daryl waved after a man’s voice called out in greeting. Aside from that, the outside was void of people. 

The archer opened a large metal door and held it, letting you pass through before following. There was no one just inside but you could hear conversations and movement further ahead. You didn’t seem to be heading for that though. You were guided up a small set of stairs to someone’s living area. Considering Daryl pulled off his vest and draped it over the railing, you surmised it was likely his. 

“Wait here. M’a see where Rick wants to put ya.” 

You sat down on the mattress, pulling your knees to your chest. “Could I—I’d like to stay with you.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.” He replied instantly. There was no bite but sounded resolute. 

“Please?” You pressed, hugging your legs tighter. “I don’t want to be with strangers.”

“Lady, I am a stranger!” Daryl yelled, jabbing a finger into his own chest. His shoulders fell when you flinched almost violently, reining in his exasperation with a deep breath. 

“Yes, but—you paid for me. Bought me, fair and square.” You wiped angrily at your eyes, cursing yourself for not holding your composure in front of him. This was not what you were taught. Big Jazz would have flogged you. It was clear to you that you continued to push your luck with Daryl. Eventually, his intentions would be made clear. Maybe he just liked to play with his food first. “That means that you’re the closest thing to—family that I have.”

That made something in his chest hurt. “That’s why ya need to be with them.”

“But—”

“Ain’t nothin’ else to say. Wait here.” He snapped, turning his back on you before you watched him disappear down the stairs. 

You sat in the corner of the cell assigned to you, knees pulled to your chest, making yourself as small as possible. It reminded you so much of your cage in the back of Big Jazz’s club. This one at least had a bed, but without a customer in it, it felt wrong to use it. 

Even more confounding was that the cell door had been left open and a sheet hanged in the open space. “For privacy” the woman called Carol had told you.  She had brought you fresh clothes, guessing your size and worrying once she saw you again that they might swallow you whole. They laid in a neat, folded pile on the mattress. A bowl of warm stew was offered but you had turned your head, too nauseated from the anxiety clawing at your gut to even think of eating. 

Carol had offered to help you settle in, even suggesting she brush your hair. You had just stared at her, confused at her kindness when you knew she was above you in every way. The girls at the club would never offer such consideration. Some had been nice enough, but given your ‘history,’ they mostly chose to use you as a scapegoat when things would go wrong for them. 

Carol had been fully dressed, from her shirt and camisole to her booted feet. It was a wonder Daryl let her get away with that. That led to the thought that maybe Daryl wasn’t actually the man in charge. You’d have to tread carefully if that was the case. Any of the men could be leading and you couldn’t slip up like you had so many times in front of the archer. 

“Y/N?” Carol called from behind the curtain. “May I come in?” You pulled your legs impossibly closer and didn’t answer. “If you don’t answer, I’m going to assume it’s okay for me to come in.” She added in a no nonsense tone. Fear churned in your belly, so unsure of this new place and its inhabitants. You felt as though you were walking on eggshells already and no one seemed to be giving you any real direction. “Coming in.” The sheet lifted and Carol ducked below it, looking to the bed first before eventually spotting you in the corner. “Now, what on earth are you doing over there?”

She crouched to your level but didn’t advance any closer. “Did you not want to get changed? I only wanted to wash the clothes you have and return them to Daryl but that can wait until tomorrow if you’re more comfortable.”

Your fingernails were digging into the sides of your legs, your face drifting lower and lower behind your knees to hide from her. She seemed kind, but looks could be deceiving in the world you lived in now. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Carol shifted to sit on the floor, cross-legged. Her piercing blue eyes seemed to be sweetly picking you apart, analyzing you with a calmness that made you even more uncomfortable. “Alright.” She finally said as she climbed to her feet. “When you’re feeling more settled in, we can talk. I think you might find we have a lot in common.” 

Taking two steps, she paused. She pursed her lips and picked up the pile of clothing. You thought she meant to take items back but she simply placed them on the small table across from the bed. With slow, deliberate movements, she turned down the blanket and fluffed the pillow. “Goodnight.” She smiled that soft smile and lifted the blanket, letting it fall behind her. 

You waited what you thought might have been at least a couple of hours, well after the prison had gone quiet. With practiced silence, you snatched the blanket from the bed and pulled the sheet aside. No one seemed to be awake. Your bare feet hardly made a sound while padding across the ledge and down the stairs. You couldn’t stay in that cell a moment longer. Consequences be damned. 

Daryl opened the door to the cellblock with seasoned care. The sun was barely up. Most everyone would still be asleep. He had caught a couple of hours after Carol had come to collect you, then he took the night watch to have some time outside to just think. His head had been a mess ever since you came tumbling into his life. Well, technically, he had put you there. 

He didn’t regret it. You deserved to be free but you were now in a world where therapy and support groups didn’t exist. He had brought you to a prison full of traumatized people, hoping someone could help you get your head on straight. Hope. Did he really hope for anything anymore? It hadn’t really got him anywhere. 

Still, he hoped you would settle in with the people there. He hoped you had found some sort of comfort with a small meal and an actual bed. He hoped you had slept well your first night. For someone who didn’t dare to hope, he was sure throwing a lot out there for you. 

He didn’t even realize he had stopped to stare down toward the cells during his thoughts of you. Ready to slap himself, he scrubbed a hand over his face and then through his hair. Carol would have come to him if there had been any problems. The archer shook his head and continued toward his perch, ready to forego breakfast and get some actual sleep. If his brain would just shut the fuck up. 

He climbed the stairs as quietly as possible, even as he heard the tell tale sounds of others beginning their day. They could all do without him for a few hours. Maybe if you were informed he was sleeping, you’d feel compelled to stay closer to the cells and not wander into his personal space. 

Once again, hope had failed him. As he brought both boots down onto the metal floor of his perch, his shoulders slumped and he let his head drop back with a sound that could only be described as a frustrated groan. 

You were there, curled up on a blanket below the foot of his mattress. Sound asleep. 

[elizabeth-holland24]

The Beast Within - Chapter 4 (Part 1)

Content Warning: Mentions of blood, there is yelling and two fights, Curses, Magic, Regret, Angst, some fluff. I think that's everything, but please let me know if I've missed something!

The night was thick with an almost suffocating stillness, the kind that seemed to press against the stone walls of the castle and seep into its very bones. Mausi felt it in her chest as she was escorted back to her room, her steps heavy and her thoughts even heavier. Dinner had been an unusual blend of camaraderie and sorrow, the enchanted staff eagerly sharing pieces of their pasts. They had once been vibrant, human, full of dreams. Now, they were trapped, prisoners like her, tethered by a curse she couldn’t yet comprehend. Her mind reeled with conflicting emotions: anger at Jake—at Hangman, as they called him—for holding them all captive, and a strange ache of pity for the same man. Who was he to condemn not only her, but everyone else to this fate? The flickering light of the sconces cast haunting shadows along the corridor. As they approached her door, Mausi slowed, glancing over her shoulder. The west wing. The mysterious west wing, which the staff refused to speak of and everyone had explicitly forbidden her from entering. That alone made it irresistible. She feigned a stumble, muttering a quick apology to Bradley, who was guiding her. As it turned to help, she slipped quietly down another hallway. Her breath quickened as she approached the wing, the air growing colder with every step. The grand double doors loomed before her, their carved wood warped and cracked with age, an ominous contrast to the rest of the pristine castle. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the iron handle. Why does this place feel different? The doors creaked open with a groan, revealing a space that was in complete disarray. Dust blanketed the floor, furniture lay overturned, and torn curtains swayed with the wind. The moonlight spilling through shattered windows illuminated jagged shards of glass and splinters of wood. The air was heavy, carrying the faint scent of decay and forgotten memories. As Mausi stepped further inside, her eyes landed on a large, tattered portrait leaning against the wall. She crouched down, brushing away layers of dust and cobwebs. The image that emerged stopped her breath. It was a young man, perhaps in his late teens, with soft features that spoke of kindness and unguarded joy. His eyes, though painted, seemed to meet hers, stirring something deep within her. She couldn’t place it, but he felt… familiar. A strange sensation tugged at her, like a melody half-remembered from a dream. Who are you? she thought, her fingertips grazing the canvas. But before she could dwell further, her gaze was pulled to a faint glow deeper in the room.

She rose, drawn to the light like a moth to a flame. It led her to a balcony, where she found a glass dome standing alone on a pedestal. Inside, suspended in its own quiet radiance, was a single red rose. Mausi’s breath hitched. The rose shimmered faintly, as though alive, its delicate petals untouched by time or decay. She reached out, her hand trembling. There was something achingly beautiful—and heartbreakingly fragile—about it. The urge to touch it was overwhelming, as if by doing so, she might uncover the answers to questions she didn’t even know she had. The moment her fingers hovered near the glass, a feral roar ripped through the silence. “What do you think you’re doing?” Mausi spun around, her heart slamming against her ribs. Jake loomed in the doorway, his monstrous silhouette illuminated by the moonlight behind him. His green eyes, usually sharp and mocking, now burned with a mix of rage and fear. “What did you do?” he growled, striding toward her with dangerous purpose. “I-I didn’t touch it!” Mausi stammered, stumbling back. “I swear!” Jake reached her in two long strides, his clawed hand wrapping around her wrist with terrifying ease. She gasped as the tips of his claws dug into her skin, sharp enough to sting. “Do you have any idea what you could have done?” he snarled, his voice low and menacing. “You could have damned us all. For eternity.” “I didn’t do anything!” she cried, struggling against his grip. “Let me go! You’re hurting me!” Her words seemed to cut through his rage. Jake��s eyes flicked down to where his claws pressed into her wrist, a thin line of blood beading on her skin. The sight froze him, his grip loosening as a new emotion flickered across his face—horror. The scent of her blood hit him, sharp and metallic. He recoiled, as though burned, releasing her entirely. But he couldn’t stop the shame from flooding through him. “Get out,” he growled, his voice breaking slightly. “Go. Now.” Mausi didn’t hesitate. She bolted, clutching her wrist as she fled the room, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. The castle seemed to come alive around her, its enchanted inhabitants urging her to stay, to not venture into the night. But she couldn’t stay—not after that. She grabbed her coat from the entry hall, ignored the pleading voices of the staff, and slipped through a narrow side door into the freezing winter night. The cold bit at her cheeks as she mounted Philip, her horse, and urged him into a gallop.

Part 2

A/N: So I had to divide into two parts again. I had a bit of inspiration before going to sleep. I also wanted to distract myself from the Bengals vs Chargers game. I'll edit and clean up the post better tomorrow. Also thank you so much for the love and support on this story. Don't forget to comment, like and reblog, so I know if you are enjoying it. I might do a tag list if you guys want. But yeah, I think that's all. Thanks for reading <3

[edandstede]

i found ofmd not long after i’d come out as a gay trans man. i came out after years of knowing i was and deliberately repressing it, refusing to poke it or acknowledge it, terrified of it. i didn’t want to see it. couldn’t be me, if i ignored it it would go away. like stede, i would cry when i thought nobody could hear me. it was so lonely, shutting that part of myself off, and coming out just to my own close circle (not family at this point) was the scariest thing i’ve ever done.

this show… fucking hell, this show. it held me gently but firmly and told me in no uncertain terms that everything i knew about being a man was wrong, that i could be who i wanted to be and it was never too late to grab it with both hands. it helped me work through things in my head, consider myself in new ways, forced me to reflect. yes, i could be authentic, i could be flamboyant, i could wear what i want, i could be tough, vulnerable, effeminate, silly, a bit of a loser even. i could cry, i could try and fail and try again. i could be messy and human and deserve happiness and love. i could shape my life into something that truly makes me happy, and i could do it all with a family of my own choosing. i could be free.

it took this new and fragile existence for me, something i was still bricking it about, and reminded me of the utter joy of being queer and stepping into yourself properly. of community, belonging, expression, self-actualisation. i didn’t even realise how much i needed ofmd until i had it, and i could scarcely believe it was real! this brilliant gem, full of eccentricity and poignancy and just brimming with love, so much love, from every single direction. it was a breath of fresh air, just like it was for so many others. there’s never been anything quite like it and any future queer media like it has big shoes to fill.

i just turned 28, i’m finally out to my family as trans, i’m ready to send off my deed poll to change my name, i’m crowdfunding for top surgery and i’m in the process of being referred to a GIC. this show’s kindness, its unwavering love towards people like me, it bolstered my courage and bravery SO MUCH and i’ve taken steps towards getting the life i truly want that i never dared i’d take. i want to be myself, i want to stop holding myself back, i want to do things i’ve never been brave enough to chase before. isn’t that amazing? my life is finally an adventure i can’t wait for. and i’ve received so much love and support from all of you too - you’ve donated to my surgery fund, you’ve sent kind messages, you’ve connected with me about being trans. for all the negative stuff i’ve come across in this fandom, there’s double the amount of love and i’ve felt it first-hand.

i truly am not the same person i was before ofmd and that is so fucking brilliant, i couldn’t be more grateful. i’m heartbroken that, as of now, ofmd won’t be returning to us. but it has touched my life in such a special way, written on me in permanent ink, you might say. and i just think it’s a really lovely thing nobody can take away, this lasting impression. i’ll always carry ed and stede and the crew in my heart, even when the revenge is nothing more than scrap wood and old fabric.

:•) 🏴‍☠️❤️